Lune did not speak about the contract the next morning.
He ate breakfast quietly, asked his father about work, complimented his mother's coffee. He left for school on time. He did nothing that suggested urgency.
Urgency would have raised alarms.
At school, he performed competence flawlessly—answered questions, listened attentively, accepted praise without attachment. He allowed a teacher to mention the audition news with pride. He didn't correct her. He let the idea of success circulate independently.
By the time he came home, the narrative had begun forming without him.
His mother mentioned the call she'd received from a relative who had "heard something exciting." His father asked whether Lune would need help managing schoolwork if filming interfered.
Lune responded with measured uncertainty.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't want to disappoint anyone."
The sentence was carefully chosen.
It placed pressure outward, not inward. It suggested responsibility without desire. It made refusal feel like harm.
Later that evening, his parents called him into the living room. The contract lay on the coffee table between them, edges aligned.
"We've been talking," his father said.
Lune waited.
"There are risks," his mother added quickly. "We just want to be sure this is what you want."
Lune met their eyes and hesitated—not too long, not too briefly. He allowed doubt to surface in a controlled way.
"I think… if I don't try," he said slowly, "I might always wonder if I could have done it. And wondering feels worse than failing."
His mother's face softened. His father leaned back, exhaling.
"I don't want to rush," Lune continued. "But they made it sound like timing matters."
Timing mattered was the key. It shifted the decision from preference to opportunity. Missed chances felt heavier than bad ones.
His parents exchanged a look.
"We just don't want you locked into something," his father said.
"I know," Lune replied. "We can negotiate."
We can.
The pronoun did its work. It positioned the decision as collaborative, not imposed. His parents straightened slightly, ownership settling in.
They discussed terms. Education clauses. Exit options. Safeguards. Lune contributed sparingly, asking questions that sounded naïve but directed attention to concessions he knew the agency would accept.
By the end of the night, the contract looked less like a trap and more like a managed risk.
His mother closed the folder. "We should talk to them tomorrow."
Lune nodded, relief crossing his face with perfect subtlety.
In his room later, he lay awake, listening to the house settle. He felt no triumph. No anxiety.
Negotiation, he understood, was not about control through force. It was about making others comfortable with the idea that they were in control.
Downstairs, his parents' voices murmured again—quieter now, resolved. The sound of paper sliding. A pen clicking.
Lune closed his eyes.
The signature was not on the page yet.
But it was already decided.