"Every artist we hired has failed," Jacquet's words rang in the air. "Far from drawing her, they couldn't even find her."

The door to the mansion opened, and the frail figure of Charles emerged from within.

"They told me she isn't real. They told me she is a ghost."

The butler bid him goodbye, but Charles didn't notice as the whispers of Jacquet still itched his ears.

"They said she is in his imagination."

Charles looked back at the mansion. He could still vividly recall the creases on the face of Jacquet as he mentioned all this to him.

The camera cut to Jacquet staring at the familiar drawing of the sun.

He was silent, his lips unmoving.

Over the serene scene bathed in the artificial sunlight, his words continued.

"My father has often maintained, in his writings, that she is 'not for the unworthy,' and that there is a 'prerequisite to meet her.' How much of that is the babbling of an insane man, you decide."

He looked solemn as he brushed his hand against the painting.

"Who she is, what she is, even I shudder to think of. But I know—"

The camera cut back to a close-up of Charles as he turned away from the strange manor.

"—that she still exists."

The gate opened with a creak.

"Leaving, Charles?"

The Photographer turned to face Marianne, who was walking towards him with leisurely steps.

"Without a goodbye?"

The scene transitioned.

Jacquet crossed the room, leaned against the window in a motion now familiar to the audience, and peered out at his sister and Charles.

The Photographer was a quiet man and part of the filth, as his mother called them.

But he was useful, since his sister seemed to have taken an interest in him.

"You've always had a taste for the romantic…" Jacquet groaned. "I'm sure you wouldn't mind marrying the boy. It's like charity to you, adopting a stray."

He lit a cigar and blew a puff before turning to his bedridden father.

"Look, how much I do for you."

Holding the cigar between his index and middle fingers, he sat on the windowsill.

"You know—" He paused, caught his breath, and continued. "I was very shocked when I read your will. It didn't sound right."

He looked back at the pair in front of the front gate.

"Her, receiving half of the business?"

He shook his head and inhaled another puff.

"I was hurt. I thought we knew each other, that we wanted the same things. Why write a will, then? Did Mother put the idea in your head? The high society must have seen it; they won't let me question its authenticity…"

His gaze drifted towards Charles.

"He is an outsider, came from the deserts. They are useful in their own way, although you'd never admit that. Wouldn't he make a wonderful husband for your daughter?"

He looked back at his father. His eyes weren't as cold, but his voice was even more of a whisper.

"Your will, it will be dismissed the moment those two marry. The high society's insistence on 'respecting Anselme de Roschillian's wishes' will vaporize the moment they learn that an outsider will have sway in The City."

He sauntered towards the bed.

"Wouldn't that be fun? They built a dome to keep others out. Then, they took a few in and chipped them."

He kneeled and whispered, "In a place without animals, they made them the stray dogs."

He blew a puff of smoke in the sleeping man's face.

"And you were complicit."

He put all his weight on his elbow and leaned to whisper in his father's ear.

"The motif of your paintings, especially the 'dog in the presence of culture,' may look strange at worst, but I know what they represent."

He leaned closer, his eyes ferociously burning with defiance.

"He saw them, your soon-to-be son-in-law."

The sleeping man's eyebrows twitched as if he were having a horrible nightmare.

"He is one of those animals you painted, one that will shag your daughter. Your daughter."

Averie grinned.

He found the story behind that beautiful performance too funny. The last line wasn't even in the script to begin with.

"He doesn't have it in him, that boy."

Those words rang in the devilish actor's head. Benoit Durand had said them to him.

"He isn't like you."

"Yeah, he is shit."

It was the last day that the three of them were scheduled to film together. Everything had gone swimmingly, despite Director Groux's insistence on filming the sequence in chronological order.

But even though the actors felt satisfied, the good director didn't. And Averie didn't fail to notice. Like the caring, lovely man he was, he offered to help.

"Shall I rile him up?"

That was his exact offer.

The reply was just as expected.

"What?"

"You don't look satisfied with Olivier in this scene. Do you want me to breathe some passion into him?"

The good director was taken aback—admittedly not enough to refuse the offer.

And so, Averie departed for one Mr. Benoit Durand.

"Want to patronize a younger actor?"

Again, the reply was just as expected.

"I'm sorry?"

The horror in the eyes of the senior actor was a sight to behold—especially since it was paired with a twitching grin.

The two chose an area just out of earshot of the crew to badmouth Olivier Claude. It was the corridor leading up to the waiting room assigned to him, which wasn't a random choice.

As Averie had expected, Olivier indeed chanced upon their lively conversation.

The subtle insults of the senior actor and the profanities of the younger one were enough to light a fire under him.

"If at all possible, I would like to film one more take."

Director Groux was shocked to hear those words from an actor as prideful as Olivier.

After filming the scene again, he knew that letting Averie be his natural self—an absolute dick—was the right choice more often than not.

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