John stepped out of the suite with no intention of mingling. Not really. But the air carried with it an aromatic thrill that teased his nostrils and curled through his sinuses like some expensive spice you couldn’t name, only crave. The hallway pulsed faintly beneath his feet. The living vertebrae of Graushorn shifted in the microscopic tics beneath his polished shoes. A few guests passed by, gowns swaying, ughing like silver wind chimes. He moved through it all with a soldier’s caution. Until he saw the lights.

  A film crew.

  Down a corridor tilted in flexible crystal and perfumed with some exotic nerve-flower, cameras floated like stingless wasps in a controlled orbit around a pop-up set. There, beneath a makeshift archway styled to resemble an old Edenite ruin, actors crouched behind artificial cover in sleek bck and orange tactical suits. One of the actors barked a line a little too loud.

  “Cut!”

  John turned to leave.

  “Arbiter John Drayton?”

  He stopped.

  A tall man approached, lean and graying at the temples, with piercing hazel eyes and a tailored indigo cloak that trailed behind him. He wore chromatin lenses that shimmered faintly even in the dim light and the scent of old cologne clung to him. He walked with the confidence of someone whose every failure had been turned into a best-selling documentary.

  “I thought it was you,” he said warmly. “Renny Olsoa. Director. Producer. Political exile. Occasional sculptor of opinions.”

  John raised a brow. “That’s quite a resume.”

  “Oh, I’ve left out a few scandals. They’re my best work.”

  They shook hands. Renny’s grip was firm, theatrical even—like he was already imagining how this handshake would be shot in soft focus.

  Behind him, a dozen assistants and gaffers scurried around a holotable rendering scene overys. Someone shouted about lens fres. Someone else hissed for silence.

  “You filming something here?” John asked.

  “Spy thriller,” Renny said. “Agent Orange. Half satire, half tragedy. Everyone loves Agent Orange’s moral ambiguity.”

  John smirked. “Sounds about right.”

  Renny leaned in. “Between you and me, Agent Orange is a distraction. I’m really here for my next project. My true project.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Arbiter.” He said it like it was sacred. “A hard-boiled justice-bringer—one step toward the w, one step toward a blood-drenched rifle. He has a haunted past, faces impossible odds, and encounters high drama. Sound familiar?”

  John narrowed his eyes. “You want to make a show about me?”

  “No,” Renny said, his grin widening. “I want to make a show with you. I don’t want an actor. No imitation. Just the real Arbiter. You’ve already got a fanbase. You’re the Hero of Earth. Eurynome, the Rings, Braccari incursions—you even look good with psma burn scars. You’re perfect!”

  John’s mouth twitched. “You know about Eurynome? You did your research.”

  “Please,” Renny scoffed. “You were a child actor. That bit you pyed in Gaxy Garage? The reboot, not the cssic. The ratings were iffy, but I liked it. It’s a cult cssic. I know about the scuffle with your co-star. You punched him and they bcklisted you.”

  John’s face darkened. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Sure,” Renny said, lifting a pcating hand. “But the point is—you care about the story. You care about authenticity, about entertainment. You felt something, even back then. You cracked him in the jaw and cost yourself a career. You have passion. I think it’s why you joined the military.”

  “It wasn’t the punch that ended my career,” John muttered. “It was the fact that everybody just wanted to py pretend. I felt like I was the only one putting my entire soul into it, working alongside a bunch of zombies with an opinion.”

  “Exactly,” Renny said, eyes lighting up. “But that’s what makes you perfect. I’m not offering you something fabricated. I’m offering you immortality.”

  Before John could respond, she arrived.

  Silver-gold shimmer clung to her hips and shoulders in a dress designed for maximum gravity. Her hair was fire-red. Her movements, poised and deliberate. Each step was measured like it had been choreographed. She exuded passion and beauty.

  “John,” Renny said with paternal pride. “Meet Ruby. My daughter. My marketing genius. A gifted actress. And if I may be so bold—your co-star.”

  “Pleasure,” she said, voice rich and banced with smoky confidence. She extended a hand. “You’re even more rugged in person.”

  John shook it, noting the faint warmth of her touch. “And you’re even more rehearsed.”

  She ughed, but her eyes flicked with something sharper. “I like to keep everything tailored.”

  “Is that what this is? Preparation for something?”

  “Yes, for an opportunity,” she said, stepping closer. The fabric of her dress wisped across his knee. “We’d be famous together. We’ll attend interstelr premiers, velvet unches, and private showings at Gliese resorts. We’ll be invited to exclusive afterparties. We’d trend on every inhabited rock with a holonet. And you’d get the real perks—early access, influence, and you’d never pay for anything again.”

  Her fingers trailed across his hip, then dipped lightly against the small of his back.

  John inhaled sharply. “You’re trying very hard to convince me,” he said.

  “Only because I think you’re worth convincing. And worth watching.”

  She lingered. Her eyes scanned his face like she was reading a script she already knew by heart. Then she turned and brushed past him with delicate grace. She stopped only briefly to whisper into his ear. “I have to admit something to you, something I think you can understand. Sometimes I can’t tell if the audience loves me or the version of me that I sell to them.” Her eyes cut back one st time. “I’ll find you ter—if you want to talk more about Arbiter.”

  She disappeared into the set.

  John stood in the now-quiet corridor, heart doing strange things. That was a fine performance. And it made him want to believe in the spectacle of it all—at least, just a little bit.

  Renny leaned beside him, arms crossed. “She’s only like that when she sees potential. Or danger. And frankly, she’s rarely wrong. She has a real eye for talent.”

  John shook his head. “This couldn’t work.”

  “With you? It’s guaranteed to work. And if I’m wrong, I’ll take the hit. But this thing? It isn’t just a show. I’m crafting a new kind of myth. You give the audience reason to hope. You show them that someone can be broken and still save the gaxy.”

  “I’m not a symbol,” John said, his voice low.

  “No,” Renny said. “You’re something harder. You’re somebody who refuses to ignore a challenge.”

  John didn’t answer. He stared at the floating cameras and the soft set lights.

  “You’ve walked through fire,” Renny continued. “With this opportunity, you can carry the torch and light a stage with it. Everyone’s eyes will be transfixed on you.”

  John exhaled. “I will think about it.”

  “That’s the first step. I’ll be here, Arbiter.”

  He turned toward the promenade.

  He saw Samantha.

  She stood near a marble column, her perfect posture, eyes locked onto a delegate from Vespar Prime. She was working the crowd, smiling like her heart didn’t weigh a thousand tons and like the fate of Earth wasn’t pinned to every conversation she entered.

  The guilt curled around his ribs and tightened.

  As he stepped toward her, the noise of the crew behind him dimmed. The scent of Ruby’s perfume hovered in his memory like a lure.

  Samantha saw him and brightened, just slightly. It was the kind of smile that was real only because she didn’t know how tired she looked.

  “There you are,” she said. “Just in time. Ambassador Olek wanted to meet the Hero of Earth.”

  He straightened his colr and approached, sliding smoothly into the circle. Every inch of him remembered how to perform. He felt the mannequin strings tugging at his arms and shoulders.

  “John Drayton,” he said, extending his hand.

  The ambassador took it with reverence. “An honor, truly.”

  John smiled because it was expected. Behind his teeth, a thousand doubts rattled like loose shell casings. He felt Renny’s pitch circling around in his mind. He felt Ruby’s hand still brushing against his back. He felt Samantha’s presence like a weight he both leaned on and tried not to burden.

  He looked at Samantha’s poised form and thought about the trust she pced in him simply by calling him over. He thought about the promise of fame. And behind it all was a boy who once wanted to be on camera because he thought the world might love him more if they watched him be someone else. Now, he had to smile. Now, he had to be the story—even if he wasn’t sure which version of it he wanted to live.