Chapter Text
The silence in the glass-walled office was thick.
Beyond the rain-streaked windows, downtown Vancouver disappeared into a haze of cold gray light, the harbor barely visible beneath the low clouds.
The man in the suit stood leaning against the edge of the desk, staring at the screen of the iPhone in his hand. The TikTok app was open; he was watching a video titled “The DARK truth about Catboy CEO Coop Burtonburger 🐈⬛📉.”
The video opened with rapid, clickbait-style cuts.
“Remember this guy?” the narrator asked with excessive enthusiasm as an old, grainy clip faded onto the screen. “This is Coop Burtonburger, the small-town weird kid his neighbors only knew as Catboy. As a child, he obsessively chased his sister’s hairless cat, built homemade traps, fired rockets at it, and everyone thought he was just plain insane…”
In the footage, a tiny Coop face-planted into the mud while someone laughed in the background. Comments flashed across the screen: #catboy, #redflag, #mentallyilltobenCEO.
“Fast forward a few years, and that same kid is now the CEO of a multimillion-dollar security technology company called Sentinel Secure,” the voice continued. “What’s even crazier? Some people think his childhood trauma and paranoia became his entire business model. Brilliant survivor or unstable control freak? Let’s look at the facts…”
Coop Burtonburger silently waited as the stranger’s voice recited his life story: Bootsville, the infamous “cat videos,” the jump from the family store to engineering school, then his own company, the Del Oro investments, his controversial statements. It felt like someone was reading out the dossier of a completely different person—except every frame featured him.
When the words “FOLLOW FOR PART 2” popped up at the end of the video, Coop’s finger paused over the screen. For a moment, it looked like he might replay the whole thing. Instead, he exited the app and placed the phone face down on the desk.
“Coop?” Dennis’s voice broke the silence as he cracked the door open slightly. “We got a new inquiry. Pretty big name.”
Coop looked up. The man reflected in the glass barely resembled the child who had just been psychoanalyzed over dramatic background music: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit with a loosely tied tie, his gaze carrying that tired sharpness he had spent years trying to keep under control.
“How big a name?” he asked, pushing himself away from the desk.
Dennis stepped inside and slid a folder next to the laptop.
“Vancouver Studios. Complete new security system for one of their action-film hangars. Stunts, weapons storage, rooftop set pieces. The producer specifically asked for a company that’s ‘paranoid to the point of obsession.’”
The corner of Coop’s mouth twitched.
“At least someone appreciates my personality disorder,” he muttered under his breath.
As he sat down, his eyes drifted instinctively toward the corner of his desk. Two framed photographs stood side by side there. One had been taken at graduation: Burt grinning proudly, Millie clinging around his neck, while he stood in his gown holding his cap and smiling at the camera. The other showed a beachside sunset: Phoebe, wearing sunglasses, laughing as she wrapped her arms around his chest from behind while he looked at the camera with a crooked half-smile. A seashell was wedged into the frame with the word “Cancún” written on it.
Coop opened the folder, his fingers briefly resting on the edge of the photograph. The Vancouver Studios logo gleamed sharply and clearly on the black-and-white letterhead.
“The client notes came in,” Dennis begins, setting the folder down on the desk. “We need to go over what exactly the studio wants.”
“Go ahead,” Coop replies casually, still leaning toward the window as if the whole thing doesn’t particularly interest him.
Dennis flips through the papers, quickly scanning the lines.
“So… they want practical sets instead of green screens, lots of glass and metal, plenty of elevation changes. There’ll be a bunch of handheld cameras, a few drones, and…” — he pauses for effect — “you’re never going to guess who their fight choreographer is.”
Coop glances up from his phone.
“No idea.” His voice is dry; he genuinely has no guess, though curiosity briefly breaks through the routine.
Dennis hands him the paper, tapping a specific line.
“Here. See for yourself.”
Coop lifts his coffee for a sip, but the moment he reads the name, he nearly spits it right back into the cup. The motion jerks to a halt halfway, his stomach dropping hard for a split second, though barely a flicker crosses his face. A second later, he calmly slides the paper back onto the desk as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
“Fiona Munson,” Dennis says aloud, even though Coop had already read it. There’s a familiar warmth in his voice; he had known Fiona well too.
“Oh,” Coop replies a little too quickly, then forces a half-smile. “So she became a fight choreographer. Honestly… that suits her.”
He tries to act as if he’d only heard the name of an old acquaintance. No drama. No history. But his hand grips the edge of the paper a little tighter than necessary. Dennis notices, but doesn’t comment.
“They’ve got some pretty serious credentials,” Dennis continues as if nothing happened. “The client wants us working closely with her on the sets. She wants to see firsthand how movement works in the environment, where the breakable props should go, what can handle impact, stuff like that.”
Coop nods slowly, walks back from the window to the desk, and turns the folder toward himself. For a few seconds he just stares at the lines, as though he’s studying technical details rather than one of the most important names from his past.
“Alright,” he says at last, his tone much firmer now. “Then Ms. Munson needs to be there in person. No video calls, no emails. I want her at the studio when we go over the choreography and the set design.”
Dennis raises an eyebrow sideways and studies Coop for a moment.
“Ms. Munson?” he repeats slowly. “You’re joking, right?”
Coop blinks at him in confusion.
“What?”
Dennis crosses his arms.
“You said that like she’s some complete stranger. That’s the girl you used to play with, fight alongside, and…” — a faint grin creeps onto his face — “if I remember correctly, you were completely into her. So what’s with this ‘Ms. Munson’ thing?”
Coop looks away, his jaw tightening. He stays silent for a moment before answering quietly but sharply:
“What? Kat erased her memories. We tried to bring them back, but she didn’t believe me. After that, she barely even came back to Bootsville, so if you think about it… she’s basically a stranger to me now.”
Dennis falls silent. His practical mind runs through the facts, erased memories, moving away, childhood connections fading into nothing, and although he could keep pushing, he holds back instead. He just nods slowly.
“I get it,” he says finally. “Then… she’ll be there in person.” His tone is more professional now, but there’s still a faint trace of sympathy in his eyes.
Coop leans back against the edge of the desk, trying to slip back into his relaxed, controlled posture.
“Good. Have a first draft of the visual design ready by then too.”
Dennis nods and heads for the door, but pauses before leaving.
“Believe me, it’s going to be interesting working with her again.”
Coop responds with nothing more than a shrug, as if it means absolutely nothing to him. But the moment the door closes, his gaze drifts back to the name printed on the paper: Fiona Munson. His fingers begin tapping silently against the desktop — the only sign that inside him, a far bigger storm is starting than anything he lets show on the surface.