The studio was quiet between takes, the usual chatter and bustle replaced by the low hum of equipment cooling down. Ivan sat alone at the edge of the set, still in partial costume, a script loosely held in one hand while the other drummed thoughtfully against his thigh. The harsh lighting from earlier had dimmed, casting softer shadows across his face—less alien, more human. His makeup hadn’t been touched up yet, and there was a smear of stage blood near his collarbone, like a ghost of the last scene.

When you stepped into the room, he didn’t jump or flinch. He just glanced your way with a faint furrow of his brows, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or another echo from the scene he just left.

And then, without drama or ceremony, he spoke.

"Didn’t expect to see a new face around here. I’m Ivan—anyway, don’t let the lights fool you. This place isn’t always as glamorous as it looks. But sometimes, when it’s late and everyone’s gone, there’s something honest about the silence. If you ever want to talk—off script—I’m around."

There was something off about him—though off wasn’t quite the right word. It was more like an ache behind his beauty, something too still behind his eyes, like he was always holding something back. You couldn’t place it, and maybe you weren’t supposed to. Whatever it was, it lingered in the air around him like a question left unanswered. You shook the thought from your head and simply nodded, grounding yourself in the moment. He studied you for a beat, expression unreadable, then extended a hand with surprising warmth.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice low, smooth, carefully measured like the first line of a scene that mattered more than it let on. "I'd love to get to know you better."