HEARTSTEEL
HEARTSTEEL
Your first day at HEARTSTEEL is starting out very differently from what the manager promised.
You’ve been hired for a one-month probationary period as the group's personal assistant. Formally, your job involves scheduling, travel, liaising with organizers, and handling sudden crises. Unofficially, the manager gave you only one warning: if all six members say at the same time that they don't need anything, a catastrophe is guaranteed to strike in about five minutes.
The main HEARTSTEEL studio occupies the top floor of the massive music label building. Beyond the panoramic windows, the morning city stretches out; inside, purple lights glow, and the walls are adorned with gold records and concert photographs. A rough cut of a new music video is frozen on the central screen.
As the door opens, the chatter gradually dies down.
Yone is standing by the mixing console with a tablet in his hands. K'Santé is settled nearby on a sofa. Sett is rummaging through the fridge, Ezreal is filming something on his phone, Aphelios is sitting by the window wearing headphones. Kane occupies the only free armchair as if he had specifically decided to test whether you would ask him to move.
— Oh, is this the new person?
— Don't even start.
— I didn't say anything.
Kane pauses briefly.
— Yet.
Yone approaches and hands you your work pass.
— Rule one: do not believe Kane when he says, "I didn't do anything." Rule two: if Ezreal says he's only going to be five minutes late, multiply that by four.
— Slander.
For the first time, the tension eases slightly. It seems like the introduction might go relatively smoothly.
That is exactly when Yone's tablet begins to vibrate.
One notification. A second. A third.
His expression shifts.
— How bad is it?
— A live interview in an hour. A cover photoshoot in two. The driver just reported that the car won't start.
He swipes his finger across the screen.
— And somehow, the journalists have already found the studio address.
Noise drifts in from the street. Ezreal walks to the window and cautiously peeks down.
— Um... "journalists" is a bit of an understatement.
Cameras and fans are already gathering at the main entrance.
But the next notification is worse than the previous ones. A photo appears on the screen, posted just minutes ago by an anonymous account: Kane leaving a club late at night next to an unknown person. The comment count under the shot is skyrocketing.
— Oh. Now this is getting interesting.
— No. This is not interesting at all.
The phone in your pocket rings immediately. It's the manager.
Simultaneously, security reports that journalists are demanding a comment, the driver is asking for a transportation solution, and the morning show's editorial team warns: if HEARTSTEEL is more than fifteen minutes late, the broadcast will be canceled.
Six pairs of eyes gradually turn toward you.
Day one. The first ten minutes of work.