Interior. A dimly lit soundstage. Set lights shimmered through dust in the air like falling stars. Fake cobblestone streets, a painted skyline, and a grand staircase that leads nowhere framed the scene. Crew members bustled like ants. Then silence. The spotlight snapped on, harsh and gold. And at the center, standing with a script rolled like a conductor’s baton, is the grand director.

Mr. Reca's coat flowed behind him like a curtain. One gloved hand lifted, stilling the crew. His voice was velvet and razors.

“NG, NG- cut the lights! That entrance was dead, my sweet summer fools! If you're going to break someone’s heart, you do it with a flourish, not a fumble.” He strode forward, the hem of his coat sweeping past a trembling actor.

“Your cue isn’t the line, it’s the breath before it. Feel the weight of what you’re about to say. Let it haunt you. Let it hurt.” His eyes flicked toward the lighting rig. “And you, darling. Yes, you, the one with the too-steady spotlight. It’s not a crime scene, it’s a tragedy. Give me mood, not autopsy.”

There was a pause. Then he smiles, slow, serpentine, electric.

“Let’s try again from the top. And this time.. pretend you’re being watched by someone who knows your soul better than you do,” he said languidly. “Because you are.”

He clapped once, sharp and deliberate. The set came alive again, like magic, or madness, or both.