Public trust did not arrive through effort. It arrived through accumulation.
Lune noticed it first when minor missteps were dismissed before they could solidify. A late arrival to an event reframed as overwork. A clipped interview answer interpreted as thoughtfulness rather than impatience. Silence explained away as humility.
The industry protected him instinctively.
Producers vouched for him in rooms he never entered. Publicists redirected narratives before he was aware they existed. Journalists softened questions, careful not to disrupt the image audiences had grown attached to.
Lune Calder was safe.
The label had matured into reflex.
He watched it happen with detached interest. Trust, he understood, was not earned once—it was reinforced repeatedly through predictability. He delivered exactly what was expected, no more, no less. The system responded by buffering him from risk.
At an awards afterparty, a studio executive waved off a rumor with a laugh. "Not him," she said. "He's solid."
Solid meant unexamined.
He recognized the shift in tone when people spoke about him. They used his name as reassurance, as shorthand for reliability. When discussions grew tense, someone would reference him as an example of stability in an unstable industry.
Lune let the role settle. He did not challenge it.
Shield formation required cooperation.
The more trusted he became, the less likely anyone was to question anomalies. Minor inconsistencies smoothed over. Larger ones ignored outright. Trust rewrote perception preemptively.
He tested it once, carefully.
A gossip blog published a speculative piece—nothing concrete, just insinuation framed as curiosity. Within hours, it was countered by industry voices dismissing it as baseless. Fans mobilized without prompting, defending him with fervor disproportionate to the claim.
The article vanished by morning.
Lune read the aftermath without expression.
Immunity, he realized, did not require perfection.
It required consensus.
The consensus around him had hardened.
Back in the apartment, he stood in the quiet and considered the structure he now inhabited. Fame had become more than camouflage. It was armor—layered, self-repairing, reinforced by people who believed in it.
He had become an investment others were motivated to protect. That protection extended beyond career.
It shaped how he was seen, how he was judged, how quickly doubt dissipated in his presence. The world no longer approached him with questions.
It approached him with assumptions.
Lune accepted this without pleasure or discomfort. Immunity was simply another state of equilibrium—one he had engineered carefully, step by step.
As he lay down to sleep, the city's distant noise barely reached him. The silence inside remained stable, unchallenged.
Immunity achieved.
For now, nothing could reach him—not suspicion, not consequence, not the darker systems he observed from afar.
The shield held.
And behind it, Lune remained exactly where he intended to be—untouched, unquestioned, and perfectly in control.