He doesn't tell Sunny he's back yet.
Not properly.
A short text.
In town for a bit.
Her reply:
Oh.
Then:
Okay.
No accusation.
No exclamation.
Just space.
He leaves it there.
Because this isn't a reunion trip.
Not yet.
The first meeting is in a quiet office above a law firm that smells like dust and coffee.
Not sleek.
Not branded.
Not glass.
The man across from him doesn't recognize the stage name.
That's intentional.
"You're looking for an exit clause," the lawyer says, flipping through a printed copy of the contract.
"Yes."
He almost says:
I want my life back.
He doesn't.
They go line by line.
Performance obligations.
Exclusivity.
Moral conduct clauses.
Termination penalties.
Language built like a maze.
The lawyer circles a paragraph with his pen.
"Did they materially alter your creative direction beyond what was agreed?"
Zane hesitates.
"They refined it."
"That's vague."
"They rewrote parts."
"Without consent?"
"I signed off."
The lawyer nods once.
"Then consent exists."
That word lands heavy.
Consent.
He signed.
He nodded.
He complied.
The nights get longer after that.
Back in his apartment in Aetheridge, he spreads printed pages across the table.
Highlighter uncapped.
Notes in the margins.
He reads phrases like:
At the discretion of the label.
Creative oversight.
Brand alignment authority.
He underlines autonomy where it doesn't exist.
He didn't read this closely the first time.
He trusted momentum.
He trusted expansion.
He trusted himself.
Axel stops by once around midnight.
Doesn't ask too many questions.
Just sets down two coffees.
"Still awake," Axel observes.
"Yeah."
Zane rubs a hand over his eyes.
"You don't look surprised," he says.
Axel shrugs slightly.
"You don't look surprised either."
That stings in a quiet way.
He isn't shocked by the trap.
Just disappointed he walked into it willingly.
The lawyer calls three days later.
"There might be something," he says.
Zane sits up straighter.
"A creative deviation clause tied to brand representation. If we can prove that the direction materially misaligned with your established identity…"
Established identity.
He almost laughs.
"That's the problem," Zane says quietly. "I let them redefine it."
"Did you?"
The question lingers.
He thinks about the original demo.
The cut lyrics.
The mirror.
"I'm not sure," he admits.
Sleep becomes optional.
He rereads interviews.
Old performances.
Archived footage of his early shows.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Unpolished.
He listens to the version of himself before the contract.
Not nostalgic.
Comparative.
He isn't trying to run back to smallness.
He's trying to locate authorship.
Who chose this?
Him?
Or the machine?
One night, he finds himself whispering his real name again.
Not Calder.
The other one.
It sounds steadier in Aetheridge.
Less like a costume.
He sits back in his chair.
Pages scattered.
Laptop glowing.
City outside quieter than the one he left.
This isn't just about Sunny.
Not anymore.
He misses her.
That's real.
But this—
This is about autonomy.
About whether he belongs to himself.
He built himself alone once.
Maybe he can rebuild again.
This time—
On his own terms.