5 minutes.
Kein was still sitting in the folding chair, the script closed over his knees.
He didn't need it. Every line, every step, every pause had been locked in since the night before. The problem had never been the text.
'If I do this well… the nightmares will come back tonight.'
He thought it without changing his expression. So far, it had only affected his body. But every time he pulled from those real memories — the training, the smell of burnt iron, the mistakes, the faces that could no longer scream — something inside refused to go back into its box when they yelled "cut."
Kein glanced at the counter in his peripheral vision.
[57 Units]
He took a single breath, slow.
'Let's begin.'
He stood up. He needed makeup.
———//————————————//———
This scene didn't have many lines. Thorne didn't even look at him when giving directions:
"I want you there before the camera finds you." He pointed at a mark on the floor. "Nikolai talks, Dimitri walks in, you're already there. That's it."
The improvised office smelled like freshly painted wood: dark walls, a heavy desk, two chairs in front and none behind. Gerald, the one playing Nikolai, was sixty, shaved white hair, hands with scars that looked real. He had shaken Kein's hand when he walked in and only said his name. Nothing else. He looked more like a man who had buried bodies than an actor.
Ethan, playing Dimitri, was twenty-six and carried the restless energy of someone who had been counting the days to shoot.
Kein took position to Gerald's right, one step behind, still.
"Action."
Nikolai began talking about territory, about an unpaid debt, about how Dimitri needed to learn the rules. Ethan listened standing, hands at his sides. His body showed attention; his eyes showed he was thinking about something else.
Viktor didn't react.
Not because he ignored the words.
Because Viktor had already processed them before they were spoken.
When Dimitri finished and cast a quick glance toward where Viktor stood, Viktor let his eyes move on their own. Two seconds. The look of someone who had already completed the full assessment before anyone asked for his opinion.
Nikolai made a short gesture with his hand.
"You can go."
Dimitri left. The door clicked shut.
Viktor waited.
Nikolai barely turned his head.
"What do you think?"
"That he's not ready yet."
A pause.
"But I'll teach him," Viktor said, and the smile appeared slowly, never reaching the eyes.
Nikolai nodded once.
Silence.
"Cut."
Thorne stood up from the monitor and approached with his hands in his pockets.
"Feet," he pointed. "You're leaning too far forward. Viktor isn't ready to move. Viktor is a shadow. Still. The difference is minimal, but the camera devours it."
Kein adjusted his posture without speaking.
'Old habits.'
"Again."
Second take.
This time, when Dimitri entered, Viktor didn't follow him with his gaze. He let him cross the space and kept him only in the corner of his eye, like just another piece of furniture in the background. Ethan stumbled slightly on a line halfway through.
Viktor didn't even blink out of rhythm.
The evaluation lasted a second and a half. Enough to make it clear the file was already closed.
"You can go."
Dimitri left.
"What do you think?"
"That he's not ready yet."
A longer pause. Viktor let the silence do the work.
"But I'll teach him." He smiled again.
"Cut."
Thorne stayed silent for three full seconds.
"Good. Let's move to scene two."
———//————————————//———
The set for scene two smelled like real metal.
The brazier was real. The iron too, handle wrapped in leather, tip shaped like an open mouth with a tongue sticking out. It had been painted to look authentic; the heat would be handled in post.
The actor tied to the chair was named Sousa. Early twenties, they said he had been doing extras for three years. Plastic restraints, head down, rag in his mouth. Kein recognized him immediately. A face he had already seen before.
Kein moved to his position. Everyone was already in place.
"Action."
"Look at him carefully," Viktor said, shifting his gaze toward Dimitri. "That's how shoulders look when someone knows they made a mistake before you even open your mouth. Your father spotted it in two seconds."
He turned toward the subordinate.
"Lift your head."
Nothing.
"I told you to lift your head."
The voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. It was the tone of someone who considers disobedience just additional data to decide what comes next.
Sousa lifted his head abruptly.
"Good."
Viktor stepped toward the side table, wrapping the handle with a folded cloth.
"Your father never shouted in moments like this. The one who shouts is nervous. The one who is nervous is afraid. And the one who is afraid…"
He lifted the iron.
"Has already lost."
Smoke covered half his face. Only his dark, cold eyes remained visible.
Dimitri looked at the tip: small, precise, a mouth with its tongue out.
"Didn't they use to cut fingers off before?"
"Before, yes."
Viktor walked toward the chair without hurry.
"A man without two fingers can't handle a weapon properly, can't drive with precision, can't tie decent knots." Pause. "You removed the mistake… and half his usefulness."
He circled the chair slowly, left arm close to his body.
"He spoke drunk when he shouldn't have. The enemies already know what they know. That can't be erased."
He stopped just behind.
"But you can make sure everyone sees what happens when someone talks. And if one day he decides to run… if he even can…"
His eyes lowered to the neck.
"Whoever sees him will know exactly who they're dealing with."
What followed lasted four seconds.
Viktor brought the iron close to the neck with the same familiarity as if he had done it yesterday. He aimed directly at the side of the jugular.
There was no heat. No smell. No blood. But Sousa was trembling. He knew it was fake. He knew it perfectly. Still, his instincts were screaming "run."
For a moment, he saw it — the iron going through his neck.
He shut his eyes out of pure fear.
It wasn't in the script.
If the restraints hadn't been plastic, he would already be halfway across the warehouse.
Viktor stepped back and returned beside Dimitri.
"Like this," he said without any added emotion.
"Not because you want him to suffer. Because he has to understand that consequences are real. If he doesn't understand it here, he'll understand it on the street. And on the street, I won't be there to control it."
Pause.
"Do you understand?"
Dimitri didn't answer immediately.
"Good," Viktor concluded, taking the answer as given.
"Cut."
Two seconds of absolute silence.
Raymond Chu had his pen frozen above the notebook.
Sara Molina had set the script aside.
John Thorne sat there, hand on his chin, watching the take.
'A clean take… shame we can't keep it whole.'
"Movement," Thorne said, standing. "When you circled the subordinate, your left arm opened up. The camera was here," he pointed. "You blocked Sousa's face for two seconds."
Kein nodded.
"Again from the brazier."
Second take. Action.
The lines carried the same weight. The movements, corrected. When the moment behind the chair came, the camera captured both faces perfectly.
"Do you understand?"
Dimitri didn't answer.
"Good."
"Cut."
Thorne watched the monitor for one more second.
'I'll keep the first take for post…'
"That's it. We're done with Viktor for today."
Kein left the cloth on the table.
The warehouse temperature took a few seconds to feel normal again.
Or maybe it was just him.
He sat in his folding chair and closed his eyes.
Viktor didn't leave completely when they called "cut." He stayed there, silent, waiting for the next time he would be needed. Kein let him stay. He didn't push him away. He knew that tonight, when he closed his eyes in his room, those same memories would open again.
Sousa, now untied, approached with a bottle of water.
"Hey." He offered it. "That was… weird." He smiled awkwardly, rubbing his neck. "I mean it as a compliment."
Kein took the bottle.
"Thanks."
Sousa nodded and walked away, still unsure whether he had spoken to the actor or the character.
Kein took a long drink.
Outside, someone was already dismantling the brazier with the sound of metal.
'I hope I sleep well tonight…'
He knew he wouldn't.
But the series would reach a lot of people.
And when it did, he would be there. On every screen. In every replay. Every time someone pressed play.
That was what really mattered.
He stood up.
Tomorrow was rehearsal at the Silver.