The agency office smelled faintly of coffee and toner—recycled ambition layered over paperwork.
Lune sat on the couch with his parents on either side of him, posture relaxed, expression attentive. He let the agent talk. Let the words arrive in the order they were meant to. Contracts, timelines, branding. A junior assistant hovered near the door, tablet in hand, eyes flicking up whenever Lune shifted.
"This is an exclusive development contract," the agent said, sliding a folder across the table. "Standard for talent we believe in."
Believe in was the word used when leverage existed.
Lune opened the folder slowly, as if the weight of the pages mattered. He scanned clauses without reading line by line. He recognized the structure instantly—control disguised as care, access gated by compliance. Exclusivity. Image rights. Morality clauses broad enough to be elastic.
He felt no excitement. He felt options.
"This means school accommodations," the agent continued, glancing at Lune's parents. "Tutors on set. Limited press. We protect our talent."
Protect implied possession.
Lune nodded at appropriate intervals, eyes soft, curious. He let his mother ask the questions she'd rehearsed in the car. He watched his father's jaw tighten at words like long-term and binding. He noted where fear crept in—not for Lune, but for their own responsibility.
He listened for the moment hesitation surfaced.
"What happens if this doesn't work out?" his mother asked.
The agent smiled, practiced reassurance. "It will."
Too quick. Overconfident. Lune filed it away.
He closed the folder gently. "May I ask something?" he said, voice even.
The agent's attention sharpened. "Of course."
"If this is exclusive," Lune continued, "what happens to projects you don't offer me? Am I allowed to say no?"
The assistant paused mid-typing.
The agent recovered smoothly. "We guide your career. We don't force decisions."
Guide meant steer.
Lune nodded again. He didn't push. He didn't challenge. He let the answer exist as given. Pressure applied too early caused resistance. He needed his parents to feel protective, not cornered.
The meeting ended with smiles and a promise to review the contract at home. Outside, the city felt louder. Lune's parents spoke at once—concerns overlapping, fears layering.
"It's a lot," his father said.
"It's a big decision," his mother added.
Lune listened. He didn't reassure them. He didn't argue.
That night, he sat at the kitchen table while his parents read the contract aloud to each other. He watched their faces change as clauses accumulated. He noticed when his mother's voice softened and when his father's questions became circular.
They were hesitating.
Good.
Hesitation meant they cared. Care made them predictable.
Lune excused himself early, claiming homework. In his room, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, considering the levers available. He did not need them to agree because it was good.
He needed them to agree because it was necessary.
Down the hall, he heard the murmur of his parents' voices, rising and falling. Words like pressure and too young floated through the door.
Lune closed his eyes and planned.