Elián didn't sleep.
He stared at the photo on his phone — grainy, distant, but unmistakable.
It was him.
Inside the studio.
Taken from outside the window.
The timestamp was from yesterday.
He arrived early the next morning.
Cassian was already there, reviewing footage.
Elián didn't speak. He placed the phone on the desk between them.
Cassian picked it up, studied the image, then looked at Elián.
"Where did this come from?"
"Anonymous message," Elián said. "No number. No name."
Cassian's jaw tightened. "This isn't a fan."
"I know."
Cassian stood, walked to the window, and stared out.
The glass was tinted. Reflective. Secure.
Or so they thought.
"I'll have the building swept," he said. "And the footage reviewed."
Elián crossed his arms. "Why didn't you tell me I wasn't safe?"
Cassian turned. "Because I didn't want to scare you."
Elián laughed — sharp, bitter. "Too late."
They sat in silence.
Cassian finally said, "You don't have to keep coming here."
Elián shook his head. "I do."
"Why?"
Elián looked up. "Because this is the only place I feel real."
Cassian didn't respond.
But something in his expression shifted.
Not pity.
Not guilt.
Something closer to fear.
Later, Elián filmed another scene.
This time, he didn't speak.
He just sat in the armchair, eyes closed, breathing.
Cassian watched from the control room.
He didn't take notes.
He didn't blink.
He just watched.
Like Elián might disappear if he looked away.
That night, Elián received another message.
"He's watching you. He's always watching."
This time, there was no photo.
Just a location.
The studio.