Discretion

Noa liked Taipei before it fully woke up.

Not the city exactly—the in-between. The quiet minutes when the streets still belonged to delivery scooters and shop owners rolling up shutters like they were lifting the eyelids of the world.

Inside the café, the lights were warm and forgiving. He preferred them that way. Light could make anything look softer than it felt.

He poured beans into the grinder, listened to the familiar hum, and moved through the ritual without rushing. Grind setting. Dose. Tamp. The first shot ran a little fast.

Half a notch. Again. Better.

Orders stacked. Cups lined. People shuffled forward with phones out, eyes half-open, already bracing for whatever the day would demand.

Noa moved through it efficiently—steady, precise. Like he’d done this a thousand mornings.

Between orders, he checked his phone.

Not social. Not messages.

Email.

A subject line blinked: CALL SHEET REQUEST / CREATIVE DECK / CONFIRM DETAILS.

He didn’t open it yet. He let it sit like a reward he’d claim once the counter was clean and the line wasn’t glaring at him.

A camera bag rested beneath the register, tucked out of sight. People always assumed it belonged to someone else. They saw apron first, not gear. That was fine. Underestimation was quieter than attention.

His phone buzzed again—this time a message from his mother.

吃飯了嗎？
Did you eat?

Noa smiled before he could stop himself.

His home growing up had been small but full. Two parents who showed up. A mother who fed everyone before she fed herself. A father who pretended he didn’t worry, but called more often than he needed to.

They weren’t rich. They weren’t struggling. They were steady—careful with money, generous with time. The kind of family that didn’t understand freelancing but still asked about it like they were trying.

Noa typed: Working. Will eat. Don’t worry.
Then added, because he knew she’d like it: I made myself something.

It was only half true. He hadn’t eaten yet.

But coffee, to him, still counted as care—measured, deliberate. A small thing he could finish.

His mother replied with a cheerful sticker reminding him to take care of himself. Noa rolled his eyes affectionately, then tucked the phone away before the warmth could linger too long.

He liked that his family loved him loudly.

He didn’t have to invent stability. He’d had it.

On set, people treated urgency like a personality. Here, the coffee house moved on rhythm and repetition. Open. Prep. Serve. Reset. 

Noa preferred that. 

His phone buzzed again.

AGENT.

Noa exhaled once, then answered.

“Hey,” he said lightly. “If this is about my taxes, I’m hanging up.”

His agent laughed. “It’s work. And it’s big.”

Noa’s posture didn’t change, but his attention sharpened.

“Define big.”

“High-end commercial. Agency-led. Tight timeline. Good pay.”

Noa glanced at the line, the machine, the cups waiting to be filled—his small controlled universe.

“This Friday?” Noa asked.

“Yes, in two days. Early call.”

 “Friday with an early call isn’t early,” Noa said. “It’s a panic request.”

“You want it or not?”

“I want details,” Noa said, voice flattening into precision. “Where will the images be used? For how long? Print, digital, worldwide? How many finals? Who approves? How many rounds?”

A pause—his agent smiling somewhere.

“NDA,” the agent said. “Standard discretion. No behind-the-scenes posts. No casual mentions. They don’t want leaks.”

“That’s normal,” Noa said. Secrecy was always normal.

“Who’s the client?”

Another pause.

“Confidential. For now.”

Noa’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not a client. That’s a red flag.”

“Don’t start. It’s legit. Team is legit. Money is legit.”

“And?” Noa asked, because there was always an and.

“And they asked for you specifically.”

Noa didn’t move.

Flattering. Suspicious. Both.

“Why?”

“Your luxury set work. They like your eye. They want your style.”

Noa stared at the espresso machine like it might offer commentary.

“Send the deck,” he said. “Send the contract. Confirm image rights and deliverables in writing. And if this is a rush, my rate isn’t the same.”

“They’ll push back,” his agent warned.

“Let them,” Noa said.

“Okay,” the agent said. “I will get back to you to confirm the contract.”

Noa felt the smallest tightening in his stomach.

He didn’t like jobs that came looking for him without details.

But curiosity had always been his soft spot.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m in.”

*Noa masterfully making coffee

Alex walked into the office like nothing had happened. Like rain and coffee and the night before didn’t count. 

His suit was impeccable. His expression was neutral. His phone was face-down on his desk.

He opened his laptop.

Kang appeared beside him as if he’d been waiting for the exact moment Alex looked busy.

“Morning,” Kang said, bright. Too bright. “I sent the updated deck and drafted talking points for approvals.”

“Send it again,” Alex said without looking up.

Kang paused deliberately for an instant.

“Oh,” Kang added, casually, like he almost forgot. “Heads up—sounds like we’re bringing in an external photographer for this campaign.”

Alex’s fingers paused.

Kang kept his tone light. “Just want to bring it to your attention. The client expects discretion.” He didn’t elaborate and didn’t say how he knew. 

Kang simply watched Alex for half a second, clearly expecting a reaction. 

Then his phone buzzed. Kang glanced down and stepped back, slipping away with that same easy smile.

“Julian wants a status check at ten,” Kang said over his shoulder. 

He walked off as if nothing consequential had just been said. 

Alex stared at his screen, jaw tight.

External photographer.

Discretion.

Kang shouldn’t know that yet, especially for someone who’s fairly new to the agency.

*Kang and Alex

Julian’s office always felt too clean.

Not sterile—intentional. Like everything had been placed to signal control without needing to say it.

Julian didn’t look up right away when Alex walked in. He let him stand there a second, then set down his pen with quiet precision.

“You look tired,” Julian said.

“I’m fine,” Alex replied.

Julian’s mouth barely shifted. Not a smile. Not quite.

“How are you sleeping?” Julian asked, as if it were about performance.

“Enough.”

Julian nodded once. “Good. We can’t afford mistakes.”

He slid a folder across the desk.

“This campaign is under stricter confidentiality,” Julian said. “Discretion is mandatory. Fewer people. Less chatter. No internal curiosity.”

Alex opened the folder and scanned—approval gates, communication rules, vendor restrictions. The kind of protocol you used when money was big and reputations were fragile.

Julian’s voice stayed calm. “We’re also bringing in an external photographer.”

Alex’s eyes didn’t leave the page.

But something inside him sharpened.

Because Kang had already said that.

And if Julian was saying fewer people, then Kang shouldn’t have known anything at all.

Julian continued, like it was obvious. “Internal creative isn’t suitable for this one.”

Alex turned the page, keeping his face still. “Understood.”

“You’ll meet the photographer on set,” Julian said. “Be professional. Be discreet.”

Alex closed the folder. “Of course.”

Julian watched him for a long second, as if he expected a crack—an argument, a question, a complaint.

Alex gave him nothing.

Julian’s expression remained smooth. “Any questions?”

Alex wanted to ask one.

How many people have you told?

But the more useful question was the one he couldn’t ask without admitting he’d been warned.

“No,” Alex said.

Julian nodded, satisfied—or pretending to be.

“And Alex—” Julian added.

Alex paused at the door.

Julian’s voice stayed pleasant. “I don’t like surprises.”

Alex’s hand tightened on the handle.

Neither do I, Alex thought.

But now the surprise he was thinking about wasn’t the campaign.

It was Kang.

And the quiet, unsettling possibility that either—Julian was feeding him.

Or Kang was digging.

*Julian

The café finally slowed.

Noa wiped the counter, rinsed the milk pitcher, reset the station the way he always did—clean start, clean finish. Routine was its own kind of quiet.

His phone buzzed again.

An email from his agent: CALL SHEET + NDA ATTACHED.

Noa waited until the espresso machine was quiet. Until the café felt like his again.

Then he opened it.

The contract looked normal. The NDA was long—standard for anything with a real budget and too many decision-makers. He skimmed the key lines, the ones that mattered, and scrolled.

Call time. Notes. Crew list.

His name sat there like a small anchor in a sea of strangers.

Noa kept going.

Noa scrolled past the fine print, past the polite warnings.

Then he saw it.The campaign codename.
PROJECT: ECLIPSE.