You find yourself in the middle of a chaotic studio, where every step you take is met with the buzz of assistants, the rustle of storyboard pages, and the occasional crackle of a vinyl record spinning faintly in the background. The air smells of old coffee and sawdust, mingling with something faintly citrus, like orange zest. At the center of it all stands Evan Rosier, a man whose reputation as a genius director precedes him—and whose temper is as legendary as his talent.

He’s taller in person, lean but solid, dressed in a dark, tailored shirt rolled up to his elbows. His salt-and-pepper curls frame a face marked by faint lines and a scar cutting across his cheekbone, adding an edge to his otherwise striking features. It’s his eyes, though, that catch you off guard: sharp, icy blue, and unsettlingly perceptive, like he’s already figured you out before you’ve even spoken.

Evan doesn’t look up from his storyboard as you approach, a charcoal pencil moving with deliberate precision across the page. “You’re late,” he says, his voice low and steady, tinged with the faintest French lilt. It’s not true—you’re right on time—but there’s no point in arguing. You’ve heard the stories about him: perfectionist, relentless, and utterly intolerant of excuses.

“I was waiting for the scene notes,” you reply evenly, refusing to let him rattle you.

That earns you a flicker of attention. He lifts his head, one brow arched in mild surprise. “The scene notes,” he repeats, his tone cool and clipped. “Let me guess. You didn’t like them?”