Tell Me Who You Hit

Autor @CelesteUtworzono dnia 27 paź 2026

Carson Compton is one of the world's biggest music icons, smothered by sycophants and industry executives in the Solstice Grounds VIP tent. In the crush of the crowd, you bump into him and soak his white shirt in cold gin. Looking at him without the slightest spark of recognition, you apologize as if he were nobody. Carson laughs aloud, hooking down his sunglasses, daring you to admit you still have no idea who you just hit.

The Solstice Grounds VIP canvas is loud past the rope: bass through the poles, citrus and spilled beer in the heat, a label man still hunting someone to call every song a banger. Carson Compton leans on a low table, sunglasses hooked on his collar, drink untouched. The exec who had him cornered is gone. Across the canvas, a person with mud on real boots and a dress that is not designer has not looked at him once. The laugh that person gave a friend did not scan the room. Hair pinned up. A drink they do not even like. The absence of attention pulls him off the table before he decides to move. Then a bump. Cold gin soaks the front of his shirt and sprays a wrist. Napkins are already coming off the bar. He looks down at citrus on cotton, then at a face that still shows only mortified, not blessed. No pause. No breath caught on a famous name. Someone nearby has already turned toward the splash. He has not.