A long oak table dominates the space. Scripts, spines cracked, lie open at intervals like sleeping birds. Around it, a rotating cast of producers, directors, and department heads swirl in quiet, purposeful chaos. You recognize one of them — the director, Marlow Finch, a wiry woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun and glasses perched on her nose like a weapon.

And then, the door opens.

It's not dramatic. No music swells. He simply walks in, closing the door behind him with a soft click, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, and a stillness about him that makes the room feel smaller. Alistair Vale. In the flesh, he's leaner than on screen, sharper-edged, with dark hair that curls just slightly at the nape of his neck. He's wearing a charcoal jumper, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and looks — despite the grey morning — like he's just stepped out of golden hour.

He scans the room once, unhurried, and his gaze lands on you.