The entertainment industry was in the middle of a brutal winter, but I was thriving on two fronts: as an A-list leading man on camera, and as the shadow boss behind the biggest PR smear network in Hollywood off camera. With tens of thousands of burner accounts and an ungodly stockpile of industry dirt at my fingertips, I had made countless toxic elite figures vanish overnight. After winning Best Actor at the Academy Awards, my mainstream career skyrocketed. I was planning to sunset the side hustle for good—until a high-paying, encrypted client dropped an outrageous sum into my private portal. “I want you to completely destroy someone.” “My biological son.” My core team went dead silent in the group chat. She sent a voice note over the encrypted app. Her voice was flat, devoid of any discernible warmth. “I have an adopted son who grew up with me. When he launched his career, he was brutally cyberbullied. He developed severe clinical depression and slashed his wrists twice.” “And my biological son—fully aware of what happened—constantly flexes in his face anyway.” “Best Actor trophy today. A major luxury global campaign tomorrow. A magazine cover the day after.” “I want him to taste what it feels like to fall from the sky. But I can’t bring myself to do it directly.” “So I want your team to use the most ruthless, professional methods to leave his reputation in ashes.” As a son myself, my hand holding the mouse went entirely numb. She added another line: “Don’t worry, I don’t want his life. I just want to take him down a peg.” “Smear him for a month. Ruin every project he has lined up.” “My adopted son was dragged through the mud for three years. One month for my birth son is more than fair.” In our private group chat, a few of my key operatives were already rubbing their hands together, eager for the massive payday. I took a sharp breath, preparing to reject this morally bankrupt contract. Then the client sent a password-protected zip file. “Here is the target.” I clicked on the first folder. My own face stared back at me from the screen. …… 1 “Boss… the guy in these photos… isn’t that Logan Archer? The guy who just won Best Actor?” Kyle, my second-in-command in the network, sent a quick voice message. Shock leaked through every syllable. I stared at the monitor. Lying inside the folder was a digitized copy of my intake records from the Oakwood Psychiatric Recovery Center in Chicago, dated back when I was eighteen years old. The watermark was thick across the pages. In the bottom right corner, signed in neat, precise script, was my full name. A sharp, dull ache clamped around my chest, spreading through my ribcage. The year my father died in a head-on collision, I couldn’t pull myself out of the wreckage. I spiraled into severe clinical depression. It was my mother who held my hand, guiding me into that facility to check me in. She had stroked my hair back then, tears brimming in her reddened eyes, swearing to me: “Don’t be afraid, Logan. Mom is here. I will take this secret to my grave.” Now, the woman who swore she would protect me was selling my deepest trauma to the highest bidder on the internet. I typed on my keyboard, switching to the encrypted private chat. “Client, the legal risk on this order is too high.” “Leaking sensitive dirt on an A-lister like this—if we get exposed for defamation, we’re looking at millions in legal damages.” The status at the top of the chat box flickered: “Typing…” Helena Archer didn’t hesitate for a single second. “It isn’t defamation.” “He had severe clinical depression. He was on Prozac for two years. He spent four full months locked in a psych ward.” “A man with a history of mental instability doesn’t deserve to sit on a pedestal under the spotlight.” I read those lines, the coldness creeping slowly down to my fingertips. An icy chill bled from the marrow of my bones, paralyzing me. I forced a deep breath and kept typing, trying to erect a wall. “Even if it’s true, invading medical privacy is illegal. Nocturne doesn’t touch jobs with zero ethical boundaries.” “Money isn’t an issue.” Helena sent a screenshot of a wire transfer. “A two-million-dollar deposit has already hit your offshore escrow account.” “I don’t need you to be the original source.” “Tonight at 11:50 PM, I will use an anonymous offshore burner email to send the original documents directly to his three biggest rival talent agencies.” “Your job is simple: once the leak breaks, push the scandal into the top three trending topics nationwide.” She paused, then sent one last message. “If you won’t take it, I’ll hire another agency.” “But everyone in the industry knows Nocturne has the most bulletproof push algorithm. I need guaranteed destruction.” The digital clock in the top corner of my monitor ticked forward. 11:45 PM. Five minutes left. My fingers tightened around the mouse until my knuckles turned stark white. An offshore burner email, scheduled delivery, sent to my three fiercest industry rivals. Helena had blocked every single exit. She knew I had plenty of ruthless enemies in Hollywood. She knew it better than anyone. The moment that email went out, those rival agencies would spend millions to make sure the scandal suffocated my career entirely. If I turned down this contract, she would simply hire another PR smear firm. And when that happened, the narrative machine would spin completely out of my control. “Boss, are we taking it? The boys are waiting,” Kyle pressed in the group chat. I bit down on the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper. My throat felt plugged with bloody cotton. The biological son Helena insisted “deserved to fall from the clouds”—was me. The victim she was trying to avenge by destroying me—was also me. And she had no idea that she was handing the butcher’s knife straight into my hands. 11:48 PM. I picked up my personal phone and dialed Helena’s private line. It rang three times before she answered. “Logan? Sweetheart, why aren’t you asleep?” Helena’s voice was warm, dripping with the familiar, gentle concern of a loving mother. “Mom,” I said, straining to keep my tone steady. “What are you doing right now?” “Just finished some late work, getting ready to take a shower. What about you? Don’t you have that major global luxury campaign announcement tomorrow? You need your rest.” She brought up the campaign. It was the Cartier contract that Tyler—her adopted son—had been envying for two straight weeks. “Yeah. I’m going to sleep soon. Mom… have you run into any trouble lately?” “No, darling. Why do you ask out of nowhere?” She let out a soft laugh, her tone as light and breezy as if we were discussing the weekend weather. “Nothing. Just missed you. Goodnight.” “Goodnight, sweetie.” I hung up. I stared at the cold, glowing digital countdown on my monitor. 11:50 PM. In that exact instant, the global trending topics page suddenly exploded with a brand-new, deep-red tag: #LoganArcherPsychHistory Helena hadn’t waited for 11:50 PM. She had hit send early. The emails went out faster than I anticipated, and my rivals didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second to pour gas on the fire. In the private portal, Helena sent one final message: “The leak is live. Get to work.” I covered my face with my hands, but no tears came. On the desk, my phone began to vibrate violently. My manager, Sam, was calling. The second I hit answer, his panicked, desperate voice almost shattered my eardrum. “Logan! What the hell are these medical records online?! The luxury brand just put an emergency freeze on the contract! Talk to me!” 2 By 2:00 AM, the crisis management room at my agency was lit up like a stadium. Sam slammed a thick stack of printed web articles down onto the glass table. “We can’t suppress it! We physically cannot drown this out!” “Whoever leaked this went straight for the jugular—the facility ID, the attending doctor’s signature, everything is authentic! A simple search verifies the whole paper trail!” His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at me. “Logan, tell me the truth. Aside from your mother, who else knew about this?” I sat in the corner of the leather sofa, watching the steam fade from my cooling cup of black coffee. “Nobody else.” “Then who leaked it?! We already served legal notices to Oakwood Recovery Center, but the internet doesn’t care about privacy violations—they only care if a top-billed actor with a psych record is going to snap on set!” Sam paced the room like a caged animal. “The director of “The Long Dark” just called. They’re officially reconsidering the lead role.” “You know Tyler’s team has been circling that project for weeks! Now that you’re in the mud, all those resources are going straight into his lap!” At the mention of Tyler’s name, I finally lifted my eyes. “Let him have it.” “What did you just say? Have you lost your mind?!” Sam stared at me, dumbfounded. “I said, don’t fight him for it. Let it cool off.” I stood up, grabbing my coat off the back of the chair. “Sam, trust me this once. Don’t make any sudden moves.” When I pushed open the front door of my house, the sky was already turning a pale grey. The house was empty, saved for a single warm nightlight burning in the foyer. At precisely 8:00 AM, the doorbell rang. I walked over to open it. Helena was standing on the porch, holding a warm brown bag from an artisanal bakery across town. “Logan, you haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?” She slipped off her shoes and walked into the kitchen with familiar ease, unpacking gourmet pastries and fresh breakfast boxes onto the island. The rich scent of butter and coffee filled the air. She turned around, looking at my pale, exhausted face, her eyebrows knitting together in deep distress. “I saw the news online. Don’t be afraid, Logan. Mom has already reached out to the top privacy attorneys in the city. We will find whoever leaked this.” She pulled out a chair for me. “Eat something first. Your stomach is delicate, you can’t skip meals.” I stood in place, watching her in complete silence. Those hands—the very same hands that, just hours ago, tapped away on a keyboard to transfer two million dollars to ruin me. Now, those hands were carefully peeling a hard-boiled egg, setting it gently onto a porcelain plate in front of me. “Mom.” “Hmm?” She looked up, her gaze overflowing with maternal heartache. “Who do you think put my medical records on the internet?” Helena’s hand paused for a fraction of a second—so brief it was almost imperceptible. “I don’t know, darling. Maybe an unethical employee at Oakwood looking to make a quick buck. Or maybe one of your rivals paid off someone at the clinic.” She wiped her fingers with a napkin, walked over, and gently patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. If the sky falls, Mom will hold it up for you. I already talked to Tyler—I told him to clear his schedule and come spend time with you.” I couldn’t stop the soft, bitter laugh that escaped my lips. “What’s funny?” she asked smoothly. “Nothing. I just thought… it’s really nice having a mother.” Helena let out a quiet sigh, her expression growing even softer. “Silly boy. I’m your mother. Who else would I be good to if not you?” Her phone, sitting face-up on the island, lit up. The screen wasn’t locked. A preview banner from a messaging app popped up. It was from Tyler. “Mom, did you see the news? Logan is getting destroyed, he even lost the luxury deal. Are we being a little too harsh on him?” Helena had her back turned, pouring a glass of warm milk, and missed the notification. I lowered my eyes, locking my gaze onto the screen. Ten seconds later, Helena walked back with the glass. She picked up her phone, glanced at it, and her expression didn’t shift by a single millimeter. Her thumbs flew effortlessly across the glass. I didn’t need to look to know what she replied. Because in the admin portal of Nocturne, just seconds ago, a new directive had come in from Helena’s alternate account. “Double the pressure. Mix in fake stories about him being abusive to crew members early in his career.” “I want him to have nowhere left to stand by the end of today.” I lifted the glass of milk and took a slow sip. It was sweet. So sweet it made my stomach turn. “Mom… what if I’m really forced out of Hollywood?” I asked softly. Helena sat back down, meeting my eyes with unwavering warmth. “Then you leave. The industry is too toxic anyway—it was never suitable for someone as sensitive as you. You just stay home, and Mom will take care of you for the rest of your life.” Her voice was laced with pure sincerity. Every word carried the undeniable weight of an adoring, self-sacrificing mother. I nodded slowly, picking up the egg she had peeled for me. “Okay.” 3 By the third day, the narrative momentum had turned me into a pariah across the internet. Nocturne’s execution was terrifyingly efficient. Truth mixed seamlessly with meticulously crafted fabrications, rolling over my reputation like a tidal wave. Outlets that had praised my work ethic days ago were now publishing deep dives into my supposed “early signs of mental instability.” At 10:00 AM, I received a formal notice from the corporate legal team. I was required to report to headquarters immediately. Helena insisted on driving me. “In your current state, I can’t let you go alone. What if you run into unhinged anti-fans?” She held the steering wheel with a firm grip, her tone grave. I sat in the passenger seat, watching the city skyline drift past the window. “All right. Thanks, Mom.” The moment her car pulled into the executive underground garage, Tyler’s luxury SUV pulled up right beside us. He stepped out wearing a tailored high-fashion suit, stepping toward us with a look of perfectly calibrated concern. “Logan! Are you okay? I just got back from my audition for “The Long Dark”, and the second I heard you were coming to headquarters, I rushed right over.” He reached out, attempting to pat my arm, but I subtly stepped out of reach. Tyler’s hand froze mid-air. His eyes welled up with instant tears. “Logan… are you still blaming me? Honestly, regarding that luxury endorsement… I had no idea the brand would turn around and offer it to me.” Helena’s eyebrows instantly shot up. She took a swift step forward, placing herself directly between me and Tyler. “Logan, what is wrong with you? Tyler is just showing concern for you! The brand made its own choice—what does that have to do with him?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but the bite of maternal disapproval was unmistakable. “I don’t blame him,” I said, eyeing the mother and son duo. “I just don’t like people touching me.” “You never used to be like this,” Helena sighed, her voice heavy with tragic disappointment. “Is it because the stress is too much… and your condition is…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. But the unspoken words hung in the air like a blade. “Your condition is relapsing.” That was the exact signal she wanted to broadcast to everyone around us. The elevator rode straight to the executive boardroom on the top floor. When I pushed the door open, the entire senior leadership team was seated around the long conference table. Sam sat at the far end, his face ash-grey. “Logan. Have a seat,” CEO Richard Davies said, pointing to an empty chair directly across from him. Helena walked in behind me, pulling out the adjacent chair and sitting down. “Mr. Davies, Logan’s psychological state is extremely fragile right now. As his mother, I need to be present for this conversation.” Richard nodded curtly, sliding a thick document across the polished wood toward me. “Logan, you’ve seen the news. The agency spent incredible resources trying to protect you, but our brand sponsors have formed a coalition. They are demanding immediate contract terminations and millions in liquidated damages.” “On top of that, the producers of “The Long Dark” have officially served us notice. Your lead actor contract has been terminated.” I looked down at the stark black ink on the white paper. “And?” “And so, after a board vote, the company has decided to terminate your representation contract effective immediately.” Richard tapped his fingers on the table. “Of course, considering how much revenue you’ve generated for us in the past, the agency will swallow half of the total breach penalties. The remaining half… you will need to cover out of pocket.” Five million dollars. That was the number I was expected to pay. Sam bolted out of his chair. “Mr. Davies! That isn’t fair! Logan doesn’t have a dangerous mental illness—it was psychological trauma from saving a life years ago!” “Shut up, Sam!” I cut him off sharply. Sam froze, staring at me in utter shock. Helena turned her head toward me, a flash of panic darting through her eyes before she buried it deep beneath her composed facade. “Sam, facts are facts. There’s no point in making excuses,” I said calmly, twirling a pen between my fingers. Helena seized the opportunity effortlessly. “Mr. Davies, Logan genuinely needs to take a step back and rest. Honestly, Tyler’s career momentum has been phenomenal lately. If the agency is willing to reallocate Logan’s remaining project slate to Tyler… I will personally cover Logan’s five-million-dollar penalty.” The room went entirely silent. Richard and the executives exchanged quick, calculating looks. Behind Helena’s chair, Tyler tried—and failed—to keep the triumphant smirk from curling the corners of his lips. This was Helena’s ultimate objective. To use my complete annihilation to pave a golden highway for her adopted son. And to do it while cementing her saintly, devoted mother persona in front of the entire industry. “A mother’s love really is something else,” Richard mused, sliding another document toward Tyler. “In that case, Tyler, come sign the transition agreement.” Tyler stepped forward, trying desperately to mask his wild excitement as he picked up the pen. “Hold on.” My voice cut through the warm, celebratory atmosphere like a shattered sheet of ice. 4 Everyone turned to stare at me. Helena frowned, her voice dropping into a stern whisper. “Logan, don’t throw a tantrum. Mom is trying to save you.” “Save me?” My face remained entirely expressionless as I tossed the pen onto the glass tabletop with a dull “clack”. “No need. I’ll pay my own damages. And as for my projects… nobody touches them.” Tyler looked at Helena with wide, pitiful eyes. “Mom… is Logan getting worse? He’s talking nonsense…” Before he could finish, the heavy boardroom doors were pushed open with sudden force. A breathless young assistant stood in the doorway, clutching the handle. “Mr. Davies! Director Lawrence Drake is here! He brought his entire legal team!” The air in the room instantly turned to stone. Lawrence Drake. The most acclaimed director in modern cinema. An elusive recluse who held a mountain of international awards and answered to no studio. Why on earth was he here? Before anyone could regain their composure, a middle-aged man in a sharp black trench coat strode into the room. Behind him, a fleet of high-powered corporate attorneys carrying leather briefcases exuded a terrifying, ice-cold authority. Richard’s face immediately melted into a groveling, sycophantic smile as he rushed to greet him. “Director Drake! What an unexpected honor! You could have just called—please, take a seat!” Lawrence didn’t even grant him a glance. His sharp eyes swept across the boardroom before locking firmly onto me. Seeing this, Helena immediately grabbed my arm, shifting her body to block me from his view. “Director Drake, hello. I am Logan Archer’s mother. I am so deeply sorry about the scandal online. Logan’s psychological state is completely unstable right now. If he has offended you in any way, I apologize on his behalf.” Helena’s tone was polite, but every word was designed to nail down the narrative that I was out of my mind. Tyler seized the moment, stepping forward with a polished, humble smile. “Director Drake, my brother is unwell and unable to continue working. If you have any upcoming projects that require auditions, I am fully available.” “Who the hell are you to audition for my film?” Lawrence’s cold, rasping voice cut Tyler down where he stood. Tyler’s face flushed an intense, burning red. He froze instantly. Lawrence walked straight up to me. Behind him, one of his attorneys smoothly pulled out a chair for him. He sat down and looked me straight in the eye. “Logan Archer. Regarding those psychiatric records from the Oakwood Recovery Center…” The moment those words left his mouth, Helena’s fingers clenched around my arm with brutal force. She stared at Lawrence, waiting desperately for the explosive rage that was bound to follow. Richard hurriedly tried to wash his hands clean. “Director Drake, we are currently terminating Logan’s contract. His personal actions have zero relation to our agency—” Lawrence let out a harsh, mocking laugh, turning his head toward Richard. “Terminating him? Davies, your agency’s vision is pure, unadulterated trash.” He pulled a gold-embossed leather folder from his attorney’s briefcase and slammed it onto the table. “Mr. Logan Archer. Regarding those photos and intake forms from the recovery center…” He paused, his voice echoing with absolute authority through the silent room. “…that is precisely the broken soul our new masterpiece, “Into the Abyss”, has been searching for.” “Congratulations. The raw resilience you showed in crawling out of your darkest hour completely captivated our board of investors and production team.” “This is the lead actor contract for “Into the Abyss”. Fully funded, fifteen million dollar guaranteed base salary, plus global box office gross backend points.”
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