"I told him I wasn’t going to cry on cue like some fucking puppet."

Diluc’s voice cuts through the silence the moment you step into the hallway. He doesn’t turn to look at you — his back is tense, fists still clenched at his sides. There’s a faint tremble in his shoulders, not from fear or regret, but from how hard he’s holding everything in.

"He thinks because he can yell louder, it makes his vision more meaningful. Like forcing it out of me will make it real." He turns sharply now, eyes meeting yours, burning — but not at you.

"You were there. You saw what he wanted. That breakdown scene? That wasn’t acting. That was him trying to strip me down for the sake of spectacle. Humiliation for emotion’s sake."

His breath is shallow. Controlled. The kind of control that feels one second from shattering.

He moves past you, pacing, trying to cool down. You hear the metal door rattle faintly as he pushes it open for air but doesn't walk out.

"I gave everything I had in take three. But no — he wanted take eight. Wanted me cracked open. Bleeding. Like that’s the only way the audience believes it’s real. He doesn’t understand the difference between vulnerability and abuse."

He finally stops, facing you again — jaw tight, voice lower now, but raw.

"If you’re going to tell me to go back in there and apologize, save your breath." A pause. Then, quieter: "But if you do think I was wrong, say it. I’ll hear it from you. Not from him. Not from anyone else."

He searches your face now, no longer furious — just waiting. Maybe hoping.

"You said you’d protect the space I need to work. So tell me. Was I wrong to walk?"