The air itself seemed to vibrate, thick with the collective hum of dozens of excited voices. For most, it was the sound of celebration, a joyous, triumphant chorus. For Elara, it was a swarm of agitated bees, buzzing relentlessly inside her skull. Tonight marked the grand unveiling, the pre-release party for "Aethelgard's Ascent," Pixelbloomâs latest movie. Their small studio, a haven of quiet dedication, had poured its very soul into this project, and now, the fruits of their labor were being loudly, exuberantly, celebrated.
Music throbbed, a bass drum echoing through the polished floor, the vibrations crawling up Elaraâs legs. Laughter erupted in sharp, startling bursts, like haphazard fireworks. The scent of exotic starters mingled with something overly sweet and bubbly from the drinks bar. Everyone around her seemed to bask in pure, unadulterated delight, their faces flushed with the intoxicating flush of success. Everyone, that was, except Elara.
Her fingers tightened around the cool, damp glass of sparkling water, the tiny bubbles tickling her nose, a small, familiar distraction. This wasn't her world, not really. Her sanctuary wasn't found in the raucous joy of a crowd. It resided in the soft, consistent hum of her drawing tablet, the barely-there whisper of her stylus as it danced across the screen, coaxing characters from pure imagination into vibrant life. That was where Elara truly belonged, where she truly shone. She could lose herself for hours, tracing the intricate, ethereal veins of a fairy's wing, or perfecting the mischievous glint in a goblin's eye. Her characters, every single one, were renowned for their exquisite detail, and their vibrant authenticity. But the artist who conjured them? She simply preferred to vanish.
She made herself smaller, a habit, an instinct, as she attempted to navigate the dense, swirling current of bodies. It felt like trying to swim through a sea of cheerful, oblivious giants. Arms brushed against hers, too close, too often. Fragments of loud conversations, and bursts of self-congratulation, swallowed her own nascent thoughts, leaving her adrift. Each step felt like a clumsy misstep in a dance she hadnât been taught. A familiar knot of unease tightened in her stomach, twisting, burrowing deeper. Why had she come? A small, exasperated sigh escaped her. Oh, right. Because everyone else did. Because it was "important."
Finally, a tiny haven emerged, an unexpected island of quiet tucked behind a towering potted plant, one that looked almost as uncomfortable and out of place as she felt. She leaned back against the cool, impersonal wall, taking a long, fortifying sip of her water. From this vantage point, she could observe. It was safer to watch. Her colleaguesâher friends, really, though the word felt too brave, too intimate, to utter even in her own mindâwere a tableau of uninhibited joy. They laughed, they embraced, their glasses clinked in endless celebration. They deserved this, she thought, a faint warmth spreading through her chest. They had poured everything into Aethelgard's Ascent. It was, undeniably, a masterpieceâa vibrant swirl of impossible colors, ancient magic, and brave heroes. Elara herself had designed the lead, Aethelgard, meticulously crafting that flamboyant cascade of hair, those wide, sparkling eyes brimming with stubborn, undeniable hope. A tiny spark of pride flickered within her, a fragile flame in the buzzing chaos.
She watched Maya, their lead animator, throw her head back, a laugh bubbling up, her bright red hair bouncing with unrestrained glee. She spotted Tom from sound design, demonstrating some grotesque monster noise with an elaborate flourish of his hands. They were all so effortless, so loud, so undeniably present. Elara yearned, just for a moment, to be like that. Just for one night. Just for a few minutes.
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A sudden shadow fell over her, abrupt and heavy, extinguishing the soft, comforting glow from the fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling. Elara flinched, her thoughts scattering like startled birds, abandoning the imagined characters that had been her brief escape. She turned her head slowly, reluctantly.
It was Gary.
Gary from rigging. He was tall, but his limbs always seemed a little too loose, a bit floppy, like a puppet whose strings needed tightening. And his grin, oh, his grin was perpetually too wide, a smug, knowing curve that always suggested a secret joke no one else was privy to. Elara had actively, desperately, avoided him all evening. He was loud, often louder than the blaring music itself, and his attempts at humor usually landed with the awkward thud of a dropped prop. Worse, he always invaded her personal space. Now, the faint, stale scent of cheap beer, the kind that made her nose instinctively wrinkle, clung to him.
Before Elara could even articulate a faint, polite greeting, Garyâs hand, surprisingly swift, snaked around her waist. It felt cold and damp, a jarring intrusion through the thin fabric of her dress. He pulled her closer, only a fraction, but it was enough to make her body rigid, every muscle locking in a silent protest. Her sparkling water sloshed precariously in her glass.
"Lost in thought, Elara?" His voice was a bit slurred, thicker than usual, the words blurring around the edges. He leaned in, his face too close, his breath warm and beery against her ear. "Dreaming up new characters?"
A hot, mortifying blush crept up Elaraâs neck, a furious tide staining her cheeks. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird desperate to escape. Mortified. The word echoed in her mind, perfect in its awful accuracy. She tried to shrug him off, to subtly pull away, but his grip, to her dismay, was surprisingly firm.
This was it. Her internal alarm, a blaring siren, deafeningly clear. Leave. Now.
"Oh, um, Gary," she mumbled, her voice a reedy whisper, hoping against hope that the tremor of panic wasnât audible. "I⦠I really have to go. Early morning, you know? Big plans." Her plans, of course, involved nothing more ambitious than her drawing tablet and a quiet, comforting cup of tea. But it was the best lie she could conjure at the moment.
She attempted a tentative step backward, her high heel slipping just a fraction on the slick, polished floor. Garyâs grip loosened, imperceptibly, but enough. Elara seized the fleeting opportunity, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her. She practically yanked herself free, spinning away from him in one swift, desperate motion. Her gaze locked onto the exit, the glowing red sign a blazing beacon in the swirling, noisy room.
She hurried, perhaps a little too fast, the sensible but still stylish heels clicking a sharp, hurried rhythm against the floor. The exit sign grew larger and closer. Almost there. Freedom.
Then, her foot caught. It wasnât a bump against a raised tile or a snag on a loose thread. It was something soft and bunched, something that simply shouldnât have been there. An errant rug, perhaps, wrinkled into an insidious trap near the short flight of stairs that descended into the main lobby and, finally, the street outside.
Her ankle twisted. A sharp, searing pain shot up her leg, an electric current of agony. She gasped, a small, choked sound swallowed instantly by the roaring party. Her body lurched forward, momentum betraying her, balance dissolving. The sparkling water flew from her glass, suspended for a breathtaking instant in the air, shimmering like a handful of fleeting, forgotten stars.
She was falling.
Down the short flight of stairs, tumbling, a dizzying blur of silk dress and flailing limbs. A sickening lurch twisted in her stomach, a disorienting, endless spin. And thenânothing.
Darkness. Not the soft, familiar dark of her bedroom, the comforting blanket of night. This was a thick, heavy blackness, an absolute void that swallowed everything, instantly. It enveloped her completely, a cold, empty expanse before she even registered hitting the bottom step.