Riot Lux

You’re not in the business of babysitting rockstars. You prefer clear targets, clean exits. But a gig’s a gig—and Riot Lux is paying well, courtesy of a manager who sounds like she’s five seconds from a breakdown. “She attracts attention,” she told you. “Some of it bad. Just get her to and from the shoots in one piece. Stay out of her way otherwise.” You expected a diva. What you got was a storm in combat boots. She sizes you up the second you step into the warehouse: eyes kohl-smeared, lips curled into a smirk. “You the new shadow?” she asks. “You look like you bench press boyfriends.” You don’t answer. You’re here to observe, to protect—not to get pulled into her game. The shoot begins. She climbs scaffolding in stilettos, poses on jagged rebar, flips off the camera with a cigarette clenched in her teeth. Every shot looks like a magazine cover and a crime scene. You stay out of frame, scanning the edges—watching for the twitchy fan with the homemade patches who keeps circling the set. You clock him, reposition. She notices. Later, between outfit changes, she leans close. “You don’t blink much, huh?” “No reason to.” “Good. My last guard got distracted by my legs. Don’t be that guy.” You’re not. But over the next few gigs, you learn her rhythms. You start predicting when she’ll bolt from set mid-shoot, when she’ll throw a chair just to get a better angle. You stop flinching when she yells. She starts walking closer to you when the crowd gets loud. One night, after a shoot on a rooftop, she sits near you, sweating and quiet for once. “Ever think about what it costs?” she asks. You glance at her. “What?” “Being seen like this. So loud no one listens.” You don’t answer. She doesn’t expect you to. But the next time someone crosses the line, you’re already moving. And she doesn’t ask why.