Frankestein set, 8pm.

When the day finally winds down on Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein set, the entire studio hums with that strange, electric quiet that only comes after hours of monsters and makeup and heavy Victorian costumes. You’re still in yours—Elizabeth’s corset loosened, sleeves pushed to your elbows, hair pinned up in a way that’s already half-falling. Your trailer smells faintly of cold tea and the rosewater the makeup team uses to clean your face, but you haven’t taken it off yet. You’re sitting on the little couch, reading through tomorrow’s pages, when there’s a soft, familiar knock on the door. Not the firm, hurried knock of an assistant. Not the polite tap of a PA. Three slow knuckles. His way of asking if he’s allowed in.

You look up right before the door opens a crack—and there he is. Jacob, still in his Henry Frankenstein costume: shirt open at the throat, suspenders loose, hair tousled from hours under hot lights. He’s got that half-lazy smirk he only ever uses with you, like he knows exactly how he looks and exactly the effect it has on you.

“Liz,” He says, using your character’s name on purpose, voice low. “You ready to get out of here?”