I opened Twitter against Rowan's orders.
Trending in United Kingdom:
#RiotTheory
#TheEngineer
#WeWantToBuild
#FurnitureOrWall
I clicked the hashtag.
@MusicJournoUK: Riot Theory's frontman breaks script at Barrowlands, turning solo ballad into collective plea. Who is the 'Ghost in the Machine'? Speculation mounts on the mystery "Engineer."
@RiotStan4Eva: DID YOU HEAR HIM? "We wait. Furniture or wall." That's not a lyric, that's a code. He was talking to someone specific. Someone they ALL want. #PolyamPack?
@IndustryInsider: Sources say Riot Theory touring with uncredited Omega producer. Audio analysis of the live feed catches Euan Onyx labeling a channel 'Fox'. Is the 'Engineer Who Ran' safely in the bus, or running for her life?
And then, the one that made my blood run cold.
@GarethBlake_Official: Love seeing the boys passionate about their team! Romance sells records, eh? Watch this space for exclusive BTS content. #RiotRomance
"Alfie?" Euan was standing next to me now, fully dressed, sensing the shift in my scent. "Pulse elevated. Distress signal detected. What is it?"
I held up the phone. My hand was shaking. Not the good kind of shaking.
"I think I messed up," I whispered. "I think I aimed the spotlight right at the door we just promised to keep locked."
Euan took the phone. He scanned the data, his eyes jumping back and forth. His expression went flat, cold, calculating.
"Speculation storm," Euan diagnosed. "Viral trajectory. They are dissecting the lyrical shift. They have identified the 'Furniture or Wall' phrase as non-standard syntax."
"She’s in the bathroom," I said, panic rising in my throat like bile. "She’s finally safe. She finally let the walls down. And I just invited the entire world to bang on the windows."
"We mitigate," Kit said, stepping in, grabbing the phone from Euan and tossing it onto the sofa like it was a grenade. "We control the narrative before she sees it."
"She has a phone, Kit," I snapped. "She has Callie. She has the internet. She’s going to see it."
The bathroom door clicked open down the hall.
Soft footsteps on the carpet.
"Hey," Zia’s voice called out, cleaner now, a little brighter. "There's no hot water left, which one of you drained the tank?"
I looked at the doorway. I looked at the nest we’d built.
I remembered the fear in her eyes in Seattle.The industry eats Omegas.
I had just rung the dinner bell.
"Alfie?" Zia appeared in the doorway, scrubbing her hair with a towel, wearing one of my oversized hoodies now. She stopped. She looked at me, then at Kit, then at Euan. She smelled the burnt sugar spiking in the air.
"What?" she asked, lowering the towel. Her eyes narrowed. The softness from five minutes ago vanished, replaced by the sharp, analytical gaze of a producer tracing a fault in the line. "What happened?"
I swallowed hard. The taste of citrus and ozone was still on my tongue, but now it tasted like a goodbye.
"I sang too loud," I whispered.
