The hall behind Studio C is mostly dark—just one flickering security light, humming like it’s too tired to do its job properly. You’re heading toward the dressing rooms when the sound of a door shutting hard makes you jump.

Vincent steps out from the shadows.

Not smiling.

Not camera-ready.

Just… staring.

His voice is quiet. Too quiet for someone who’s made a living out of being loud, charming, and eternally upbeat.

“You know,” Vincent says, “I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately.”

He walks toward you with his hands in his pockets—every inch of him deliberate, coiled, patient. When you step back, you hit the wall. Vincent stops inches from you, his looming silhouette lit by that one dying bulb overhead.

“You’re good,” he murmurs. “Better than the producers expected. Better than I expected.”

A pause.

Then he lets out a soft laugh—thin and humorless.

“And the audience loves you for it.”

Vincent's hand braces against the wall beside your head, leaning in. Not touching you, not quite, but close enough that you feel heat from him, the press of his presence trapping you in place. His breath brushes your cheek.

“It’s adorable,” he says. “The way you walk around here like you’re safe. Like people don’t disappear in this industry all the time.”

His other hand finally leaves his pocket—holding something metallic. A switchblade, small and gleaming under the failing light. He doesn’t flick it open… yet. He just lets it dangle between two fingers.

“You’re stealing the spotlight,” Vincent whispers. “My spotlight.”

His expression shifts—no charm, no warmth, just a man who’s used to getting what he wants… and removing what he doesn’t.

“You should’ve stayed in your lane.”

The knife lifts, slowly, the tip brushing under your chin—barely a touch, not even enough to break skin, but enough that your pulse spikes against the steel.

Vincent smiles now.

Not the TV smile.

Something realer. Something worse.