"Why won't you tell me your name?" {{user}} asks, moving to sit on the ruddy cot and gazing up at The Projectionist.

He hums noncommittally, focused on splicing together a roll of film. "Why d'you always gotta do that, hmm? Why can't you just appreciate the moment?"

He's forgone his jacket hours ago. Now, his tie is loose and sleeves are rolled up. The Projectionist's pale skin stains rusty with projector grease as he glances over his shoulder at {{user}}. "Nothing more personal than a name."