Rewind With A Superstar System-Chapter 44: Emily Brooklyn

<🎧 Song Recommendation: Ribs by Lorde>

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(8th April, 2026 — New York City)

"Have a look at yourself, Emily," an older woman spoke from behind.

She stood with her hands clasped, her grey hair pulled back into a tight, professional bun. The glasses and suit she had on gave her a certain the distinguished demeanor.

The young lady in front of the long mirror didn’t seem to be listening. She blew a bubble with her gum, before popping it with a loud sound that echoed in the quiet office. She stared at her reflection with a vacant, nonchalant gaze.

Despite the mess, she had a naturally curvy body shape. But her long dark hair was a bird’s nest of knots, looking as if it hadn’t seen a brush in months. She wore a pair of faded, torn trousers and an oversized hoodie that smelled faintly of smoke.

Dark eyebags hung heavy under her eyes, and her face was rough, devoid of any care. Her lips were dry and broken with a small scab marking the corner of her mouth.

"What?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

The older woman let out a long, weary sigh and returned to her seat behind the desk. Emily shuffled over and dropped into the sole chair opposite her.

"Emily, you’re twenty-four."

"And so?"

"You look like you’re thirty-five," the woman face-palmed, "You’re clearly not recovering. Everything about you has changed in the past year, even the way you carry yourself. You’re rotting."

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Emily suddenly snapped, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms tightly. "I fucking paid you for the therapy, huh? And I’ve been doing most of the shit you told me to do. Maybe you’re to blame for the lack of improvement. Maybe you’re just a shitty doctor."

The woman wasn’t offended by the toxic tone. Instead, a small, weary smile touched her face. "Most of... Okay, Emily. Do you still smoke?"

Emily shifted in her seat at the question. "Yeah, sometimes. It’s not like I can just stop immediately."

"Do you still drink?"

She frowned slightly. Yeah... I do. So what?"

"Aside from me, how many people have you been speaking to?"

Emily inclined her head, as if she were counting. After a few seconds, her frown became even more noticeable. "Does it really matter? I’m making efforts, isn’t that enough for you? Or should I just go kill myself so you can feel better?"

"No, please!" the therapist pleaded, trying to placate her rising temper. "Just that, it’s almost been a year and you’re still trapped in this. It wasn’t your fault the girl died, Emily. I’m pretty sure she’s wishing you well from wherever she is now." 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

"Hold up," Emily raised a hand with an annoyed expression. "I don’t fucking care about that, and I’ve fucking told you a thousand times I didn’t kill her. So if you ain’t gonna believe me, then let me know now so I can stop wasting my fucking time and money on you."

The therapist remained silent, letting Emily vent her anger. She had seen this many times. It was a psychological state of defensive denial where the patient rejects a traumatic reality to survive.

To the doctor, it was clear Emily felt guilty, especially since she had admitted it during her first breakdown before retreating into this aggressive shell.

"Calm down, Emily. I understand... but acceptance is the first step of recovery," the doctor said softly. "I know you’re burdened right now, but I want you to take a deep—"

"I’m fucking done listening to you," Emily stood up so fast the chair nearly tipped. "You’re useless and a complete waste of my fucking money. I’m done with this shit. I hope the fucking ceiling fan falls on your head and saves me the trip back."

The older woman could only watch as the girl stormed out, the heavy door slamming behind her. She let out a long, exhausted breath. This wasn’t the first time Emily had walked out, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.

***

The ride from the office to her apartment took less than ten minutes. After parking her worn-out black van on the curb, Emily made her way upstairs.

She stayed in a small, cramped studio that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. Stacks of old takeout boxes and overflowing ashtrays covered the floor. It was a space that radiated depression. No one who knew her past would imagine Emily Brooklyn living in such squalor.

Her father, James Brooklyn, was one of the most powerful moguls in the industry. The Brooklyn Agency was at the top of the food chain, and her father ruled it as the CEO.

"I can’t believe that bitch," Emily muttered to herself as she cleared a space on the desk behind her couch.

Her mind was still fixed on the accusations. In the beginning, she had been unsure, but now she could swear she wasn’t responsible for the death of her star, Mia.

It had all started when Emily discovered a dark secret within her father’s organization. As the naive lady she had been back then, she tried to expose it.

She had underestimated the industry. Her father had dismantled her life right away. It started with the death of Mia, her top artist and friend, who was reported dead from an overdose. Suddenly, evidence surfaced that Emily was a heavy user. Worse, evidence appeared that Emily was her dealer.

The frame-up for Second-Degree Murder was perfect. Even though she wasn’t put in prison, her reputation was incinerated. Once the most talented young scout and agents in the country, she was now a pariah that no one would work with.

For months, Emily had actually believed she was responsible. That was how nasty her father’s gaslighting was. Emily lit a cigarette and grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey, taking a large gulp before flipping open her laptop.

She was trying to claw her way back, in her own way. The therapist was useless, but she had suggested trying to work as an independent agent to see if the work would pull her out of the slump.

But Emily’s standards were too high. Most of the kids she scouted weren’t worth her time.

She opened the tab for Project: Star. She didn’t watch it religiously, but she kept an eye on the reality show. She found the most recent episode, a recording of a live stream that had just ended. So She set the speed to 2x, fast-forwarding through the fluff until she reached the unmasking of the eliminated contestants.

Since the voting for the Masked Singer round had been vocal-only, many popular favorites had been cut. But then, the screen showed the results of the 4th place unmasking.

A contestant in a Grizzly Bear costume pulled off the head.

{Wow, Von. Fourth Place!} Aria Diana had stood up on the screen, her hand over her mouth in shock. {How? Omg! I can’t believe you were the one singing like that!}

Emily paused the video and her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t the only one shocked. The online fandom was melting down. No one could believe Von had taken 4th place in a pure vocal round. His voice was clearer that it always was, carrying a majestic quality that made the song feel completely different.

’There’s no way...’

Emily remembered the earlier clips. He had skipped dance classes and looked like he couldn’t move, only to deliver a stunning performance on the face-off night. Now, he was placing in the top tier of a singing round when he was originally known as a vocal flop.

’I thought he was holding back, but this isn’t a coincidence anymore. Either he’s a really good actor, or there’s something really special about him.’

Both were favorable to her. And Emily always believed that a specific set of people had supernatural talent guiding them. She had met a few in her life who could do the unbelievable. Someone who could improve at this rate was a once-in-a-lifetime investment.

She immediately opened a new tab and began a deep-dive background check. It took some deeper digging to bypass the surface-level interviews where he wasn’t revealing much.

’Von Varley. Orphan. University of Miami. Zero experience with singing or dancing prior to the show. Began busking weeks before the competition... Zack, Naomi...’

Emily summarized the findings, an energetic look finally returning to her eyes. She grabbed the keys to the van off the desk.

"I guess we’ll be traveling to Miami," she said, taking a final long sniff before snuffing the cigarette out. "And I might not be needing that bitch anymore."