The Ask

The new name on the glass still made Sean smile every time he walked past it. DarkEvil Dominion.

It sat just under DarkEvil Company on the frosted hallway panel, the letters catching light from the windows and throwing soft reflections across the floor. The first time the vinyl went up, Michael had stopped dead in the hallway and just stared, hand pressed to the glass. Now, a few weeks later, the shock had faded. The rightness hadn’t.

Sean should have been in operations.

Technically, he was.

He sat at the little square table in the break room with his badge on, his laptop open, and a half‑eaten sandwich on a paper plate beside him. An operations checklist sat minimized in one corner of the screen.

Everything else was Coachella.

The rumor thread glowed in bright desert colors—fan‑made graphics, grainy screenshots, and a cascade of usernames arguing about a festival that hadn’t even announced its lineup yet.

Sean scrolled with his thumb, eyes moving fast.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, “but if this Sabrina thing is even half real…”

The latest “leak” claimed Sabrina Carpenter was in talks to headline one of the nights. Another post insisted Anyma was “locked” for a big late‑night set. Somewhere further down, people were tossing around PinkPantheress’s name like a question, not a fact.

No poster.

No official announcement.

Just rumors and hope.

Sean leaned closer, as if getting physically nearer to the screen would make the truth shake loose.

“If they get Sabrina and Anyma in the same weekend,” he told his sandwich, “that’s actually illegal.”

The break room door opened behind him.

“Hey,” a voice said casually, “you know lunch breaks don’t count as paid vacation, right?”

Sean jumped, snapping the lid of his laptop halfway closed out of reflex.

He twisted in his chair.

Grayson stood in the doorway, coffee mug in one hand, his badge clipped slightly crooked to his shirt. He took in the scene—Sean at the table, cheeks a little red, laptop still glowing—and raised an eyebrow.

“Let me guess,” Grayson said. “Operations checklist suddenly involves palm trees and neon fonts.”

“I’m working,” Sean protested automatically.

Grayson walked in and dropped into the chair opposite him.

“Sure,” he said. “Working on hypotheticals.”

He nodded at the laptop.

“Open it,” he added. “Before you sprain a wrist trying to hide it.”

Sean hesitated, then sighed and pushed the screen back up.

The rumor thread reappeared in all its chaos.

Posts. Screenshots. A blurry photo of what might have been an email, or might have been someone’s very good Photoshop.

Grayson leaned forward.

“What are we looking at?” he asked.

“Nothing real,” Sean said quickly. “Just… people talking. Rumors. Speculation. But it keeps circling the same names, so…”

“So your brain latched on,” Grayson finished.

He skimmed the top of the page.

Sabrina’s name popped up three times in as many posts.

Anyma’s in a string of “hearing this from my cousin’s friend’s agent” comments.

PinkPantheress in a speculative list somewhere in the middle.

Sean’s cursor hovered over one of the messages.

“Somebody says their ‘source’ confirmed Sabrina for Friday,” he said. “Which is probably fake. And that Anyma’s in talks for some insane visual set on Saturday. And that PinkPantheress might do one of the tents. But again, all caps, nothing is confirmed.”

He flipped to another tab.

The official festival site loaded: neutral colors, desert photos.

April.

No lineup poster.

No headliners.

Just dates and “stay tuned.”

Sean gestured at it helplessly.

“See?” he said. “It’s all just noise right now. But it’s… good noise.”

Grayson sat back, mug cradled in both hands.

“And you’re doing this instead of eating,” he said. “And instead of finishing the task list I gave you.”

Sean glanced guiltily at the sandwich, then at the minimized spreadsheet icon.

“I’ll finish it,” he said. “I just wanted to check. It’s like I can feel the lineup about to drop and I don’t want to miss it. Every time I take a break, I check again.”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed.

“It’s stupid,” he added. “It’s just some desert festival in California.”

Grayson studied his face.

“It doesn’t look stupid,” he said. “It looks like you care.”

Sean looked back at the screen.

He didn’t answer right away.

“When I was stuck at home,” he said finally, “I watched so many streams. Coachella. Lolla. Random European festivals at three in the morning. It was like… other people’s lives on my laptop. Then Shenandoah happened and I thought, ‘Maybe my life doesn’t have to be just that view.’ So now every time there’s a rumor like this, it feels like… maybe there’s a door.”

He ran a thumb along the trackpad.

“I don’t want to get attached if it turns out to be fake,” he said. “But if it’s real, if they really put her and Anyma in the same weekend…”

“You want to go,” Grayson said quietly.

Sean’s shoulders hitched.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I do. Not just for the music. For the… bigness. The color. The noise that I choose instead of the noise that just shows up in my head. But I’m not going to drag Dad into it on a rumor. I’m not going to blow up the budget over some guy on a forum who claims his cousin’s boyfriend knows a booker.”

Grayson’s mouth twitched.

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” he said.

“Welcome to my brain,” Sean replied.

Grayson tapped the table with one fingertip.

“Okay,” he said, shifting into his work tone. “Here’s the deal. Right now, this is all speculative. No poster, no official article, no lineup page. So as far as the company is concerned, it’s background noise.”

Sean nodded, already bracing for a lecture.

“But,” Grayson went on, “as far as your brother is concerned, it’s also a flag. We mark it. We watch it. And when—if—it becomes real, we look at the numbers and the calendar and we talk to Dad. On purpose. Not like this.”

He nodded at the mess of rumors on screen.

Sean looked at him, searching for the catch.

“So you’re not mad I’m… checking this?” he asked.

“I’m mildly annoyed you’re not eating,” Grayson said. “And I’m going to be very annoyed if that checklist isn’t done by end of day. But I’m not mad you want something. Especially not after Shenandoah.”

He stood, carrying his mug to the sink.

“At least now I know why you keep zoning out in staff meetings,” he added. “You’re mentally in the desert.”

Sean snorted.

“I’m mentally in Indio and physically in the break room,” he said. “It’s called multitasking.”

Grayson rinsed his mug and set it upside down on the rack.

“Finish your lunch,” he said. “Finish your work. Keep one tab open for rumors if it keeps you from climbing the walls. Just… don’t let fantasy Coachella be the reason the Dominion payroll gets delayed.”

Sean gave a small salute.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Corporate Executive Officer reporting for duty.”

Grayson shook his head as he headed for the door.

“You know what’s wild?” he said. “A year ago, the idea of you saying that would have sounded like a joke.”

He paused in the doorway.

“Now,” he added, “it sounds like a meeting invite we haven’t scheduled yet.”

Sean watched him go.

Then he looked back at the screen one last time.

Sabrina’s name.

Anyma’s in a rumor list.

PinkPantheress with a question mark beside her.

He took a breath, hit screenshot, and saved the image in a little folder marked Coachella — rumors.

Just in case.

Then he closed the tab, brought the spreadsheet back up, and started typing.

The desert could wait.

For now.

If you want, next we can do either: