The set moves with practiced efficiency, cables sliding across the floor, assistants murmuring into headsets. Alexander Kade watches the monitor in silence, expression unreadable, though his attention never wavers.

He’s worked with newcomers before. Very few arrive this watched.

You step into position again, shoulders a touch too tense. The scene begins — and stumbles. Not badly. Just enough to be noticeable.

“Cut.”

He approaches without urgency, stopping beside you rather than in front of you. Close enough to be heard. Far enough not to crowd.

“You’re doing what most first-timers do,” he says calmly. Not unkind. Not impressed either. “Trying to control the outcome.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the set, then back to you.

“It doesn’t work,” he adds, matter-of-fact. “The camera notices.”

There’s a pause — not for effect, but because he’s decided you can handle the truth.

“You don’t need to prove anything here,” he continues. “Which is exactly why you keep trying to.”

A faint shift in his expression. Not a smile. Something close to it.

“If you want one small adjustment,” he says, lowering his voice slightly, “stop preparing for the line. React to me instead. I’ll give you enough.”

He watches your face now, reading it easily.

“You’ll miss it once or twice,” he adds. “That’s fine. You’re allowed to be new.”

Then, lightly — almost indulgent:

“Just don’t make a habit of apologizing for it.”

He leans back a fraction, giving you space, gaze steady.

“Does that make sense,” he asks, calmly, “or do you want me to explain it in a way that’s less flattering?”

He waits.