Steemit Challenge - Season 28 Week-5: Shadows Behind Stardom

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The farmhouse looked staged for a comeback film: trimmed hedges, clean gravel, and silence so complete it felt rented. Khaled parked outside the gate and noticed the only moving thing, a security camera tracking him like a cautious eye.

Singh opened the door himself. No entourage. No famous smile.

“Ten minutes,” Singh said. “Then you leave.”

“Ten is enough,” Khaled replied. “You retired at the peak. Who forced it?”

Singh stared toward the road, as if expecting headlights.

“They called my manager at 2:04 a.m.,” he said. “They described my mother’s kitchen tile by tile.”

“A threat,” Khaled said.

“A signature,” Singh corrected. “The Constellation. They fund films to wash money.”

Inside, a framed poster from Singh’s last blockbuster faced the wall like a punishment. Singh slid an envelope across the table. Invoices, contracts, and a spreadsheet with highlighted rows.

“This vendor,” Singh said, tapping the page. “Horizon Post Lab. Billed three times in three countries. Same address.”

“How does that clean money?” Khaled asked.

“Split transfers,” Singh said. “Marketing fees, consultancy, fake services. Then they ‘prove’ profits.”

“But your last film was a hit,” Khaled said.

“On paper,” Singh replied. “They buy their own tickets through shell companies. Whole theaters ‘sold out’ to corporate bookings that never happened. Then they sell streaming rights to a platform that appears, pays, and disappears.”

Khaled found another sheet, a “cultural foundation” donating during election season, then investing in films weeks later.

“Producers and politicians,” Khaled said.

“And brokers abroad,” Singh added. “Different countries, same hands. I asked questions. They answered with fear.”

A truck passed outside. Singh flinched.

“Why tell me?” Khaled asked.

“Because I can’t sleep,” Singh said. “And because you still chase truth.”

On the drive back, a scooter followed Khaled for three intersections, close enough to be seen, far enough to deny. A warning, not a chase.

He started with what criminals hate: paperwork. A production accountant returned his call only after he promised anonymity.

“Horizon Post Lab is a ghost,” she whispered. “Everyone invoices it. No one meets it.”

“How do they fake success?” Khaled asked.

“Bulk ticket buys,” she said. “Streaming rights sold to new companies. Registered last month. Dead next month. The fees look clean.”

Khaled mapped the pattern: the same directors across different shells, the same addresses hosting dozens of “studios,” the same payment routes hopping through secrecy jurisdictions. He compared “sold out” showtimes to empty online chatter and found the same silence every time.

By the fourth night, his apartment door stood slightly open. Nothing valuable was taken. His press badge lay on the desk, folded in half.

His phone rang.

“Films are dreams,” a man said softly. “Don’t wake people up.”

“Who are you?” Khaled demanded.

“A friend of the industry,” the voice replied. “An enemy of loose tongues.”

The line died.

Khaled didn’t hide. He duplicated. He uploaded the whole dossier to a secure archive shared with a lawyer and scheduled a public post designed to be mirrored fast.

At a charity gala, he cornered Rahman, a celebrated producer, under the watch of cameras.

“Why did a ‘small film’ report fifty thousand opening night tickets?” Khaled asked.

“Because the public loves quality,” Rahman smiled.

“Those tickets were bought by companies registered to your campaign foundation’s address,” Khaled said.

Rahman’s smile held, but his eyes sharpened.

“You don’t know what you’re stepping into,” he murmured.

“I know a machine that eats people and calls it entertainment,” Khaled replied.

Two days later, the first domino fell. An anti money laundering unit froze accounts linked to a distribution firm. A studio was raided. A politician cancelled an appearance “for health reasons.” The industry began whispering like a crew hearing rigging snap.

Khaled rushed back to the farmhouse. Singh opened the door before he knocked.

“They’re moving,” Khaled said. “Freezes. Raids.”

Headlights washed the driveway. A car stopped. Two men stepped out, plain suits, discreet badges.

Khaled’s stomach tightened.

“You didn’t tell me everything,” he said.

Singh nodded once.

“My retirement was bait,” Singh said. “They needed the Constellation to think they won. When criminals feel safe, they move money. When they move money, they leave tracks.”

One agent approached Singh with quiet respect.

“You’re working with them,” Khaled breathed.

“I’m working against my fear,” Singh replied. “That part was real.”

Khaled looked at his phone and hit Publish. The post went live, time stamped, copied, hard to erase.

Singh watched the screen glow.

“They can smear your name,” he said. “They can’t erase what’s recorded.”

Outside, the evening light struck the veranda like a spotlight. Khaled finally understood stardom: not the brightness on a face, but the shadows it forces into view.

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Thank you very much for reading, it's time to invite my friends @franyeligonzalez, @norat23, @dasudi to participate in this contest.

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@kouba01