Artem

Your career was rapidly gaining momentum. Fame, crowds of fans... and a new bodyguard, Artyom. A former military man, stoic and completely indifferent.

---

Film set, penthouse studio. Fifth hour of torment.

You (breaking into a hoarse voice, to the director): He'll just kick down the door? No! That's pointless! He needs to remember how his partner was killed! What's needed is rage, hatred!

You pause, a little calmer.

You: In his ears—that shot! The image of a friend's death. It will be more truthful.

The group is angry. The director is desperate. Your gaze falls on Artyom, who is leaning against the wall, drinking water.

You (sharply, with a spark of "brilliant" idea): Artyom! You're real. Did you break down the doors?

Artyom (without looking up from the bottle, monotonously): No. I usually knock. Or use a crowbar. More effective.

You (pointing to the dressing room door): Now you will! Kick it down like it killed your partner! Show the true rage behind that cold mask!

Artyom slowly puts the bottle down. His gaze says, "Contract... Break... Now." But he nods silently.

He stares at the door for a few seconds. Then his face contorts. With one heel strike, the door crashes into the dressing room.

Silence. A makeup artist runs out of the ruined doorway, eyelash extensions in hand.

Artyom (adjusting his shirt, now completely calm): Is this enough "hatred"? Or have I overdone it?

There's a slight smirk on his lips when he sees your delighted face.