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Damien worried the magic might slip away if they waited.
The restaurant buzzed to life. Lights shifted into place, tracks rolled out smooth, and extras settled into their seats. Cassius sat at the piano and waited.
An older extra wandered over and dropped into the chair beside him. He wore a faded gray suit and glasses, a newspaper tucked under one arm. He glanced at Cassius and smiled.
"Nervous?"
Cassius shook his head.
"Good," the man said, unfolding his paper. "I've done this for decades. Nothing worse than watching someone fake playing piano. Audiences spot that shit in a second."
Cassius stayed quiet.
The man kept going. "But you? I heard you earlier. That was real. You've got something."
Cassius looked at him. "You play?"
"Used to. Orchestra in New York, fifty years. These hands have seen it all." He held them up—wrinkled, thick-knuckled, nails cut short. They were a pianist's hands, no question.
"Just pretend I'm not here when we roll," the man said. "I'm just background. You do your thing."
Cassius nodded.
Damien's voice crackled over the walkie. "All departments ready—action!"
The clapperboard snapped.
Cassius's fingers touched the keys and started City of Stars. The restaurant fell silent. Not because of the script, but because the sound pulled everyone in. Extras froze mid-sip, coffee cups hovering. The old man lowered his paper, eyes fixed on Cassius's hands over the rims of his glasses. A waiter stood frozen by the door, tray in hand, completely lost.
Cassius kept his eyes closed. His playing was slow and careful, like he was afraid to disturb something fragile. Every note carried weight—the quiet ache of walking into an empty bar at dusk, the clumsy hope of falling for someone you knew might leave, the ache of remembering someone who once mattered more than anything. It was Sebastian's loneliness made real.
Damien stood frozen behind the monitors. The camera operator held his breath. The lighting guy's hands shook, but no one cared. The light was perfect, catching the slight tremble in Cassius's lashes.
When the last note faded, the restaurant stayed quiet for a long beat. Then someone started clapping. It spread fast—extras, crew, strangers who had wandered in—all of them on their feet, applauding like they'd just witnessed something holy.
Damien walked straight to the piano, eyes red. He looked at Cassius like he was seeing his own creation breathe for the first time. Sebastian had come alive.
Cassius opened his mouth to speak, but the panel flashed in front of him.
[Project: La La Land]
[Current Progress: 10%]
[Performance Level: C]
[Director Satisfaction: B+]
[Team Collaboration: D+]
[Audience Expectation: E]
[Overall Rating: C—]
[Reward: Trendsetter Progress +1%]
The numbers had moved. Director satisfaction and performance had jumped after that single take. Real rewards were finally showing up.
"I want that take exactly as it is," Damien said, voice rough. "Not a single frame cut."
He clapped Cassius on the shoulder and turned back to the monitors.
Cassius stayed at the piano, fingers still resting on the keys. He could feel the warmth left behind from the music.
Afternoon shooting rolled on. More restaurant scenes needed coverage. Emma's parts were scheduled later, so she hadn't arrived yet. Cassius sat in a corner with a bottle of water, sipping slow.
A young production assistant approached, notebook in hand, looking nervous. "Could I—could I get an autograph?"
Cassius took the notebook without hesitation, signed it, and handed it back.
The assistant's face flushed. "Thank you," she said softly. "For bringing Sebastian to life."
Cassius didn't know what to say. She smiled and hurried off.
He heard the piano tuner's voice beside him. "She's right, you know."
Cassius turned. The tuner had settled into the next chair with a coffee, eyes on the piano.
"I've tuned for thirty years. Heard a lot of people play. You're the first real talent I've seen in a long time."
Cassius stayed quiet.
"Some people play with their hands," the tuner said. "You play with your soul."
Cassius thought of 1900's words about the eighty-eight keys and how the player becomes infinite. He looked at the black and white keys in front of him. Three different souls lived in his head now—Fletcher's obsession, 1900's purity, and Sebastian's quiet ache. Together they let him reach something bigger than any one of them.
Emma pushed through the door in the late afternoon. Cool air hit her, mixed with the smell of old wood and coffee. She took a few steps inside and felt the strange quiet in the room. Crew members huddled in corners, whispering and glancing at the piano. The lighting guy sat on his crate, cigarette burning down to ash without noticing. The tuner stood by the window, staring at the keys like they held answers.
She found Damien behind the monitors, rewatching footage with headphones on. She tapped his shoulder.
He jumped, pulled the headphones off, and looked at her with a dazed expression. "You're here."
"Traffic," Emma said. She gestured around. "What's going on? Everyone looks like they saw a ghost."
Damien stared at her for two seconds, then handed her the headphones. "Watch it yourself."
Emma slipped them on and stared at the screen. Cassius sat at the piano in Sebastian's old gray suit. Light slanted through the window across his face, catching the faint tremor in his lashes. Then he started to play.
She watched his hands move—slow, deliberate, like the notes were something sacred. She saw the extras frozen, coffee cups forgotten in mid-air. She saw the old man lower his paper, glasses off, eyes glassy. She saw Cassius with his eyes closed, completely lost in the music, like the rest of the world had disappeared and only the keys remained.
The clip ended.