(( Twenty Minutes Before the Clash ))
Deep within one of Vantablade Studios' back corridors, behind a row of storage closets and clothing racks, a lone studio technician stood by a service terminal, speaking quietly into a black comm-device embedded into his wrist.
He checked over his shoulder before replying to the voice on the other end.
"Yeah," he said under his breath. "Everything's going exactly as you wanted."
The voice on the other side was cold, composed, and modulated—no trace of identity.
"Is he reacting yet?"
The man smirked faintly. "Not openly, but it's working. He's already been brushed aside. Lost his spotlight. Can't even get a proper frame without Zara Feng knocking him out of view. The kid's pride's taking a hit."
A brief pause.
"Good," the voice replied with a subtle hint of malice. "Let him feel worthless. Let the world remind him that no one cares how 'special' he thinks he is."
The technician adjusted his collar. "You want me to keep going?"
