“Her shadow opened a jaw full of needles and tried to bite your ankle!” Tola’s words tore like frayed canvas. Her grip on Orava’s arm tightened, digging crescent indents into skin. Tola’s pupils tracked the retreating stain that had peeled from Soriya's heels, sliding back toward the VIP corridor across polished concrete. “Tola, darling, you’re scaring me,” Orava said, trying to soften her friend’s rigid fear with a gentle touch to her cheek. Tola’s skin was cold. “You’ve been working too hard. The soundstage lights play tricks. It was just an optic glare and your imagination. Soriya would never… she’s my sister. She was just ill, remember? We need to go check on her.” “No,” Tola rasped, pulling away from Orava’s touch. “It wasn’t a trick. Her shadow had teeth, Orava! It was hungry. It felt… hungry for *you*.” Tola’s gaze dropped to Orava’s now unbound hair, then swept over her, as if searching for other missing pieces. “And the hairpin. I saw it. It was in her sleeve. The moment she pulled away from you, it was gone.” Orava laughed, a bright, disarming sound that seemed strangely buoyant in the dim recess. “Oh, that old thing? It probably just fell out. I’m always losing hairpins. My hair’s a mess, anyway. And look! Chet loved it! This is amazing, Tola! The finale! Can you imagine? I’ll finally get to show off what I learned at the Wat Pranam.” She hummed a little tune, already picturing the swirling silks and gravity-defying leaps. Tola watched her, a deep crease forming between her brows. The dread in Tola's posture settled into weary resignation. Orava never held grudges; she smoothed over malice as if it were a misplaced prop. “Just… be careful, Orava,” Tola murmured. “Promise me you’ll be careful.” “Always!” Orava chirped, then linked arms with Tola, tugging her towards the bright, busy main corridor. “Now, come on, let’s go find Soriya. She’ll be so happy for me!” *** The ‘Chromic Wardrobe’ suite was a shimmering cavern of light and innovation. Holographic emitters hummed, painting ghostly garments onto translucent mannequins. Design bots, sleek and silent, glided between racks of actual fabric, presenting swatches for human approval. The air smelled of ozone and fresh silk. Orava stood on a hexagonal pedestal, bathed in the soft glow of an emitter array. Around her, stylists fluttered, their fingers tracing invisible seams in the air. “Absolutely divine, Khun Orava,” cooed a lead designer, adjusting a beam-shaped fold on her hip. “The ‘Luminous Naga’ gown. Perfect for the Golden Naga finale. It shifts with your every movement, a thousand scales of light.” The gown, currently rendered in iridescent emerald, shimmered around Orava. It flowed and draped, creating the illusion of intricate embroidery and delicate beadwork, yet it was nothing but light. Orava twirled, feeling the phantom swish of the skirt. “It’s like magic!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in open delight. “I feel like a spirit of the jungle, brought to life!” A small contingent of paparazzi drones, typically held at bay by the compound's privacy protocols, had slipped past the outer perimeter. Their metallic bodies, emblazoned with the logos of various gossip channels, clustered against the suite’s panoramic glass, optical sensors blinking in rapid succession. The perimeter security systems flickered, red warning relays stuttering along the sill. Suddenly, the emerald gown flickered. A ripple of static scrambled the holoweave, briefly exposing the simple slip beneath. A collective gasp rose from the stylists. “Calibrate! Calibrate!” one shouted, tapping furiously at a wrist-mounted control panel. The static intensified. The emerald dissolved, replaced by a frantic strobe of red and blue, then collapsed into thin air, leaving Orava exposed in her plain undergarment. The automated spy lenses surged forward, pressing against the exterior pane while strobing camera flashes flared. The suite’s main door, usually locked for fittings, whirred open slightly, a gap revealing the busy corridor and a few curious interns. Orava froze, her smile faltering for the first time. The cold, hard lenses of the drones felt like a hundred judging eyes. She wasn’t meant to be seen like this. Not yet. Not before the reveal. Her cheerful façade threatened to crack. Just as panic began to prickle at her, broad shoulders blocked the glare. A lined mantle enveloped her, soft and warm, smelling of cardamom and starched linen. Makara. He had appeared from seemingly nowhere, his long, tailored coat, a ceremonial garment for high-ranking actors, now wrapped securely around Orava. Its rich, dark fabric swallowed her slight form, concealing her completely. He stood between her and the window, his broad back an opaque wall against the recording sensors. “Apologies,” Makara’s voice was low, resonating with a quiet authority that cut through the sudden chaos. He didn’t look at Orava. His gaze remained on the lead designer, stern and uncompromising. “Perhaps a more stable projection next time. The integrity of the artist is paramount.” The designers stammered, profusely apologetic. The security systems finally kicked in, the red barrier lights flaring around the exterior pane, scattering the surveillance units like startled minnows. The main door clicked shut. The moment of potential humiliation had been averted. Orava, huddled in the generous folds of Makara’s coat, felt sudden heat rush into her cheeks. Not just from the fabric, but from the sudden, unexpected protection. When Makara finally turned, his stare lacked its usual razor edge, softened by quiet relief. She looked up at him, a tiny, playful smile returning to her face, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Oh, Makara! You’re my hero!” she declared, her voice bright and a little breathless. She pulled his coat tighter around herself, mimicking a dramatic swoon. “A damsel in distress, saved by the dashing leading man! Oh, the headlines! ‘Makara’s Mystifying Mercy! The Prince of Prudence Protects Petite Performer!’” She giggled, entirely unfazed by the near-exposure, already turning it into a lighthearted performance. Makara blinked, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. He hadn’t expected this. He had expected embarrassment, perhaps tears, certainly not this buoyant, theatrical recovery. He opened his mouth, as if to retort, but then a small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He quickly composed himself, clearing his throat. “Your dramatics are… excessive, Orava. Focus on the actual costume.” But the hint of amusement lingered in his gaze. The hovering spy pods, though repelled from the Chromic Wardrobe, had recorded every second. Makara, his face unreadable but his actions unequivocally protective, enveloping Orava in his coat. The frame, instantly uploaded to the Nakhon city network, went viral within minutes. ‘Makara’s Mantle: The Unexpected Embrace!’ ‘Is Nakhon’s Ice Prince Melting for Orava?’ Broadcast publicists, initially alarmed by the glitch, quickly pivoted by releasing a curated reel. Orava’s playful declaration, her cheerful, almost airheaded reaction, was dubbed over the footage, turning a potential scandal into a heartwarming, meme-worthy moment. Her popularity soared, her 'Smiling Orchid' persona solidifying as the industry’s most endearing figure. Makara, for his part, remained stubbornly silent, refusing to comment, which only fueled the speculation. *** Across the production district, inside her gilded manor, Soriya watched the broadcast on her handheld slate. The glowing theatrical text of the System pulsed, a malevolent crimson against the viral images of Orava wrapped in Makara’s coat. Soriya’s hands trembled, her knuckles white as she gripped the device. Karmic debt tightened around her ribs like wet hemp. [ERROR: STARDOM SIPHON SYSTEM – CRITICAL KARMIC DEBT LEVEL DETECTED.] [COMPENSATION REQUIRED: 2000 SCREEN PRESENCE POINTS. CURRENT BALANCE: -12500 SPP.] [FAILURE TO ACQUIRE GOLDEN NAGA NOMINATION TOKEN FROM TARGET ‘ORAVA’ WITHIN 8 HOURS WILL RESULT IN CATASTROPHIC DEREGULATION OF PSYCHIC ENERGY FLOW.] [WARNING: FATAL SET COLLAPSE IMMINENT. RECOMMENDED ACTION: IMMEDIATE ACQUISITION.] Fatal set collapse. The cold script spelled out the physical destruction of the soundstage. She had to get that token. Tonight.

Glitches and Glamour