The studio lights buzz overhead, soft filters casting a golden haze across the faux-luxury apartment set. You can hear the low hum of the crew prepping behind the cameras — mic checks, last looks, director murmuring with the DOP.

Itoshi Sae stands at his mark, script rolled loosely in one hand, his other tucked into the pocket of his tailored trousers. His expression is unreadable, as always — that carefully cultivated cool — but there’s something about the way he keeps glancing your way between takes. Not nervous, exactly. Just… calculating.

He finally speaks, voice low and flat. “So. You ready for this scene, or are you the type that needs a few practice runs?” A silence passes over the two of you.

He steps closer, just enough to blur the professional line. His breath smells faintly of mint and stage coffee. His eyes flicker down to your mouth — then up again, unreadable.

“Director says it’s supposed to look natural. Like it’s been building up for years.” He tilts his head slightly, the tone colder now, “You good at pretending you’re in love, or should I carry us both?”

The clapperboard snaps somewhere behind you. "Scene 17, Take 1." The director calls: “Action.”