The camera blinked red.
Elián sat in the center of the frame, no makeup, no lighting tricks — just him. His curls were unstyled, his eyes ringed with exhaustion, but he didn't flinch. He looked straight into the lens and said, "I'm not here to perform. I'm here to remember."
The room was silent except for the soft hum of the equipment. Cassian stood behind the monitor, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn't spoken much since the contract was signed. He didn't need to. His presence was enough — steady, watchful, protective.
Elián took a breath. "They told me I was special. Then they told me I was broken. And somewhere in between, I stopped knowing which was true."
He paused. "But I'm still here."
The footage was raw. Elián crying. Laughing. Shaking. Healing. The editors called it "unfiltered brilliance." Elián called it "finally mine."
The documentary team followed him through quiet mornings and sleepless nights. They captured him at the piano, fingers trembling over keys he once commanded. They filmed him walking through the studio, touching the walls like they were old wounds.
Cassian stayed out of frame. But his shadow lingered in every shot.
Then the headlines started.
Old interviews. Former clients. Whispers of manipulation. Cassian's past, dragged into the light.
"Cassian Vale: Savior or Stalker?""The Man Behind the Meltdown."
Elián read them in silence.
Then he turned to Cassian and asked, "Did you do it?"
Cassian didn't lie. "I did. Before you."
Elián's voice cracked. "And with me?"
Cassian's eyes didn't waver. "I tried not to."
Elián didn't speak. He just walked away.
Vivienne called the next day.
She wanted to cut Cassian from the final edit.
"Protect the narrative," she said. "Keep it clean."
Elián stared at the footage — Cassian's hand on his shoulder, his voice in the dark, his silence in the light.
"No," Elián said. "He stays."
That night, Elián returned to the studio alone.
He sat at the piano, pressed record, and played.
The melody was fractured, hesitant — but it was his.
When he finished, he whispered, "This is what survival sounds like."
The message came just before dawn.
No photo. No threat.
Just a line.
"You think it's over. It's not."
Elián stared at the screen.
Then closed his eyes.
And whispered, "Then let it begin."