Elián didn't return to the studio.
Not right away.
He stayed in Cassian's apartment — quiet, sunlit, safe.
He didn't film.
He didn't play.
He just existed.
And for the first time in months, that was enough.
Cassian cooked.
Badly.
Elián laughed for the first time in weeks.
"You're burning the eggs," he said.
Cassian shrugged. "I'm burning for you."
Elián threw a pillow at him.
Vivienne called.
Twice.
Cassian answered the third time.
"He's not ready," he said.
Vivienne's voice was sharp. "He doesn't get to disappear."
Cassian's tone dropped. "He gets to heal."
Vivienne paused.
Then said, "I have one last offer."
She arrived the next day.
With a contract.
A documentary.
Elián's story — raw, unfiltered, global.
"You control the edit," she said. "You tell it your way."
Elián stared at the pages.
Then asked, "Why now?"
Vivienne's voice softened. "Because I finally saw you."
Cassian didn't speak.
He let Elián decide.
And Elián did.
He signed.
That night, Elián returned to the studio.
He sat at the piano.
Pressed record.
And spoke.
"My name is Elián."
"I've been watched. Followed. Broken."
"But I'm still here."
"And this time — I'm watching back."