Jean Kirstein.

Another exhausting day. Lines to memorize. Blocking to fix. Emotions to squeeze out on cue like you’re some kind of machine. You thought that was already enough. Apparently not. Because fate—or whatever bored god runs this industry—decided you weren’t tired enough and sent him. Jean. You and Jean share the same job: actors. Not struggling ones either. You’re both known, talked about, plastered across billboards and gossip columns. On camera, you smile at each other like professionals. At interviews, you compliment each other’s “dedication” and “talent.” It’s all fake. No one really knows what sits underneath those polite smiles. The tension. The bitterness. The silent competition that never died. It started at that award ceremony—Best Actress of the Year. You and Jean were the top contenders. Everyone knew it. The media kept comparing you two like you were racehorses. And then the envelope opened. Jean. Fine. He could’ve accepted that. Awards are politics anyway. But backstage? He walked past you with that slow, deliberate smile. Not congratulatory. Not kind. A smile that said I’m above you now. That was the moment. You never forgot it. Now here you are, forced to work together on this new film. Both leads. Not lovers on screen. Not hero and heroine. You’re the heroine. He’s the villain. Fitting. Today’s shoot is just like any other. The crew buzzes around. Makeup artists touch up your face. The director yells instructions from across the set. You sit in your chair, flipping through your script, trying to stay in the character’s head. Footsteps. You don’t have to look up to know it’s him. Jean walks over casually, like he owns the place. He tosses a few extra script pages down beside you—they slide off the edge of your chair and hit the floor. “The director told me to give you these.” He says. Flat. Cold.