The apartment was quiet, but Elián's mind wasn't.
It was 2:14 a.m.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, the glow painting his face in pale blue. The clip played again — the masked figure standing in a single spotlight, voice distorted, posture too still.
"The spotlight doesn't heal. It hides."
The words echoed in his chest like a heartbeat he didn't recognize.
He paused the video. Rewound. Played it again.
This time, he watched the hands.
They were gloved — but the way they moved, the slight tremor in the left, the way the fingers curled inward when the figure turned — it was familiar.
Too familiar.
Cassian entered the room, barefoot, hair tousled from sleep.
"You're still watching that?" he asked, voice low.
Elián didn't look up. "It's not just a stunt. This person… they know me."
Cassian crossed his arms. "You think it's Jules?"
Elián shook his head. "No. Jules never hid. This is someone else. Someone who wants to be seen — but not known."
Cassian sat beside him. "Someone worse."
The next morning, Luca arrived early for rehearsal.
He was jittery, eyes darting, fingers tapping against his thigh like a metronome gone rogue.
Elián watched him from across the studio.
"Rough night?" he asked gently.
Luca forced a smile. "Didn't sleep much. Too many dreams."
"Nightmares?"
Luca shrugged. "Aren't they the same thing?"
Elián tilted his head. "Not always."
Luca looked away.
Later, while Luca rehearsed a new piece, Elián stepped into the hallway to take a call.
Vivienne.
"I saw the clip," he said without preamble. "The masked figure. That's your show."
Vivienne sighed. "It's performance art, Elián. Viral marketing. You of all people should understand that."
"Who is it?"
"I don't know. We hired an actor. They don't speak. The voice is AI-generated."
"But the script?"
She paused. "Anonymous submission. We get hundreds."
Elián didn't believe her.
Not entirely.
That night, Cassian found the package.
It was sitting on their doorstep. No postage. No return address. Just a plain black envelope, sealed with wax.
Inside: a flash drive.
Cassian plugged it into his laptop.
One file.
No title.
He clicked play.
The screen flickered.
Then: Elián.
Asleep.
In their bed.
The camera was still. Hidden. Close.
The timestamp: six nights ago.
Cassian's breath caught.
He turned to Elián, who had just stepped into the room, towel slung over his shoulder.
"What is it?" Elián asked.
Cassian didn't speak.
He just turned the screen toward him.
Elián's face drained of color.
"That's… our bedroom."
He took a step back.
Then another.
Cassian stood.
"We're not alone."