The morning light was cruel.
It sliced through the blinds of Elián's bedroom like a blade, illuminating the chaos Vivienne had left behind—designer bags tossed carelessly, empty wine glasses on the vanity, a stack of unpaid bills hidden beneath a magazine cover featuring her face from ten years ago.
Elián lay still in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
He didn't reach for it.
He already knew.
Something had happened.
When he finally checked, the screen was a blur of notifications. Mentions. Messages. Missed calls. The clip had gone viral. His audition—raw, unfiltered, unguarded—was everywhere.
#ThatMonologueGuy#EliánVoss#TheEyesThatSpoke
Fan edits. Reaction videos. Tweets dissecting every line. Someone had even slowed the footage down to analyze the tremble in his hands.
Vivienne burst into the room, phone in hand, eyes gleaming. "You're trending," she said, breathless. "You're a star."
Elián sat up slowly. "I didn't ask for this."
She waved him off. "Don't be dramatic. This is what we've been working for."
We.
He stood, brushing past her, heading for the bathroom. He needed space. Air. Silence.
But even behind the locked door, the buzz didn't stop.
Far across the city, in a penthouse wrapped in glass and silence, a man stood alone.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been stitched directly onto his frame. His presence was quiet but absolute—like gravity in human form. His face was all sharp lines and restraint: a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth that rarely smiled. His hair was dark, swept back with precision, not vanity. And his eyes—steel-gray, unreadable—watched the screen with unnerving stillness.
He held a glass of something amber and expensive, untouched.
On the screen in front of him, the audition clip played again.
He didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Only watched.
And when the boy on the screen whispered, "Not me," something in his expression shifted—just slightly.
He reached for a pen.
Back in Elián's apartment, Vivienne was already on the phone with agents, stylists, producers. She was planning interviews, red carpet appearances, brand deals.
Elián stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The same face.
The same eyes.
But something felt different.
He wasn't sure if it was hope.
Or fear.