Elián stared at the photo.
His own face. Asleep. Vulnerable. Taken from inside his apartment.
Not the studio.
Not the street.
Home.
He dropped the envelope like it burned.
Cassian arrived minutes later.
Elián didn't speak. Just handed him the photo.
Cassian's expression didn't change — but something in his posture did.
He took out his phone, made a call, and said only one word:
"Now."
Security swept the building.
Cassian stayed with Elián, silent, steady.
Elián sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up.
"I thought I was used to this," he whispered.
Cassian knelt beside him. "Used to what?"
"Being watched."
Cassian didn't touch him.
But his voice was low. Grounded.
"You're not alone."
Elián looked at him, eyes rimmed red. "Aren't I?"
Cassian didn't answer.
Because he didn't know how to lie to him anymore.
Later, Cassian handed him a small box.
Inside: a panic button. Discreet. Wearable.
Elián stared at it.
"I'm not a child," he said.
"No," Cassian replied. "You're a target."
That night, Elián returned to the studio.
He didn't film.
He didn't play.
He just sat in the armchair, staring at the door.
Waiting.
At 2:13 a.m., the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out.
Elián didn't move.
He reached for the panic button.
But before he could press it—
The door creaked open.