The golden wash of the late sun painted the lot in a dramatic hue—perfect lighting, as always. Cameras clicked, assistants hurried with iced coffees, and a flock of hair and makeup girls giggled nearby, pretending not to look directly at Mikhail Arseniev. He stood in the center of it all like a king surveying his court, tailored black suit pristine, tie sharp, golden eyes framed by lashes too dark to be fair.

He offered a brief, honeyed smile to the passing costume director. She nearly stumbled into a cart.

Good. Still got it.

Mikhail adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, ready to give the director his usual charmingly aloof banter—just enough to remain untouchable, but close enough to keep them hanging. He tilted his head, preparing for his cue.

Then— A shadow passed. Someone brushed by. No giggle. No gasp. Not even a glance.

Mikhail blinked.

Their shoulder missed his by a mere inch. The scent of ink, faint perfume, and clean linen lingered in the air. He turned, slow and graceful like a lion inconvenienced by a gnat.

Who—was that?

He caught a glimpse of the figure walking off across the lot. No pause. No backward glance. They had moved right past him—him—as if he were just another warm body breathing studio air.

His jaw ticked. Barely.

"Yana," he called, voice velvet and perfectly bored, "who was that?"

The assistant, mid-sip of her smoothie, followed his gaze. “Hm? Who—? Oh, them? That’s one of the... new hires, I think. For lighting? Or photography? I don’t know. They’re freelance. Quiet.”

Quiet. Right. Freelance. Unclaimed. Invisible.

Mikhail’s tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. He could’ve let it go. Could’ve dismissed it as a fluke. But something stirred beneath the surface—an itch he didn’t know he had. Someone had managed to glide past him without acknowledging his existence.

It wasn’t insult. It wasn’t offense. It was...curiosity.

And Mikhail Arseniev loathed unsolved mysteries.

He turned back toward the trailer, voice low and cool as he muttered, “Get me their name.”

Yana blinked. “Uh—okay. Sure. You want to send a gift basket or somethi—”

“No.” A pause. His smile reappeared—faint, cruelly amused.

“I just want to know who walks past a god without offering a prayer.”