And then—just after noon—there’s a knock on the door.
It’s not a scared knock. Not desperate or angry. It’s precise. Calculated.
Pepper glances up from her toy pile, a fake pastry half-crushed in her fist. “Mommy, someone’s at the door!”
“I heard, baby.” My voice comes out tighter than I want.
I wipe my hands on my shirt and walk to the door. The old security cam is broken. I peer through the peephole.
There’s a man in a sleek coat and shiny boots. Corporate, maybe. Too clean for this part of town.
I hesitate, then unlock the first bolt.
The man adjusts his collar. Smiles.
“Ms. Rin?” he asks, like he already knows the answer. “My name is Mylo Raskin. I’m with Planetary Pictures. I believe we have something to talk about.”
“I’m not interested,” I say flatly, trying to push the door shut. “You already got the rights to my story.”
But Mylo Raskin plants his foot in the frame like he owns the damn threshold. His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens like I’ve just challenged him to a game he’s sure he’ll win.
“Yes, but what about a sequel?”
“How does that even make any sense?” I sputter. “The story’s over! Gyon is…Gyon is gone.”
“Yeah, but that’s the great thing about Hollywood magic--the truth don’t matter a lick.”
I try to shut the door again. His foot must be in agony but he persists. He’s not as subtle as the last guy they sent for the first picture. This man has something to prove, not just to me but to himself…and probably the galaxy at large.
“Just hear me out,” he says, and fans a folder in my face. Contracts. Numbers. Real credits. Too many zeroes to ignore. “We’re talking a franchise, Ms. Rin. Not just a sequel. A whole holo-series. Intergalactic rights. Merch deals. ThinkMazemeetsStarcrash Chronicles.And you, front and center. Star-crossed lovers. Alien culture shock. Heroine’s journey. You’re the next big franchise.”
“You don’t even know what I’ve been through,” I snap.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Actually, I watched the first film. Twice. Even read the original script before the rewrites ruined it. And I know whateveryonesaw: a survivor. A woman who walked through hell with a Reaper and came out with a story the galaxy can’t stop talking about.”
I hesitate. And that’s my mistake.
Because now he’s talking fast, stacking buzzwords like building blocks, waving the folder like it’s a magic wandthat’ll make everything better. I see production budgets, a per-episode salary that makes my stomach twist, backend deals with percentages I can’t even process.
“Think about it,” he says, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. “This could change everything for you and your kid.”
That does it. I slam the door.
And for a moment, I breathe.
“Mommy?” Pepper calls from the kitchenette. Her little hands are full of plastifoam noodles, and she’s chewing with a mouth too big for her tiny face. “Was that a bad guy?”
“Worse,” I mutter, dragging my back down the door until I hit the floor. “A producer.”
She giggles. It’s a sweet sound. Too sweet for this world.
I want to forget about Mylo. Itryto forget about Mylo. But the folder he waved is burned into my brain like an afterimage. The credits listed on the back cover alone could clear every debt I owe. Could buy Pepper a new image inducer. Could buy herfreedom.
That night, while Pepper eats the last of the powdered soup—no protein cubes this time, we’re out—I do a manual recalibration of her inducer. It’s been glitching all week. A hitch in the vocal harmonics, a shimmer at her temples that doesn’t fade fast enough.
She’s humming to herself when it sparks.
“Pepper!” I lunge forward, grabbing her head in my hands.
