DRY WAVE RECORDING STUDIO
Sound Engineer: Alright, folks, listen up. The room is ready. Neumann U87 microphone — check the mount; if it comes loose, it's done for. Wipe it down with an antistatic cloth before the session. New pop filter installed? Great. Test, one-two. Sensitivity is normal. Resonance at 120 Hz is dampened… Alright.
The techs nod, finishing the last preparations. The studio is frozen in anticipation: flawless, sterile, ready to capture the slightest vibration, the faintest emotion.
MEANWHILE. THE CAR. A LEXUS SEDAN.
Audrey sits in the back seat. In one hand, a thermal mug; in the other, her phone. She sips her coffee, her eyes absently following the houses flashing past the tinted window. With her thumb, she hits a speed-dial number. It rings. Three, four, five times. Voicemail picks up.
Audrey: Tch… "Where did that old man disappear to? The condition's been met, the conflict's resolved, what's wrong now?"
Annoyed, she puts the phone down and plays the demo recording of her new track. She closes her eyes, her fingers lightly tapping out the rhythm on the skin of her mug. She’s already there, in the studio, on the other side of the glass and the microphone. The car smoothly pulls up to the unassuming yet legendary studio building.
The sound engineer stands by the heavy studio door as it opens. Audrey enters, followed by her bodyguard, who stops off to the side, blending into the decor. The engineer glances behind her. Empty. He looks at Audrey, then again at the empty hallway.
Sound Engineer: Audrey, welcome. Everything's ready. And where's… the manager?
Audrey: As you can see, he won't be with us today. That won't interfere with our plans. The recording is happening; you can sort the rest out yourselves.
She walks past him, placing her designer bag on the couch in the lounge. She slowly takes off her coat.
Sound Engineer: Excuse me, but this is… outrageous. We agreed on a list of revisions for the track, the budget for this session, the technical specifications! I can't just… I need his approval!
Audrey: I won't let anyone raise their voice at me or accuse me of disorganization without proof. All the financial and technical matters were handled with his office; the documents are on your desk. If you have any specific, written objections from him — show them. You don't? Then we work according to the previously approved plan.
Sound Engineer: The booth is all set up. The monitor feed is just how you like it — with a little reverb. Come with me, check it out.
Audrey steps behind the thick glass. The door with its soft seal closes, cutting off the outside world. A special, pressing silence reigns here. She approaches the microphone, adjusts the pop filter. Her movements are precise, ritualistic. She puts on the headphones that the engineer hands her through the special slot. Inside them, silence — waiting for a signal.
Sound Engineer: Soundcheck. Can you hear me? Let's go from the top of the chorus. Track is on count.
He starts the recording. The music is born in Audrey's headphones — familiar, her own. She takes a deep breath. All the frustration, all the calm tension, all the steel in her voice — it all gathers somewhere deep inside, compresses, turns into fuel.
Fire runs through my veins,
I burn the bridges behind me,
This world can wait, it's not urgent,
I'm my own prophetic voice!
Everything around is a strike!
Whoever's against is dust,
My light can't be extinguished!
I fear neither day nor night,
I fear neither tears nor passions,
I'll sweep away every obstacle in my path,
Everything around is a strike!
Whoever's against is dust,
My light can't be extinguished!
My fire can't be put out!
Everything around is a strike!
Whoever's against is dust,
My light can't be extinguished!
The recording session wraps up. The sound engineer and Audrey stand by the console. The tension between them has given way to weary professionalism.
Sound Engineer: Mastering will take three days. I'll send you three versions: clean, radio-format, and with your acapella edits. I can't promise any miracles, but we'll "drive" the track to the top.
Audrey started gathering her things when she heard footsteps behind her.
Erika in the flesh, with her usual smug grin.
Audrey: Erika? What are you doing here?
Erika: Shh, not so loud. Walls have ears, they say. Weren't we supposed to take care of Kira? But you've slowed down for some reason. I got bored. Decided to add some fuel to our little... process.
At that moment, her phone buzzed insistently in her purse. She took it out and read a message from the suddenly reappeared manager.
Audrey: "Come urgently to the address I've attached. We'll discuss everything there. P.S. – Manager."
She slowly lifted her gaze from the screen. And saw Erika flirting with her bodyguard. Erika tilted her head back, looking up at him, her finger tracing down his chest over his closed jacket. The bodyguard stood as if paralyzed. His usually stony face was confused, his gaze clouded.
Erika: Strong... Silent... I like it. Is it just your muscles that are made of iron?
Her hand slid from his chest, moving down his stomach, clearly heading lower.
Audrey: HEY! Keep your hands off my employees!
Erika paused for a second, then clicked her tongue in annoyance and pulled away. Her spell vanished like smoke. The bodyguard blinked, as if emerging from a trance, and recoiled from her with sudden realization.
Erika: See? A playful spark. But that was just a prelude. The real surprise is yet to come. You're about to have a meeting with Adèle Duval.
The name landed like a gong strike in the silence. Audrey couldn't hide a sharp, pained grimace. Their last meeting, two years ago, had ended with the icy words: "Don't ever let me see your face again."
Audrey: What does she want from me? After our last... falling out, she didn't want to see me. And now, two years later, she shows up. And sends you like a little lapdog. What is she planning? And don't you dare lie.
Erika: I'm not a lapdog. I'm a messenger. And if you want to know why — then let's go.
Audrey was silent, her brain working overtime. The message from the supposed manager from a suspicious address. Erika's sudden appearance. Adèle's name. It was a trap. But a trap she couldn't refuse. Refusing would mean professional death — and maybe not just professional. Adèle Duval did not forgive disobedience. Audrey crossed her arms over her chest, her last bastion of control, and headed toward the SUV. Erika followed, her light, springy walk betraying her delight at the well-acted scene. The game was just beginning.
Erika's black SUV stopped. The door opened. Audrey stepped onto the asphalt, and a sharp, twisting pain shot through her entire body. Not a spasm of anxiety — a familiar attack.
Audrey: "Damn. This is all I need — an attack."
Erika was already out, watching her with feigned indifference. Audrey took a deep, ragged breath. She gathered all her strength; the pain retreated a step, turning into a dull, exhausting throb.
Taking the elevator, the women entered Adèle's office. The woman greeted them with silence, and when her gaze lifted to Audrey, it was like a scanning beam. It missed no detail: not the slightly quicker breathing, not the barely perceptible tension in her shoulders, not the unnatural pallor. But she revealed nothing. Audrey stopped across from her, returning that icy look measure for measure. Audrey's companion made herself comfortable on the sofa.
Erika: Adèle, why so gloomy? That gives you wrinkles, you know — and that's bad for your face, especially at your age.
The foolishness hung in the air. Adèle didn't even turn her head. She just slowly moved her eyes to Erika. The girl realized her joke hadn't landed, rolled her eyes, and fell silent.
Audrey: Hello, Adèle. If I remember correctly, you told me to stay far away from you. And now, two years later, you summon me here under my manager's name. Say what you need to say, and I'll get back to my business. If you have questions, take them up with him — by the way, where is he?
Adèle: You haven't changed one bit. Always snapping. Always biting back. A primitive defense mechanism in front of those who are stronger. It betrays weakness, Audrey. Believe me — he's already gotten what he deserved. Now we need to decide what to do with you.
Audrey slowly, with exaggerated skepticism, raised one eyebrow.
Audrey: What are you talking about?
Adèle, without taking her eyes off her, reached for a thin cardboard folder lying on the absolutely clean surface of the desk. She opened the folder. Turned over a photograph and placed it on the table facing Audrey. Then gave it a small push forward, like dealing a card in a deadly game. A black-and-white image, but that didn't make it any less brutal. A young woman, around twenty, with a plain, pleasant face. She was hanging from a thick rope. Her body slumped like a broken marionette. Her skin was porcelain-pale, almost glowing in the photo. But the most terrible thing was her eyes. They were open. And in them, there was neither horror nor pain. Only absolute, all-consuming emptiness. Audrey wasn't breathing; a silent scream was frozen inside her.
Adèle: This girl, Hannah, committed suicide yesterday. And what a coincidence — the changes in her behavior began right after your... candid conversation. After you saw fit to personally "set her straight." The girl disappeared from all social media, locked herself within four walls. And here is the result we all now have.
Audrey shuddered. Her hands instinctively reached for her mouth, pressing against her lips, holding back the scream that was trying to escape — a scream of horror, denial, guilt. Her eyes flew wide open, filled with genuine, primal panic.
Audrey: HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?! OH GOD... I... I didn't want her dead! I just wanted to protect my reputation! For her to apologize, learn her lesson, and for it all to stop!
From the back of the room came a voice.
Erika: Such a softie. I suppose the reminder of her past work at the escort agency, and the photos themselves... hit her psyche hard. And the psyche, you know, is a fragile thing. I bet she'd last longer. Eh... Gonna have to pay up.
Audrey: Was this... you? The photos... The rumors... Did you set this all up?
Erika: Me? I merely... hinted to the right people in the right chats. Stoked the coals of your noble reputation fire. You wanted to teach her a lesson — I just made your lesson... visual. The result, as you can see, exceeded expectations.
Adèle watched this exchange silently. She neither confirmed nor denied Erika's words. She simply let the poison fully unfold.
Adèle: Look how far you've fallen, Audrey. No wonder your parents disowned you. You don't have their backbone. They tried to push you into my agency, to somehow raise your standing in society. And after I refused... they completely cut ties with you.
Audrey slowly lifted her head. The tears and panic in her eyes had evaporated, burned away by sudden, white-hot rage. She looked at Adèle with such undisguised hatred.
Audrey: Believe me, there hasn't been a single day that I've regretted leaving them. They're just as cold-blooded tyrants and monsters as you are. Creatures who look down on the world, measuring people only by their usefulness and status. Only after I left was I able to breathe freely for the first time in my life.
Adèle: Your "freedom," little girl, could end in exactly one minute. All I have to do is press one button, and all the evidence confirming your direct involvement in this incident will fly straight to the police, the prosecutor's office, and every major news network. You'll spend what's left of your "freedom" not in a studio, but in a cell. And then — behind prison bars. Your voice will become the property of crime blotters, not the charts. Alternatively... I can choose not to do that. Turn a blind eye to this unpleasant incident. Bury it along with Hannah Reed. If you help me solve one... troublesome problem. Get rid of Kira.
Audrey blinked; her mind, clouded with horror and anger, struggled to recalibrate. Her eyebrows rose; her eyes registered pure, mute incomprehension. What kind of game was this? Why her? From the couch came a quiet, satisfied chuckle.
Erika: Ooooh, this is my favorite part of the story.
Adèle shot her a brief, silencing glance.
Adèle: You've noticed, haven't you, that she's been hanging around Ronaldo constantly lately? And, unfortunately for me, Ronaldo and I share a family bond. Somehow, Kira found out. She didn't try to blackmail me directly. No. She played it smarter.
Using her position as "Ronaldo's girl" and her knowledge of our family secret, she… outmaneuvered me. She secured a high-level position in the company. She obtained a contract that I can't simply terminate. I can't just fire her or "kick her out." The audience adores her, the market loves her. And Ronaldo is infatuated like a schoolboy, blind to everything. An open scandal would destroy his trust and the entire label's reputation. So I don't need a crude elimination. I need her public, irreversible downfall. For her to burn all bridges with Ronaldo and with the world herself. And that's where you come in. With your connections to the paparazzi and the dark PR world. And with that special "skill" of making people look their worst, which you demonstrated so brilliantly — albeit with tragic consequences — in the Hannah incident.
Audrey flinched at the comparison, but Adèle continued, nodding her chin toward the couch.
Adèle: Erika will help you with this. Your task is to set up the perfect situation and arrange a "leak" so devastating that Ronaldo will turn away from her in disgust, and the public will hate her. Make her a toxic asset. And then I can get rid of her cleanly.
Audrey stood there, grasping the monstrosity of the proposal. She had just been accused of indirect murder, and now she was being asked to commit a calculated, cold-blooded assassination of a reputation — and to use her own darkest skills to do it. The price of her freedom was to become a weapon in Adèle's hands, an accomplice to Erika, and a traitor to Kira, rival though she was. The trap had closed completely. There was no way out. Only down, into the darkest abyss.
Adèle: So? Are you with us?
Audrey slowly, almost mechanically, nodded. It was not agreement — it was surrender. The surrender of everything she thought she was.
Adèle, showing no emotion, opened one of the drawers of the steel desk and pulled out a contract. Audrey didn't ask what it was. Didn't ask why. The haze before her eyes made everything feel surreal, as if she were watching herself from outside. She took the heavy silver pen Adèle held out to her. Her fingers were numb. She didn't even read it. She just signed. With the same sweeping, sharp signature she usually gave to fans on autographs. But this was a signature on her own moral death warrant. Adèle carefully took the signed document. A flicker of satisfaction crossed her lips for a moment, like a collector who has just acquired a rare, long-awaited specimen. She carefully placed the contract back in the drawer, which closed with a quiet but decisive click.
Erika, who had been watching from the couch like a front-row spectator, finally couldn't contain herself. She stretched with catlike grace, then let out an excited squeal, jumped up, and lunged at Audrey from behind, wrapping her arms around her neck.
Erika: Ooooh, Audrey! Why aren't you happy? Huh? Your original goal of eliminating Kira has now borne such juicy new fruit! And besides, we have Adèle's blessing now! Basically, a blank check! I say we celebrate our alliance properly! At The Labyrinth! Get drunk, order some hot guys for the whole evening, cause a scene! Adèle, why so quiet? Want to join?
Adèle, who was gathering papers on the desk, didn't even turn her head. She just cast a glance over her shoulder — a look that mixed such deep disgust — ignored the proposal and left.
Erika: Ugh… Completely forgot how to have fun in her old age. Fine, more for us. What about you, Audrey? Let's go? Shake off that gloom — I know some great guys who…
Audrey didn't let her finish. Silently, without looking at Erika, she walked toward the same exit they had entered through. Her gait was steady but utterly lifeless. She didn't say a word. Erika was left alone. Shrugging, she pulled out her phone and quickly dialed a number.
Erika: Tom? It's me. Book The Labyrinth — a table close to the dance floor. Yeah, alone. No, the boring doll won't be pleasuring you tonight... But I'll give you an unforgettable evening instead.
Audrey didn't remember how she ended up back in her apartment. The glass walls with their panoramic view of the night city swam in her consciousness as if through a thick fog. Only one detail was clear and relentless.
A sharp, twisting pain in her abdomen — now grown, seizing her entire body, pressing against her temples, her chest, squeezing the air out of her. Stumbling, she made her way to the bedroom. With trembling hands, without even looking at the dose, she inhaled it through a rolled-up bill. The expected wave of relief, euphoria, detachment — didn't come. Only a bitter taste on her tongue and a pulsing rage that had only grown sharper. The drug didn't drown out the hell inside her — it poured gasoline on it. With a howl of despair, she walked to the kitchen, to the massive oak sideboard. From the pantry, she pulled out a bottle of expensive, aged whiskey. She unscrewed the cap and raised the bottle to her lips. She drank. Large, burning gulps, choking but not stopping. The liquid scorched her throat, spread fire through her chest, but did nothing to warm the icy void inside. She drank until only the bitter aftertaste remained in her throat and she felt the sudden lightness of the empty glass vessel in her hand. The bottle shattered with a crash on the kitchen's stone floor.
And then the wave of destruction began. The quiet, cold rage turned into an uncontrollable storm. High on emptiness and alcohol, Audrey became a hurricane. A chair flew into the glass partition, leaving a spiderweb of cracks. She tore down the curtains, swept books and trinkets off the tables. Her screams — hoarse and incoherent — tore through the silence of the penthouse. She cursed Adèle, Erika, her parents, her manager, the entire world. She cursed the day she became a star and the hour she was born.
The final chord of her madness was the huge, wall-length mirror in the hallway. In it, she saw herself reflected — disheveled, with wild eyes, in a torn blouse, her hands bloody from the broken glass. With a low snarl, gathering all the strength of her despair and drug-fueled rage, she punched it with her fist.
There was a deafening, dry crack. Not a shatter — a crack. The mirror didn't break — it exploded. Dozens, hundreds of sharp shards flew in every direction, sparkling in the chandelier's light. A sharp, searing pain shot through her hand — a deep gash across her knuckles. Audrey froze, breathing heavily.
Not her own reflection. In the shards of the broken mirror, in every separate piece, she saw other faces. In one — the chilling, soulless gaze of Adèle Duval, watching from her throne. In another — the mocking, triumphant look of Kira, the woman whose reputation she was now supposed to destroy. And in the tiny, sharp splinters — the faces of her parents, full of hatred and contempt, from her childhood.
The pain in her hand was nothing compared to this. She clenched her fist, feeling the blood seep through her fingers.
Audrey: Old hag... You used my situation to put a collar around my neck... I'll destroy you. You'll regret ever dragging me into this. I'll take great pleasure in exposing you to the whole world and watching your downfall... with a smile on my face.
And you... Kira. You've played it cleverly, managing to twist Adèle Duval herself around your finger. Don't worry... I'll take care of you too. Especially carefully.
And then the woman began to laugh. It wasn't laughter, but a dry, wrenching, hysterical cackle tearing from the back of her throat. She laughed, standing amid the ruins of her luxurious life, her fist bloodied, surrounded by the ghosts of her enemies and the demons of her past. In her laugh, there was neither joy nor relief — only a promise of revenge, as black and all-consuming as the night itself beyond the glass.
