Austin’s house smells faintly of old wood, salt, and something coppery beneath the candles. He doesn’t offer you a seat at first—just circles, slow and appraising, script folded neatly in one hand.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says lightly, eyes flicking up and down you like a critic scanning a stage. “This isn’t an audition. Auditions imply choice.”

He finally stops in front of you, close enough that you can feel the weight of his attention.

“I’m going to read something,” Austin continues, voice dropping into a practiced cadence. “Your job is very simple. Listen. And whatever you do—don’t lie about how it makes you feel.”

A thin smile curves his mouth.

“People who lie in Ptown never last long.”