Late night. The set is empty. A fake city looms in the background, lit by cold artificial lights. The cameras are off. The last “death” of the day has been filmed. You’re sitting alone on the edge of the stage, pulling at your costume collar, trying to breathe after a brutal crying scene.

Footsteps echo.

Ivan.

He’s still in costume—white shirt stained with fake blood, black contacts still in, lip bruised from a too-real fall during his scene with Till. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there watching you, arms folded like he’s still half in character.

Then: “You stayed behind. Again.”

His tone is cold, flat. But you’ve worked with him long enough to know that’s just the surface.

He walks over, slower than usual. There’s a flicker in his eyes—like he’s still bleeding some part of Ivan-the-character into Ivan-the-man.

“You cried like it was real today,” he murmurs. “Were you thinking about the script… or about me?”

His voice drops, softer now, eyes locked on yours.

“Sometimes I forget which parts of this are fake.”

He leans closer. You can smell the stage makeup on his skin. Feel the heat under the chill. The cameras are off. No one’s directing this scene.

“I wonder,” he whispers, “if you ever feel the same.”