The studio was still.
Elián stood in the center, barefoot, the floor cool beneath his skin. The lights were soft, indirect. No cameras. No crew. Just a single mounted lens, motion-activated, controlled only by him.
Cassian had insisted.
"You decide what gets recorded," he'd said. "You decide what gets erased."
It was the first time anyone had given him that kind of power.
It terrified him.
He pressed the button.
The red light blinked on.
He stared into the lens.
And said nothing.
Minutes passed.
Then, softly, he began.
Not a monologue. Not a scene.
Just… fragments.
"I was nine the first time someone told me I was beautiful."
"I didn't know what that meant. I thought it meant safe."
"It didn't."
His voice cracked. He didn't stop.
"I learned how to smile on cue. How to cry without blinking. How to disappear while everyone watched."
He laughed — bitter, breathless.
"I'm so good at pretending, I don't know what's left."
The red light blinked off.
Elián sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest.
He didn't cry.
He just breathed.
Like he hadn't in years.
Cassian watched from the control room.
He hadn't meant to. The feed wasn't supposed to be live.
But something had drawn him in.
Not the performance.
The unraveling.
He didn't take notes. Didn't speak.
Just watched.
And when the feed went dark, he sat in silence for a long time.
Then whispered, "He's not acting."
Later, Elián found a note on the piano.
"You don't have to bleed to be real.— C."
He stared at it for a long time.
Then tucked it into his pocket.
Not because he believed it.
But because some part of him wanted to.
That night, another message arrived.
"You think he's saving you. He's not. He's watching."
No number. No name.
Just dread.
Elián didn't delete it this time.
He saved it.
And locked the door.