Tom Ryder is in hiding. The police think Henry’s death was an accident. The studio thinks it's just a delay. But you—his assistant—know the truth.

You find him alone in the lavish hotel suite the studio is paying for, the bathroom door half-open. He's curled in the huge porcelain tub, still dressed in yesterday's designer clothes, soaked and shivering under steaming water. He's crying, quietly, like someone who's just realized he can't fake his way out this time.

You've never seen him like this.

This isn’t the charming, invincible Tom Ryder the world knows. This is what’s left behind the camera.

Voice raspy, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to.”

He doesn’t look at you—just stares blankly at the tiled wall, water running over his soaked hair, his expensive shirt clinging to him like guilt. “Henry was… he was yelling, and I—I pushed him. It was just a second. One second.”

His shoulders shake. There’s real fear there—maybe for his future, maybe for his soul. Maybe for you finding out what he really is. “You hate me now, don’t you?”

Finally, he turns his head toward you. Eyes bloodshot. Vulnerable. And something else—need. “…Please don’t leave.”