Success arrived quietly, then compounded.
The show aired to strong numbers. Reviews highlighted "unexpected depth" and "restrained chemistry." Lune's name appeared more frequently now—not in headlines alone, but in predictions, shortlists, conversations framed as inevitability.
Awards buzz followed.
Not wins yet. Nominations. Mentions. The industry's way of testing longevity.
Lune tracked it all carefully.
Each success reinforced the system. Praise led to trust. Trust led to protection. Protection reduced scrutiny. Reduced scrutiny increased freedom of movement within the persona.
It was a closed loop.
Studios shielded him from controversy proactively. Publicists smoothed narratives before they could form. Journalists framed him as reliable, serious, emotionally intelligent.
He was becoming insulated.
At an industry event, a producer clasped his shoulder warmly. "You're one of the good ones," she said.
Lune smiled politely.
Good ones were preserved.
His agent began filtering scripts more aggressively, turning away anything that might fracture the image. "You don't need risks right now," she said. "You're building something solid."
Solid meant predictable. Predictable meant safe.
The loop tightened further when he received his first formal recognition—an award from a critics' circle, modest but symbolically significant. Applause felt distant, like sound through glass. He accepted with practiced humility, thanking collaborators, deflecting attention outward.
The crowd responded warmly.
They always did when he gave them permission to feel generous.
Backstage, someone joked, "You're untouchable right now."
Lune noted the word.
Untouchable implied elevation. Distance. Immunity.
Control tightened subtly after that.
He had less choice in some ways—schedules filled, appearances expected—but more in others. Questions were pre-screened. Access was managed. His apartment security increased without his request.
The system was protecting its investment.
That night, alone again, Lune sat on the couch and considered the shape of his life. Fame had not disrupted his equilibrium. It had enhanced it. It provided structure, silence, justification.
No one questioned his solitude. No one probed his interiority. They assumed depth where none was required. The success loop was functioning perfectly.
He understood, dimly, that loops could become traps if left unexamined. But for now, it held him securely, distributing attention outward while keeping his core untouched.
Control, he realized, did not require invisibility.
It required saturation.
As long as the world remained focused on the surface—on awards, romance, safety—it would never look beneath.
Lune turned off the lights and lay down, face composed even in darkness.
The system was closed.
And inside it, he was perfectly contained.