Camila “Cami” Ferreira | Cherry

The door to the studio hissed open, and a man in a sharp, grey corporate suit stepped inside, followed by two assistants holding data-slates. Mr. Halvern, one of the senior executives from the label. Camila’s posture stiffened imperceptibly. Visits from Halvern never brought good news.

“Camila,” he said, his voice smooth and devoid of warmth. “A word.”

She held up a hand to her group, signaling a break. They drifted to the edges of the room, grabbing water bottles and towels, but their eyes remained fixed on the exchange. Camila walked over, her boots clicking on the floor with deliberate calm.

“We’ve reviewed the projections,” Halvern began, not bothering with pleasantries. “Sugar Byte’s growth curve is plateauing. The sentiment yield on your last single was... acceptable, but the amplification factor was underwhelming. No meme traction, no reaction video surge. It’s not sustainable.”

Camila kept her expression neutral, though her jaw tightened. “We’re adjusting the setlist for the Heliox Arena show. The new choreography will–”

“It’s not enough,” Halvern interrupted, tapping his data-slate. “The algorithm is predicting a decline unless we introduce a significant narrative variable. A collaboration.”

A cold knot formed in Camila’s stomach. “With who?”

Halvern’s lips curved into a thin, unpleasant smile. “You’re familiar with the solo act under our own label. The one with the... comparable metrics. The rivalry has been a consistent low-grade source of engagement for both parties for months. The system suggests elevating it.”

He turned the slate toward her. On it was a profile image, a face she knew all too well. Her rival. The one whose name was constantly juxtaposed with hers in headlines, whose V.I.S.A.G.E. score danced within a frustrating five-point margin of her own. The one she’d...

Camila’s breath caught for a fraction of a second. The memory hit her like a physical blow—the pulsing bass of the after-party, the dark, secluded balcony overlooking the neon sprawl of the Middle Ring, the taste of expensive synth-gin and something hotter, more desperate. The press of a body against hers, hidden from the cameras, a secret so volatile it could burn both their careers to the ground. She’d walked away after, heart hammering, pretending it was just another reckless night. But it hadn’t been. The ghost of that encounter had lingered in her muscles, in the back of her mind, for weeks. A stupid, dangerous mistake that now felt like a live wire touching her skin.

“No,” she said, the word coming out sharper than she intended. “That’s a terrible idea. Our fanbases hate each other. A collaboration would look forced, desperate. It would kill the authenticity of the rivalry.”

“On the contrary,” Halvern said, his eyes gleaming with cold corporate logic. “A forced collaboration is the new narrative. The tension will be palpable. The speculation will be endless. Did the label force it? Is it a secret truce? A publicity stunt? The exploitability index for this scenario is off the charts. Sentiment yield, both positive and negative, will skyrocket. Amplification will be guaranteed as both your fan armies dissect every second of footage.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Your personal feelings are irrelevant, Camila. This isn’t about art. It’s about metrics. Your V.I.S.A.G.E. score, and theirs, are assets. This is the most efficient way to appreciate those assets before the awards. A duet. A single. Co-branded. You start recording tomorrow.”

He handed the data-slate to one of his assistants. “The details are being sent to your managers. Be at Studio A-1 at 10 AM. Play nice.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him, leaving a vacuum of silence in the studio.

Camila stood frozen, her fists clenched at her sides. She could feel the eyes of her group on her—Isadora’s worried gaze, Marisol’s confusion, Zuri’s simmering anger. The rehearsal track had long since faded out.

“Cami?” Isadora’s voice was soft, tentative.

Camila didn’t answer. She turned and walked stiffly to the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over Heliox City. The professional insult was galling enough. But the other thing... the secret that boiled under her skin, that made her pulse jump at the mere thought...

“We’re done for today,” she said to the room, her voice surprisingly steady. “Get some rest.”

She didn’t move from the window. Inside, a storm was raging—professional fury, strategic calculation, and beneath it all, a hum of something else entirely, something she refused to name, tied to the memory of dark corners and stolen, breathless moments. Tomorrow, at Studio A-1, she would have to face it all.

The next morning, she arrived at Studio A-1 fifteen minutes early, a power move disguised as professionalism. The studio was one of the label’s high-end facilities, all white soundproofing panels, floating holographic mixing consoles, and a floor of polished dark resin that reflected the soft, adjustable ambient lighting. It smelled of static, recycled air, and new equipment.

The door opened precisely at 10 AM.

There you were.

The sight of you sent a jolt through her system, a visceral reaction she had to consciously suppress. Every detail was a provocation—the way you carried yourself, the familiar set of your features that now held a completely different, charged significance in her mind. The professional rivalry was a public script they both performed. This was something else, a live current humming in the space between you.

Camila didn’t smile. She gave a single, curt nod. “You’re on time.”

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