Hell's Actor

In a room decorated in the baroque style, white curtains puffed and deflated as pleasant wind rushed in and swirled around the place.

Like arms, they reached out towards the bed at the center of the room. They wiggled and stretched but couldn't graze the man lying in tranquillity upon it.

His thinning hair was slicked back and had a greyish-white shade. His moustache was thinning, and his eyes were closed.

It was Benoit Durand's second role for the film.

The camera panned down to show his pillow. On its fabric was something written in golden threads.

De Roschillian.

The bed was surrounded by walls covered in portraits and paintings. Shields of gold and plaques of silver lined the cupboard under the solitary clock.

The camera zoomed out, showing a man standing with his hands clasped behind his back at the foot of the bed.

This one was far younger.

His hair was black, and his eyes were open.

But that didn't make him seem any livelier.

He stood there for a minute as the curtains blowing in the wind tried to grab him before turning to the window to his left.

His brisk walk was dignified; the scowl on his face was anything but.

He leaned against the window frame, basking in the warmth of the sun.

It was the uppermost floor of the domed city. Unlike the rest of it, the ceiling on the top floor was curved, with an artificial sky and artificial sun shining overhead.

It was a privilege to live in such a luxurious area, but the man didn't see it that way.

It was evident from his countenance that he despised the sun and the brightness it brought along with it.

His gaze was cast downward—towards the sculpture garden where a woman sat. She was dressed in a white dress, and though he tried, he could not inspect her expression from the angle provided to him.

He couldn't pinpoint when it had begun—his distaste for her. But thinking about it only worsened his migraine, and the damned sun didn't help.

With a clenched fist, he retraced his steps back to the bed. With a last glance at the head of the family, he left the room.

Averie turned in his seat, searched around, and found the face he was looking at.

Sitting in the row behind him, right next to Sofia Monet, was the man whose face was on the screen only moments ago.

Averie grinned at him, which the recipient found ill-natured.

He scowled, far more passionately than his character on the big screen.

Olivier Claude was his name, and many people in the industry had great expectations from him.

Unlike Josephine, he hadn't had the chance to star in a major role in a blockbuster production. He did, nonetheless, play some great supporting characters in big productions.

When he was initially approached by Director Groux, the actor felt a connection with the script. Almost immediately, he agreed to the role of The Photographer. It was a role he truly wanted.

Thanks to his passion, even the ever-composed director felt guilty for the misunderstanding.

Olivier was bitter to learn that it wasn't the lead role that he was being offered. But like a good professional, he accepted the supporting role.

It was on the fourth day of the filming that he met Averie Quinn Auclair.

It wasn't a pleasant meeting. Who'd thrown the first snarky remark nobody knew, but Hyerin had complete belief in her friend—belief that it was most definitely him who started it all.

Unlike Averie, Olivier did not enjoy that sort of 'dialogue,' if it could be called that. He had a packed schedule around that time and couldn't make time to be present on the set to observe the others.

The pair also didn't have many scenes together, so he barely had any chance to witness the actor who had—in his eyes—stolen his role.

He had a hard time accepting Averie and his eccentricity, and so, the animosity continued.

Averie enjoyed it, which pissed off the solemn actor even more.

Olivier, trying to ignore the taunting Averie, turned his eyes back towards the moving pictures.

'He isn't bad…'

He had accepted that on the few occasions when they got to act together.

'But nothing so far was that challenging.'

In his eyes, what mattered was the middle to end part of the film.

'We'll see how good you are.'

He himself was a good actor.

'On that note, who is playing The Lady?'

But he was also ignorant.

***

A beautiful sequence, showing the beauty of the neon city, unfolded for the next five minutes.

Accompanied by an impressive blend of music and mundane noises, it felt like a scene right out of a storybook.

The neon marketplace, the lower floors, and even a few of the upper floors were shown.

The treatment of The Photographer differed from place to place. While the lower floors didn't make a fuss about him, the upper floors treated him like a dreg of society.

It was a colorful and vivacious sequence.

With sparkling eyes, Ingrid—the Bavarian—turned to Kate. "It's impressive, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's dreamlike," the girl replied, her mouth ajar in awe.

"I don't know." Richard covered his mouth and yawned. "It's a little too… simple for me."

"Shut up." Marrie glared at him. "Gingers don't get to criticize anyone or anything."

Richard clicked his tongue before quieting down.

Hikaru, who was enjoying the film while stuffing his face, offered his poor friend his bucket of caramel popcorn.

"Eww, who likes caramel on their popcorn?"

With a face full of scorn, Hikaru showed him a middle finger. "Shut up, ginger."

The group of six occupied the backseats, and their voices were barely whispers. The banter didn't disturb the rest of the audience, and they prided themselves on that fact.

Unlike the rest, Gabriel hadn't said a word. The film was different than all the entries before it. It was extremely well-made, but it didn't seem to be in a hurry to impress anyone.

'It's good.'

But he had a feeling that it was hiding something more awe-inspiring.

On the screen, the montage came to a halt.

"This is where you'll be staying."

The music dissolved, and the story continued.

Finally, The Photographer had a place to stay.