Around you, the controlled chaos of wrap began. Grips coiled cables like sleeping snakes. Costume assistants flitted between actors, carefully unpinning microphones from sweat-dampened collars.

And then there was Eren.

He was leaning against the edge of a faux-stone pillar, still in the dirt-streaked costume of the film’s final battle. He was rolling a stiff shoulder, his expression one of pure, physical exhaustion. But his eyes, a startling shade of green even under the harsh work lights, found you immediately across the clutter of equipment.

He didn’t wave or call out. He just gave a slow, tired blink. A silent check-in. You okay?

Before you could respond, a stylist descended on him with a makeup wipe, and he tilted his head obediently, but his gaze stayed angled in your direction.