"I hated him most when—
I wanted him most."
—Nil
The light outside the studio had softened, casting gold along the concrete edges, as if the day itself was reluctant to end.
Inside, the room buzzed with technical murmurs—lens changes, light recalibrations, quiet nods between crew.
Nil stood near the video assist monitor, still in costume, back slightly hunched from hours of standing under artificial lights. Director Kim leaned in, one arm crossed, the other raised as he gestured toward the screen.
"This angle looks good," he murmured, eyes locked on the playback. "Keep that left profile in mind—it catches your restraint just right."
Then, with a thoughtful nod, "Your acting range has improved these past two days. Keep it up."
Nil gave a quiet bow.
"But," Kim added, tapping the screen, "this beat here—needs more accuracy. Less instinct. More intention."
Than, who had been quietly reviewing footage beside them, excused himself with a stretch and disappeared toward the greenroom.
Nil remained. His eyes didn't leave the monitor, but his thoughts clearly had. A silence stretched. Then, without turning his head, he spoke.
"Sir... may I ask you something?"
Kim didn't answer right away. He simply turned his face toward Nil, gaze steady, "Ask," he said simply.
Nil hesitated. Then he looked up. His voice was soft, but not faint. It carried the quiet courage of someone who had bitten his tongue too long.
"Why did you choose me for this project?"
Kim's expression didn't change.
"Someone like me," Nil continued, a hand gesturing to himself almost absently. "With no resources... no connections, no background... not even the right accent."
He blinked once. Just once.
"Why?"
Not a complaint, not flattery, not a plea. Just a question. Pure and clear, stripped bare of pride. Like a stone dropped into still water—it rippled.
Kim didn't answer immediately. He only looked at Nil, the way a man looks at a strange flower blooming in the wrong season—surprised, uncertain, but unable to look away.
At last, he spoke.
"You ask as if talent is supposed to come wearing a name tag."
He turned his gaze back to the monitor. "Sometimes it doesn't."
He reached up, rewound the footage, paused it at a frame—Nil's face in profile, eyes full of barely restrained tears, lip trembling but refusing to break.
"Sometimes it comes like this. From nowhere. Quiet. Raw. And real."
Then Director Kim tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Not patronizing. Not indulgent. Just quiet. Real.
"And, art has nothing to do with status," he said. "Or resources. Or names carved into someone else's walls."
His gaze rested on Nil—not piercing, not heavy, but certain, "When I write... I don't just write scenes. I see characters. I can hear them."
He lifted a finger, tapping it gently against his temple. "And when I wrote that role, his face was already alive in my mind."
Nil listened without blinking, his eyes wide with an almost childlike intensity, the kind that came from someone who had always been forced to expect nothing—and therefore, never dared to ask.
Kim continued, voice even, "It wasn't Boon. It wasn't any of the twenty-five actors who auditioned. Their voices were clean. Their posture trained. But they weren't him."
Then, with a glance sideways, he said it like an afterthought—but every syllable struck with precision.
"But when I saw you in the washroom mirror, reciting lines to yourself while washing your hands—" he gave a short exhale, half amused, half resolute, "—I knew. It was you."
His hand came up and rested on Nil's shoulder—not heavily, not formally. Just a brief touch. But it steadied like a promise.
"Don't ask why anymore," Kim said. "Just act."
Then he turned and walked off, the sound of his footsteps swallowed quickly by the padded studio floor.
Nil stood still for a long moment. Then slowly, as if his limbs were moving separately from his heart, he lowered himself onto the folding chair by the makeup station.
His reflection looked back at him, half-painted, half-undone.
The makeup artist approached quietly, touching up the edge of his jawline with practiced grace. But Nil's thoughts had already spilled far from the mirror.
He didn't speak aloud. But in his chest, the words were deafening.
''I was wrong"
"So wrong."
"How could I ever believe... someone like him—someone so righteous—"
"—could have done something so low."
His hands curled into fists on his knees, ''I have to apologize.''
The clock read 6:45 when Nil stepped into the tall glass doors of Neptune Music.
Just a week ago, when he entered this building, people didn't even glance at him. At most, they scowled—if they looked at all. To them, he was a stain on the marble floor.
But today—today the air shifted.
He had barely passed the reception when whispers began blooming like weeds.
"Is that Nil?"
"The waiter?"
"Isn't he the lead in Director Kim's new series?"
"Very lucky, that one..."
An intern, barely older than a high school student, hurried toward him, nearly tripping over her own lanyard. Her name tag read Malai.
"You're Nil, right?" she asked, eyes wide and gleaming.
Nil hesitated. "Hm."
"You're so handsome in real life!" she breathed, cheeks pink. "Can I have your autograph?"
Nil blinked. "...I'm not a star yet."
"But I know you will be! When that series comes out, I'm going to frame your autograph in my living room. You'll see!"
She shoved a folded handkerchief into his hand—light blue, embroidered with tiny daisies.
Nil didn't know where to look. Awkward, he signed it with a small, slanted Nil, then cleared his throat.
"Um... Could you took me to Strangg—" his voice caught. He quickly corrected, "I mean... Kao's sir cabin?"
Malai beamed. "Of course! He's with Ms. Lava right now, I'll take you there.''
He gave a polite nod, and followed her down the long hallway lined with glass-walled offices and soft amber lights. When they reached the end of the corridor, she pointed toward a sleek black door with a silver nameplate.
"—Kao Neptune—"
Then, with a quick smile and a skip in her step, she disappeared.
Now Nil stood alone.
The hallway stretched quiet behind him. His reflection stared back at him faintly in the glossy surface of the door. His heart thudded hard in his chest—loud enough, his hand lifted halfway to knock.
Stopped.
Lifted again.
"Will he even listen?"
"Will Stranger... accept my apology?"
Nil clenched his fist. His knuckles grazed the door—but still, he hesitated.
The brass handle was cool under Nil's trembling fingers. He hadn't even knocked yet—just reached out—but perhaps from nerves, or fate, or the weakness in his wrist, the door creaked open on its own.
He froze.
And his breath caught.
Inside, the room was warm with lamplight, the air faintly laced with something expensive and bitter—sandalwood, dark citrus, and maybe... arrogance.
Kao sat casually behind his desk, one leg crossed over the other, eyes half-lidded in calm detachment.
And Lava—Neptune Music's poised, jewel-toned executive assistant—was standing far too close, fingers delicately adjusting the metal collar clips at his throat. Her hair grazed his shoulder. From Nil's angle, it looked like she was pressing a kiss to his neck.
Nil's stomach turned.
His nerves shattered instantly. Something hotter rose up to take their place.
So this is the man I was about to apologize to.
Kao's gaze flickered up—and then sharpened when he saw him.
"Nil."
Nil's lips pulled into a smile, one that showed no joy, only restraint. His voice was steady, but behind it was the sound of something boiling.
"I think I came at the wrong time."
He turned to leave.
"Stop." The command rang out, sharp.
Nil didn't turn. But his feet disobeyed.
A second passed. Then Kao's voice dropped an octave. "Lava."
She understood instantly. With a sly smirk, she nodded and left the room.
The door hadn't even fully closed when Kao was already beside Nil.
Nil still wouldn't look at him.
So Kao reached out—fingers wrapping around his wrist—not tight, but inescapable. A quiet force. Then, in one pull, he dragged Nil fully into the room and shut the door behind them with a soft, heavy click.
The sound was final.
Kao didn't let go.
His eyes were warm now—too warm. Too close. They drank in Nil's face with a hunger he didn't bother to hide.
"You're looking good," he said lowly.
And then, gently, his fingers reached up toward the single errant curl resting just above Nil's brow. The touch was slow, almost reverent. As if brushing that lock of hair was more intimate than a kiss.
But before he could reach it, Nil sharply turned his head aside.
The gesture was clean, cold, and practiced—like snapping a fan shut.
Then he yanked his hand free and took one step back.
Kao's expression flickered.
The warmth drained. The smile vanished.
His gaze darkened.
"...What?" he asked.
Nil lifted his chin. His voice was stiff. Tense.
"I just came to say sorry."
A beat.
"That day, I was wrong."
His words dropped like stones. Heavy. Dry. Each syllable stripped of emotion.
"Director Kim told me you never recommended me."
Silence.
Then Nil's eyes narrowed, and he added with cold finality—
"Thank you, Stranger."
Nil's words, though polite on the surface, struck like the edge of a finely honed blade.
And Kao felt every inch of it.
That cold look—that unfamiliar distance—it clung to Nil's features like frost. And it was not the first time. For a week now, Nil had been giving him nothing but silence, stiff nods, and half-hearted glances that slid away the moment their eyes met.
And now—after all that time—he had finally come back, only to leave again, with words that stung like thanks from a stranger.
Kao remained still as Nil gave a shallow, practiced smile and turned to go.
But something inside him—snapped.
In the next breath, he moved.
Fast.
With a speed born not of violence, but desperation.
His hand caught Nil's wrist like iron. Then, in one fluid pull, he yanked him back, twisting him into his chest, and locked him in his arms—arms strong, warm, and unyielding.
Nil gasped faintly—the wind knocked from his lungs, not by force, but by the sudden nearness. His back was flush against Kao's chest. The scent of him—clean, dark, and infuriatingly familiar—wrapped around him like smoke.
"Stranger..." Nil exhaled, voice low.
Kao's arms only tightened.
"Nil," he said, voice rough, a low murmur against the shell of his ear.
"You can't just come here..." Kao breathed, "and walk away again. Not after all this time. Not after leaving me restless—"
He exhaled, long and slow. A sigh, almost tender.
"I'm sorry," he said, "for what I did."
His tone softened, raw and disarmed.
"But I'm not ashamed of it."
A pause. The weight of truth settled between their chests.
"If you're angry—then be angry. If you want to strike me, then do it. If you want to hate me, scream."
His hand slid up gently—fingers pressing over Nil's racing heartbeat.
"But please..." His voice cracked, just slightly.
"Don't ignore me."
Nil's hands were still pressed flat against Kao's chest.
He didn't mean to feel it—but he did.
The quick, pounding rhythm of Kao's heart. Wild. Messy. Unhidden. It betrayed everything his expression tried to conceal.
Nil stared at him, eyes dark and unreadable. "You're such a good actor."
His voice was soft. But it landed like ice.
"Truly. The best I've ever seen."
Then, without warning, he shoved him.
Kao stumbled back half a step, startled—not by the force, but by what lay behind it.
"But I'm not a fool," Nil snapped.
Kao steadied himself, blinked once. "I wasn't acting."
But Nil's composure had cracked.
His lips trembled—but not with weakness. With restraint. With fury held barely in check.
"Then tell me." He inhaled sharply. "What was Lava doing?"
Kao didn't answer.
That silence—wordless, deep—cut deeper than any excuse.
Nil turned his face away, jaw tense.
Kao's voice came at last, quiet. "She was fixing my collar clips."
Nil's breath caught. Then, without turning back, he shouted.
"God gave you two hands, didn't He? Two large, perfectly functional hands—"
He turned back now, fire lighting his eyes—
"Then why the hell weren't you using them?!"
Kao stiffened.
And for the first time in minutes, his mask cracked—not with shame, but something far more dangerous.
He nodded slowly. Bit down on his lower lip.
Then—smirked.
A small, cruel curve of his mouth.
His voice dropped.
"Are you jealous?"
Nil's gaze drifted to nowhere—anywhere but the man in front of him. His voice was tight, stretched thin between pride and panic.
"Jealous? Why would I be jealous..."
"You're just my—"
He faltered.
The words lodged in his throat like thorns. No matter how he tried to spit them out, they curled back and cut him instead.
Kao's eyes darkened.
"Finish it," he said, voice low. Dangerous.
"Who am I to you?"
Nil exhaled sharply and turned away, but before he could take another step, Kao moved.
Anger surged like a tide finally unleashed.
He seized Nil's wrist—hard—and yanked him back, locking him once again into his chest. But this time, there was no softness. No space between them.
Kao's arms crushed around him, breath hot against Nil's ear, voice ragged.
"Complete it."
Nil gasped. "S-Stranger—!"
His back arched slightly, caught in the vice of those arms.
"It hurts—my back—" he whispered, breath caught on pain and something else.
Kao didn't ease.
He leaned closer, voice trembling. "And what about me?"
"What about the pain you give me?"
His lips were close now. Too close. His hand pressed against the small of Nil's back, holding him there, as if letting go would tear something vital apart.
The silence stretched, taut as a wire between them—until—
Knock.
A sharp, precise sound. Three polite taps on the heavy door.
Nil's breath hitched, and slowly—reluctantly—they both turned to look at the door.
Another second passed. Then Nil pushed him.
With all the strength left in him, he shoved Kao's chest, breaking out of the cage of those arms. His heart thundered, his face flushed, his voice stuck behind his lips.
He crossed the room in three long strides, opened the door—
And there stood Shian.
Neat, professional. Eyes shifting from Kao to Nil with quiet calculation.
But Nil didn't stop. Didn't bow. Didn't speak.
He walked right past him, shoulders stiff, expression blank—but his eyes were storming.
Shian turned to glance back, but the door had already closed behind Nil.
Inside the office, Kao stood still for a moment.
Then, with a sound low and guttural, he turned and drove his fist hard into the edge of his marble desk.
Crack
Crack
Nil walked fast, nearly breathless, the fluorescent lights above flickering across the sweat on his brow. His hand wiped it away, his pulse pounded in his neck, but it wasn't from the walk.
It was from him.
"What I feared most... wasn't that he didn't love me."
His throat tightened.
"But that I had begun to love him anyway."