The studio operated on quiet competition.
Everyone pretended otherwise, but Lune felt it immediately—the way glances sharpened when casting announcements went up, the way laughter tightened when praise was unevenly distributed. Hierarchy formed quickly in spaces where approval was scarce.
Lune mapped it effortlessly.
There was the natural lead—confident, volatile, prone to emotional spikes. The technician—precise, rigid, threatened by improvisation. The favorite—praised publicly, resented privately. And the anxious ones, orbiting approval like satellites.
He placed himself carefully.
Not above. Not below.
Central.
He listened more than he spoke. When he did speak, it was to affirm, not compare. He learned what each trainee feared most and avoided touching it directly.
Imitation was his tool.
When someone prided themselves on intensity, Lune reflected it subtly—never matching, always complementing. When another leaned toward vulnerability, Lune offered steadiness. He became what stabilized others rather than what threatened them.
Envy dissolved before it could form.
People relaxed around him.
They began to talk.
One trainee confided fears about being replaced. Another admitted doubts about talent. Someone else complained about a coach, voice dropping instinctively when Lune approached.
He listened.
He never offered solutions unless asked. He never judged. He mirrored concern just enough to feel present without becoming involved.
Trust accumulated.
Lune noticed how quickly information traveled once people decided you were safe. He learned who had outside connections, who struggled financially, who resented whom. None of it interested him emotionally.
It interested him strategically.
One afternoon, after a long rehearsal, a trainee sat beside him and sighed. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," she said. "You just feel… steady."
Lune smiled gently. "Sometimes it helps to say things out loud."
She nodded, relieved.
As she spoke, Lune observed the room—the way others glanced toward them without suspicion, the way his presence drew no tension. He had become neutral ground.
That night, scrolling through messages on his phone, Lune realized something with quiet clarity.
He was no longer just being watched.
He was being trusted.
Trust, he knew, was more valuable than admiration. It lowered defenses. It blurred scrutiny. It made people careless.
As he set his phone aside, a new message arrived from the studio: We're considering you for something bigger.
Lune lay back and stared at the ceiling, face composed even in solitude.
The hierarchy had formed.
And he was exactly where he intended to be.