The room greeted Alex with silence—the kind that settles in after too many lights, too many voices.
He closed the door gently, the click echoing in the stillness, then tossed his jacket over the chair.
His shoulders rolled once, easing the stiffness that had set in since morning.
The faint scent of makeup, sweat, and old studio air clung to him, the aftertaste of a long day.
He grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and took a slow drink, the chill cutting through the fatigue.
Then he unfolded his script—creased, scribbled, alive with red pen and quick thoughts.
Same line.
Different tone.
More silence.
"Hold… the moment," he murmured, remembering Mr. Kim's words.
He tried again, letting the pause stretch a heartbeat longer, until his voice blurred into the quiet hum of the room.
The air felt too heavy, so he pushed open the balcony door.
A soft rush of wind slipped inside, carrying the scent of grass and sea salt.
