“It’s pretty standard?—”
“No.”
“Keanu—”
“NOT after what Harlan pulled.” He flipped a page. Circled another clause. Drew a line through it so hard the pen scored the paper beneath. “This clause? Dead. This clause? Dead. This one is fine.” He paused. Squinted. “No, this one is DEAD. Who drafted this, a first-year associate who’s never met a creative?”
“I think his legal team is actually very?—”
“Dead clause.” He didn’t look up. He was already on page twelve, and the stack of flagged pages was growing like a small paper monument to fraternal rage.
Lumi bit the inside of her cheek. Keanu in protective mode was a force of nature she’d learned not to interrupt. He was three years older, six inches taller, and carried the guilt of a man who’d been too young and too junior to fight for her when Harlan Cray had stripped her work to the studs and stamped his name on it.
Now he had his own practice. His own leverage. And a contract on his desk from the largest villain publisher in the industry, which he was treating like a hostile takeover bid.
“Creative approval on all character modifications.” He wrote the insertion in the margin. His handwriting was precise. Everything about Keanu was precise—the organized desk, the alphabetized files, the framed photo of her first convention appearance tucked beside his monitor like evidence in a case he was perpetually building for why his sister deserved better than the world had given her. “Mutual approval on storyline changes. And this—” He tapped a paragraph near the bottom. “This reversion clause is garbage. If the collaboration terminates, your IP reverts to you. All of it. Immediately. Non-negotiable.”
“You’re going to scare them off.”
He looked up. Brown eyes steady behind wire-rimmed glasses. The same eyes she saw in the mirror every morning, except his carried the weight of an older sibling who’d watchedhis sister get hurt and decided no one would get the chance to do it again.
“If they scare off, they weren’t serious. And if they are serious, they’ll respect the protections.” He set the pen down. The fury in his posture softened a single degree. “You deserve someone who fights for your work the way you fight for it, Lu. I didn’t do that last time. I’m doing it now.”
The knot in her throat tightened. She swung her boots. Studied the ceiling tile directly above his head.
Don’t you dare cry in a Midtown law office on a Wednesday afternoon.
“The ceiling’s fine,” Keanu said. “I had it inspected.”
She laughed. The knot loosened. He went back to killing clauses.
The emails startedwhile the lawyers circled.
Three days after the meeting. Three days of Keanu’s counter-proposals flying across Manhattan like legal ordnance.
The first message from Zeir was professional. Subject line: Collaboration Framework — Creative Direction. Four paragraphs about story direction and the tension between what sells and what matters. Signed with his full name. Formal. Distant. The kind of email a CEO sent to a contractor.
She responded in kind. Matched his tone. Discussed Sable’s character development with clinical detachment. Signed her full name.
The second email came six hours later. Still professional. But a question at the end that didn’t belong in a business correspondence: Why do you think villain stories matter?
She stared at it for a long time. Her loft was dark. The pendant lamps had clicked on their timer an hour ago, and the amber glow turned the studio side into a glowing cave of half-finished panels and organized chaos. Coltrane on the record player. Moriarty’s vine had reached the windowsill’s edge. She was too busy reading five words over and over.
Why do you think villain stories matter?
It wasn’t a question you asked a contractor. It was a question you asked someone whose answer you cared about.
She typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted. Drank her third cup of tea—she’d switched from coffee at eight, a sign that even her self-destruction had limits. She pulled her knees to her chest on the couch and thought about it the way she thought about all the important things: through Sable. Through the characters she’d built to hold the parts of herself she couldn’t hold alone.
Her response broke the membrane.
Underneath the mask is the thing they’re most afraid of. For heroes, it’s failure. For villains, it’s love. Because love is the one thing you can’t take by force. It has to be given. And villains don’t trust gifts.
She hit send before she could second-guess it. Then she panicked. Then she made a fourth cup of tea. Then she panicked again.
You just told a man you’ve met once that villains are afraid of love. That’s not a creative philosophy. That’s a diary entry. You sent a diary entry to the CEO of Axan Dark. Excellent. Very professional. Moriarty, stop looking at me like that.
Moriarty’s vine nudged the ink tray.
