Timo's wire caught the yellow lamp overhead, its neat cut standing out against the bolt of crimson velvet beside them. Mireia looked from the severed copper strands to his tight jaw. Her mind, accustomed to seeing kindness even in the harshest critiques, struggled to reconcile the evidence with the implied malice. “Destroy… me?” Mireia whispered, the sound barely audible over the distant thrum of the Marante studio generators. Her fingers unconsciously went to the silver locket beneath her tunic, a familiar comfort. “Yes, Mireia. This isn’t some accident. It’s too clean. Too precise,” Timo insisted, his voice a low growl. "I'm taking this straight to the production office. They'll get to the bottom of this. You… you go back to your dressing room. Don't talk to anyone about this. No one." Mireia nodded slowly, a dazed expression on her face. The idea of someone actively wanting to harm her career, rather than just challenge her, felt like a foreign, unsettling concept. She watched Timo stride away, the wire clutched tightly in his hand, his usual swagger replaced by a determined, almost fierce resolve. Her dressing room smelled faintly of burnt sugar and gardenia perfume. A draft stirred the hem of her skirts. She halted; she had shut the casement securely before rehearsals began. She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room. Nothing seemed out of place until her gaze landed on her vanity. Tucked beneath the polished glass, a single, folded piece of thick, cream-colored parchment lay conspicuously on her carefully arranged makeup brushes. As she reached for it, a figure slipped across the outer sill, hem swishing through the gap. Mireia gasped. Before she could call out, boots pounded in the corridor. “Hey! What are you doing in there?” It was Timo, his voice already closer than she’d expected. The silhouette hesitated on the ledge, dropped into the alleyway below, and vanished among the stacked crates. Timo burst through the doorway, taking in the empty sill with a sharp scowl. "Did you see who that was?" he demanded, leaning past the frame. "Wait—they snagged on the frame." He pinched a sliver of silvery stage lace off a splintered wood grain. Mireia, still trembling slightly, could only shake her head, her gaze fixed on the parchment in her hand. Her fingers fumbled as she unfolded it. The words, penned in elegant, slanted script, seemed to leap off the page: *GIVE UP YOUR GREATEST TREASURE, OR LOSE EVERYTHING. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING.* Mireia read it twice, then a third time. Her brow, initially creased with fear, slowly smoothed into confusion, then a thoughtful frown. "Give up my greatest treasure?" she murmured aloud. "Timo, do you think… do you think Bastian left me a new acting exercise?" Timo, still fuming at the escaping figure, spun around, his mouth agape. “A method-acting… Mireia, this isn’t a riddle! Someone just broke into your dressing room and left you a threat!” "Look at the wording," Mireia mused, smoothing the card. "It sounds like a dramatic prompt. What would the heroine consider most precious? Her integrity? Her dreams?" Her expression brightened. "He wants me to feel the heroine's desperation, her willingness to sacrifice everything for her art!" Timo stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. “Mireia, you cannot be serious. This is a threat, not some profound artistic statement!” “No, no, it makes perfect sense!” Mireia insisted, her earlier fear completely eclipsed by her earnest interpretation. "He pushes everyone to live inside the scene. This is a study prompt." She pressed the card against her collarbones, nodding to herself. "I will go ask him. He can explain which scene this applies to." Before Timo could answer, she slipped out into the hall. Timo stared down at the fragment of silver lace, muttering under his breath. Mireia hurried down the tiled hallway of the administration wing, following a seam of light spilling beneath the heavy oak door of the cutting suite. Bastian kept strict privacy here, but the door stood unlatched. She nudged the panel inward. The room smelled of solvent and warm brass. Bastian leaned over a bench, dark hair tumbling across his brow as the projector beamed a pale rectangle onto the opposite wall. The projected beam displayed Mireia under the deluge rig, water running from her jaw, chin lifted in defiance. Bastian cranked the rewind wheel with a soft metallic click, sending the frames backward before running them forward again. "Bastian?" Mireia said. He started, hands freezing on the brass crank. His defensive posture eased as he recognized her, colour rising along his cheekbones. "Mireia," he said quietly, setting down a pair of splicing shears. "You should be resting after the rig broke." "I came about this note." Mireia extended the parchment toward him, the beam of the lens illuminating her sleeve. "You left a prompt in my room, didn't you? About what the heroine values most?" Bastian took the page, his knuckles brushing hers. He skimmed the ink, eyebrows rising in faint amusement. "You believe this is an exercise for tomorrow's script?" "Of course. You always demand total commitment," she said, stepping closer. "What did you envision she should part with? Her pride? Her safety?" Bastian set the paper on the bench. "Perhaps it isn't about giving anything up," he said softly. His eyes drifted to the projection behind her, then settled on her face. "Look at your takes. There is an unvarnished truth in the way you hold yourself before the glass. It anchors the scene." Warmth flushed through her chest at his praise, clear and unreserved. She drew closer, watching his dark pupils catch the projection lamp. Bastian reached out, tracing the seam of her jaw with his thumb, his gaze steady on hers while the shutter clicked in rhythm behind them. [ERROR. CHARISMA OVERLOAD. DESPAIR DRAIN FAILED. TARGET’S JOY EXCEEDS THRESHOLD.] [CRITICAL FAILURE. SYSTEM RETALIATION. AGING PROTOCOL INITIATED. STAGE 3.] Beyond the doorframe, Zita Morvan pressed her back against the corridor paneling, air whistling through her gritted teeth as an icy cramp tore across her ribs. Skin along her knuckles pulled taut and dry. She dragged trembling fingers through hair bleaching silver at the roots, tears welling from sheer pain as Bastian spoke inside. "This pendant…" Bastian murmured, his fingertips grazing the silver oval resting on her collarbone. His attention remained fiercely focused on her face. "It clashes with the period wardrobe. Take it off before the next roll, Mireia."

The Phantom Scene