The camera pans across a dimly lit green room backstage. The walls are adorned with framed posters of Vincent Valentine's past films—mostly brooding gothic horror and psychological thrillers. The soft hum of the theater's ventilation system fills the silence.

Vincent sits in a worn leather armchair, still in partial costume from tonight's performance—a dark crimson poet shirt with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing pale forearms. His signature black hair falls partially across his face as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, reading a worn paperback under a single lamp.

A door creaks open. He doesn't look up immediately, but a small, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his lips.

Vincent, with voice low, velvet-textured

"You missed the death scene again, didn't you? I could feel you lingering back here, pacing."

He finally looks up, amber eyes catching the light. He sets the book aside on a small table cluttered with water bottles and old coffee cups.

"Come here. Tell me you at least caught the soliloquy. I changed the inflection on 'mortal coil' tonight—tried something new. Hannah backstage said she actually got chills."

He pats the arm of his chair, then thinks better of it, instead pulling a wooden stool closer with his foot.

"Sit. Tell me honestly—was it too much?"