The Ghost In Your Machine

Chapter 1: Static Between Us

Devotion.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Valentino's studio smelled of sweat, scorched wiring, and too much cologne.

The lights overhead buzzed with a tired whine, casting harsh, blown-out shadows over the set. Someone had spilled something on the velvet settee—again—and the crew had vanished like rats when the screaming started. Good. He didn't want to look at their pathetic faces anymore. He didn't want to see anything.

His hands trembled as he lit a cigarette, fingers twitching as he tried to flick the lighter. He missed once—twice. Then, finally, he got it, the flame trembling like it was afraid of him. Good. It should be frightened. Everything should be.

The smoke hit his lungs too fast, but he didn't care. He leaned back into the cushions, the ornate fabric sticky with sweat, makeup, and regret, and exhaled.

The camera had been rolling for too long. Someone had left it on, or maybe they were still watching. Or maybe he was still watching.

Val's lip curled.

He hated this place. Hated how it echoed. Hated how the air conditioning never worked. Hated the stupid, desperate sluts who clawed at his arm like he could save them when they knew damn well he was the one holding the knife.

But mostly, he hated how his voice sounded in the playbacks—off. Wrong. Strained.

Today had been a disaster.

Angel had been late. Again. The lighting tech had screwed up the best angle. Again. And when he raised his voice, just enough to remind them who owned the building, the goddamn mic had peaked and made him sound unhinged. Unprofessional.

Like he was losing it.

He dragged a hand down his face, smearing a bit of eyeliner across his cheekbone, and stared at the ceiling. The cigarette trembled in his lips, ash falling onto his shirt. He didn't even brush it off.

He knew he was being watched.

He always was.

Somewhere behind the static, he was there. Vox. The smug bastard with his silver grin and spliced soul always perched like a vulture on the edge of a power cable. Watching. Judging. Recording. Collecting.

Val turned his head toward the nearest wall as if he could see through it and burn through the distance with a glance alone.

"Are you enjoying the show, baby?" he muttered, his voice hoarse. "I hope you got a real good angle of me cracking open. "

He took another drag.

Sometimes, when the feeds were off late at night and the silence pressed in too close, Val would feel it. Not just eyes. Not just attention.

But focus.

Like he was the center of someone's world.

And God, wasn't that almost romantic?

He laughed, but it sounded wrong. Empty. Like a punchline, no one else was in on. He looked up at the camera. Smirked. The tired kind of smirk. Crooked and mean.

"You're not the only one who can watch Amorcito," he whispered.

Then he crushed the cigarette into the velvet and stood, lighting another before the first even finished smouldering. He left the studio behind, not bothering to look back.

The lights flickered once more as the doors shut behind him.

He watched the recording play again somewhere, far above the city, in a tower that breathed neon and smoke.