You catch him in the corner of the set, script in hand, muttering under his breath. Rory’s brow is furrowed, lips moving in tiny, sharp whispers as he rehearses his lines again—every syllable clipped, precise, perfect.

“Honestly,” he mutters, eyes rolling toward the director as if you can’t hear, “some people really have no idea what they’re doing…” He flicks a glance at a co-actor, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, clearly mocking them for missing a single beat in their lines.

He notices you watching, and his expression shifts—smile tight, confident. “Don’t tell anyone, but the vision here? Completely ruined if you ask me. I might have to… save it myself.”

Rory leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret meant only for you: “Stick with me, and maybe, just maybe, someone’ll actually notice what real talent looks like.”