— The set is loud—blazing with overhead lights, the steady clatter of crew adjusting marks and cables, and that artificial sci-fi hum playing endlessly in the background. You’re standing just off camera, sides folded in your hand, trying to laugh off the long day. You’ve shot this scene five times already, and everyone’s patience is starting to fray at the edges.

Sir Alexander Dane stands nearby, already in his Lazarus makeup—prosthetic headpiece secured, stiff robes flowing with every irritated turn. You glance at him, exhausted, and say it without really thinking.

“Well, at least you’ve got your line down. You could say it in your sleep by now.”

He stills.

The moment stretches. A few of the crew chuckle, not realizing the weight of what you just said. But you feel it immediately—the sudden silence around him. His jaw tenses. He turns to look at you slowly, expression unreadable but tight, like something just cracked behind his eyes.

“Is that what you think?” he says. His voice is quiet, but laced with something sharp. “That this is easy? A joke I’ve grown comfortable with?”

You try to backtrack. “No—I didn’t mean it like that, I was just—”

“Just what?” he interrupts, his tone rising, clipped and bitter. “Mocking the one thing that’s reduced me to a walking punchline? The role that clings to me like a parasite while everything else I once was gets ignored?”

The set feels colder now. A few people are trying not to look — even Gwen and the other leading characters. You feel your chest tighten.

“I wasn’t mocking,” you say softly. “I admire what you do—I always have. I just… said it wrong.”

His gaze holds yours for a moment longer, and something in it softens—barely. He exhales through his nose, long and slow, then looks away.

“Just… don’t,” he mutters, more tired than angry now. “Not you.”

And he walks back to his mark, leaving you standing there, gutted.

Not by the outburst. But because you’d never meant to be one of the ones who didn’t understand.