Anxiety was not a companion Tristan liked to keep, yet it seemed to select the worst of times to seek him out. Its panting breath tickled the back of his neck until the hairs stood on end. Unease paced the length of his arms, kindling an unwelcome twitch in his fingers.

Sinking his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, he turned a sharp corner onto Crofters Boulevard, head bowed against the evening chill. Though the sun had dutifully poured supposedly pleasant light over the suburbs all day, it was lessening to a trickle. Clouds patched the sky in smoky patterns. He cast a glance up at them and tried to pretend he took an interest in the weather, as if the presence of a potential storm could be the cause for his nerves.

Perhaps it was simply because he didn't come to this side of the river often. Normalcy seemed a rare trait here on the eastern bank; manor houses loomed over the street, boasting pristine white gates and uppish scowls. He knew somewhere inside that the people here wouldn't glance twice at him, but he still felt out of place somehow. The greatest challenge seemed to be convincing himself he wasn't a criminal.

His reasoning for being here didn't exactly temper the thought's persistence.

But no, he reassured himself, pausing to check the brass number gleaming above the nearest door frame. 11. No, there was no cause to be anxious. He was expected. And besides, they couldn't know why he'd been summoned. Could they?

Be there at seven o'clock sharp, Mr Young. Don't be late.

He shook out his sleeve to check his watch and winced. The minute hand ticked a sizable fraction beyond its peak. His musings had slowed his pace.

The next house along read 13. These brass digits were glued to the door itself, the frosted glass of a window cutting a slit above them. He turned on his heel, exhaled a long breath, and strode for the door, the details circling his mind. 13, Crofters Boulevard. Seven o'clock sharp. You are expected.

The porch was decorated with an excessive amount of hanging baskets and creeping vines, as if an entire garden had been thrown at it and squashed together into something that barely resembled neat. He supposed this was the kind of decor rich people employed when they wanted to look environmentally friendly without any of the effort. The front garden itself was simply a lawn. It looked green and barren.

It was five minutes past the hour already. He sighed. He needed to stop stalling.

Play my game for one night, the woman on the phone had said, and all you want will be yours.

He knocked.

A muffled voice called from inside, and a clamour of pounding feet and creaking doors gradually grew louder as they crept his way. He shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of the spits of rain in the breeze. It seemed an age before the door finally flung open to reveal a teenage boy.

Tristan pushed his glasses further up his nose and did his best not to startle. Inwardly, he began stringing together an apology, sure he'd come to the wrong house, but it faded on his tongue. The boy's mannerisms were open and welcoming, and there wasn't an ounce of confusion in his expression. And he looked itchingly familiar.

"The fifth member of our party!" The boy beamed, his teeth a shade too white. Gelled black hair bounced with the tilt of his head. "Mr Young, right? Can I call you Tristan?"

Though he couldn't be more than seventeen, he wore a neatly-tailored tuxedo, complete with black tie. Though Tristan prided himself on a somewhat tidy appearance, he felt decidedly shabby in comparison. He'd simply shown up in his ordinary brown jacket. "Tristan is fine," he offered, conscious of the continued shake in his hands. He held them behind his back, interlacing his fingers, and did his best to recall his mother's scolding about manners. "I hope I'm not too late."

"Nonsense. You're right on time." The boy laid a hand on his shoulder as if they were old schoolmates. "I'm sure you must be rather starstruck. People often are upon meeting me for the first time."

Tristan blinked, tensing under the touch. "Why?"

The boy's gaze narrowed. "You do know who I am?" When silence lingered, his frown deepened, a dark kind of anger welling within his gaze. "This is the Dawson residence."

Dawson. The name rang like a distant bell in his mind, showering clarity that sharpened his view of the boy. The Dawsons were Moorwell's local celebrities. Tristan wasn't exactly up to date with their affairs; he wasn't one to keep up with mainstream media, but he did recognise this boy from a poster he'd seen plastered on the side of a bus. Seth Dawson, he recalled. It made sense now. Of course Seth Dawson, esteemed child actor who dripped charm and wealth like syrup, wouldn't have made the call himself. That would be the job of a secretary or personal assistant. It all lined up.

"Ah." The realisation made him all the more eager to shrug Seth's hand away. "Right. Sorry about that."

If Seth had been welcoming to begin with, he wasn't now. "I see," he muttered. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he spun on his heel and headed back into the house. "The others are already here. Follow me."

Shutting the door behind him, Tristan did as he was told, wondering whether it would have been better to pretend. He decided against it. It wasn't as if this boy needed his ego stroking.

They wove out of the front hall and into an expansive lounge. A window spread over the entirety of the front wall, casting large swathes of evening light over the plush golden cushions and long couches. A flat, black screen shone like an abyss from another wall. Seth glanced back at him as they passed it, a scowl on his face, as if he were debating hurling Tristan into the priceless TV. He was relieved when that didn't occur.

Instead, they passed under the tall arch of another doorway and, finally, into the dining room. It formed a bulging L, longer at this end, with a glistening crystal chandelier that scattered yellow light across floral wallpaper like a summer field had climbed its way inside and laid out flat. The glossy mahogany of the floorboards was clear enough to reflect the light in a hundred more tiny stars. Collectively, that would have been dazzling enough, yet Tristan's attention was captured by the four people sitting around the nearest end of the long table. Their eyes fell upon him immediately, and he stiffened under the cacophony of stares.

While he lingered in the doorway, Seth shouldered past him, making for a sliding door to the left. He cast a halfhearted gesture at the table without glancing back. "Sit wherever you like. I'll be back in a moment."

Tristan's chest tightened painfully, another symptom of that anxiety he couldn't seem to shake. He'd never been good with strangers. He hadn't been expecting there to be others, though that seemed foolish now; dinner parties were rarely solitary affairs. If anything, he supposed this one was small. Dodging their gazes, he honed in on a chair further along the table and strode towards it.

"Hey, new guy!" a voice called, forcing him to stop in his tracks. Its owner didn't exactly fill him with delight. Luminous waves of pink and pale purple engulfed much of their blond hair, tipping over their shoulder as they patted the seat beside them -- one situated between them and a brown-skinned man. "There's space here."

Tongue caught between his teeth, Tristan withheld a sigh. Social convention likely forbade him from declining the invitation. He nodded wordlessly, ducked his head and slid into the chair, twitching hands folded in his lap.

The man leaned in. His eyes flicked from him to the doorway Seth had vanished through and back again. "What did you do to annoy him so quickly?"

A loose thread of Tristan's sleeve wound around his finger under the table. "I didn't recognise him at first."

The man's eyes widened disbelievingly. On his other side, the pink-haired one choked on a laugh. He shot them a wary, sharpened glance, his spine itching with his discomfort.

Across the table, one of the women raised her eyebrow at him. "You do look like you live under a rock."

Tristan readied a protest, but the bang of a door being shut behind cut him off.

"Well," Seth began grandly, shoes clicking against the floor as he marched into view, swerving around to approach the seat at the head of the table. He stopped with his hand resting on its back, looking down over the five of them. "You must be wondering why I gathered you here."

"Quite," the same woman added, folding her arms. Her expression was guarded, her crimson lips pursed in a frown. Looped black braids flecked with gold snaked from their tight pattern to dangle just beyond her shoulders. Complete with glittering sleeveless dress, she looked like the only one aside from Seth who'd come prepared for any kind of party.

Seth's eyes wandered to her, clearly noting the choice of attire. His lips curled crookedly upward. "All in good time. We have the whole evening ahead of us, so I believe I have earned a little of my actor's suspense." He sat down heavily, swivelling in the chair so that his legs dangled off to the side and his back leaned into the armrest, as if he were a king atop his own personal throne. "Now, since introductions are clearly in order" -- Tristan didn't miss the pointed glance tossed his way -- "why don't we begin with those?"

The woman with braids gave a reluctant nod, dark shutters falling over her gaze. This time, Tristan was sure it was shooting daggers his way.

He sat up straighter and did his best to ignore it along with the murky regret swirling in the pit of his stomach. It twinged repeatedly the longer he sat here. Perhaps he shouldn't have come. Perhaps the promises made to him were falsehoods. Perhaps all this wasn't worth what he wanted.

But it was, and he would stay. Play my game for one night. He could survive one night if it chased away the shattering silence that filled his office and calmed the insatiable itch in his core.

"I'll begin, of course, though I'll keep it brief." Seth made a show of splaying his hand to cup his chin. "I am Seth Dawson, star of the highly popular and widely loved Song of the Silver Stars franchise. I was nominated for an Oscar last year."

"You should've won that, Seth," the one with pink hair chimed in with a sharp smile.

If there were traces of sarcasm in their tone, Seth missed it. "Why, thank you. Would you like to go next?"

"Sure." They swept their hair back, scooping the rest of them up with their gaze. "Hi. I'm Quinn Fox. I'm an artist." Aquamarine eyes shining, they nudged Tristan with an elbow, making him jump. "You?"

Tristan pressed his lips together, hands gripping one another more firmly beneath the table. "Tristan Young. Private detective."

"Detective?" Intrigue pitched the other man's tone a note higher, low as his voice was. Tight, dark curls clung to his scalp in a thick mass. "Local? I'm surprised I haven't heard of you."

"I only recently started out." The lie grated over Tristan's tongue, leaving a nettle-like sting behind. He swallowed its cold remnants and resisted the urge to look Seth's way.

"Well, my name is Otto Ratliff," the man said, snatching him back to reality. "I'm a boxer. Though I'm fairly new to the workplace too."

"And I'm Kordyn Jha, technical consultant," the woman said briskly, fixing her gaze on Seth once more. "Now, why are we here?"

Seth held up a hand to stop her, flicking a gesture at the last of their party, the only one who hadn't spoken yet. She stared into her lap, straight auburn hair draped either side of her face. Her arms wrapped her chest tight enough to crease her plain white dress. Curiosity lit a flame in Tristan's chest, suddenly haloing her in an imaginary outline, despite how easily she'd been to miss a mere second ago. She held the presence of a ghost: nearly invisible, yet wholly intriguing once he caught notice of her. A puzzle rearranged itself in his mind, tangled with theories.

"Constance," she mumbled, her voice trembling and breathy as if she feared someone would pounce on her. "Constance Clark."

"And what do you do, Constance?" Otto asked, the soft tone of speaking to a spooked animal. Sympathetic. Tristan supposed that made sense, too.

"I'm still a student. Physics." Her fingers tangled with a slim necklace. Something small and silver flashed in and out of view.

"You must be very smart."

She offered a strained smile. "Yeah."

"Anyway!" Seth clapped his hands to get their attention, and Tristan reluctantly tore his gaze from Constance. "That's everyone! Quite the group, aren't we?"

Quinn laughed. "I don't think you could find a gang more different from one another. What are you playing at, Seth Dawson?"

Seth grinned like he'd been complimented. Perhaps the very mention of his full name was enough to fill him with pride. "Alright, you got me. You were each chosen on purpose." He righted himself on his seat, carefully combing his fingers through his styled hair. "As you may well know, I've been frequently accused of being rather... distant, shall we say, from your ordinary man on the street. I see no reason for that to continue. And so, until my mother and father return from their travels, I have decided to air a live series to prove this hearsay incorrect. I will be hosting guests from all walks of life in order to expand my views on the world. A diverse range of friends, shall we say."

There was a heavy pause. Tristan's mind snagged on the final sentence, much as he tried to ignore it. His nose screwed up.

Oblivious, Seth rested his elbows on the table, eyes bright. "It's you five. You're the guests." His smile widened. "This is your home for the next two weeks, friends. What do you say?"

"Two weeks!" Otto exclaimed. "This wasn't--" He cut himself off in a hurry, voice trailing into a growling hum. "I never agreed to this," he added in a low mutter.

"Neither did I." Kordyn's eyes were narrowed. "I don't have the time. Some of us have lives to get back to."

"And you will get back to them." Seth gave a vague wave of his hand, flicking her concern aside. "I cannot imprison you. You may come and go as you please, though I implore that you spend as much time here as possible."

Tristan's skin crawled. This contradicted not only the promise he'd been made, but his entire routine, riddling his schedule with cracks of all that he hated. Still, he kept his lips sealed, scanning over Kordyn and Otto's expressions. What had they been told? It was possible they could've received a similar call, though he couldn't imagine why all of them would be summoned here and lied to in the same way. Did Seth know they wouldn't agree if he told the truth?

Or perhaps... His gaze trailed to Constance. She seemed only to have shrunk further into herself, fiddling silently and repetitively with her necklace.

"Does this package come with free meals?" Quinn asked.

"All inclusive." Seth spread his hands wide.

"I'm sold."

A glint lit in his eyes. "You will have access to all of my facilities, of course. All I want is for us to learn more about each other. Filming will not start until two days from now."

"Filming?" The word leapt from Tristan's tongue before he could stop it.

There was some element of victory that shaped Seth's proud smile, a hint of revenge. "Why, of course. You're going to be famous, Tristan."

That phrase rang like a series of bells, all tinkling and clatter and somewhere, deep within, musical. Tristan adjusted his glasses, forcibly keeping his face neutral.

"Alright," Otto said abruptly, tone wound tight as a loaded spring and cracking an echo into the broad room. "I accept."

"I do as well," came Constance's choked whisper, eyes on her knees.

Kordyn let out a long sigh cracked through with exasperation. "I suppose I can move a few things around."

"Tristan?" Seth prompted.

Hesitance pooled into the singular moment of silence. The choice rolled around in Tristan's mind, a ball bearing racing down a slide, though in the end there was only ever one destination.

"I'll stay," he said.

Seth laughed. "Excellent! You won't regret this decision, trust me. We're going to have a marvellous time."

As he finished speaking, a trio of waiters swept into the room, and the earthy, herbal scent they carried with them wrapped around Tristan's thoughts as if trying to smother them. It was thin as steam and easy to disperse, but he let his doubts float away with it all the same. It never did to dwell. Though the knot in his stomach was no less tight, decided certainty steadied his hands, a relaxed focus steeling his bones. Noise itched at his ears. He noted the muffled clink of a plate meeting the table in front of him, the creak as Otto shifted on his chair, the click of Kordyn's wrist as she flexed the joint. Quinn's fingers drummed on the table. Constance remained tense, nerves quivering her like the waves of an earthquake.

Seth loudly thanked the waiters for the dinner -- a dramatic, insincere gratitude was better than none at all, Tristan supposed -- and the room finally fell quiet as they began to eat. It felt as if something thick hung over them all, something in the air, impossible to tangibly sense but seeping into the lungs like a poisonous gas. It was a messy silence, one not empty and weeping but packed with words unsaid.

Anyone could likely tell that the silence was Tristan's preferred domain, but it was this kind he truly adored. Regret leaked away with the leisure of a dripping tap. Anxiety released its undesired grip.

The voice on the phone had been right. There was a game afoot here, and he would not miss the chance to play.

Total Wordcount: 3054

If you spotted a word in bold, that was to make the 2k mark obvious for the first round of the ONC :D

So, we're off! I apologise for the painful first draftiness you're having to encounter, but I hope I'll settle better into the style as the book goes on. I am excited to have introduced our new cast, at least. Tristan is awkward and I love him.

You know what, let's have some wild theories right off the bat. Who is most sus :catsip:

- Pup