Dust motes danced in the amber spill of the work lights. The air smelled of ozone, old wood, and the particular tension that precedes a first scene.

The director, a wiry woman named Margo with silver-streaked hair, peered at her monitor and nodded once.

And there he was.

Standing across the set, half in shadow, rolling his shoulders like a boxer before a bout. A script dangling from one hand. Dark eyes fixed on the floor, then lifting.

They landed on you.