The last scream was Dorian's best one yet. It traveled through the set like a glass shard—clean, thin, convinced. For a second the camera loved him; the director loved him; the boom mic operator screamed a thank-you into her walkie and someone in lighting laughed. Dorian let the scream die where it should and opened his mouth for a softer sound, the human aftertaste of whatever monstrous thing he'd just been inside. Then he walked off, palms sticky from stage blood and adrenaline. "That's a wrap on take twelve," the director said, already halfway toward a trailer, hair in a messy bun and eyeliner smeared by a midnight nap. "Hoffman, you owe me lunch." Dorian smiled that public smile—lighter for the jawbone than the eyes—and shouldered the duffel his assistant shoved at him. He'd done the brutal scene twelve times, traded lines for quiet truth. Acting taught him how to sleep with a character and then, with a practiced sigh, hand the plate back to the kitchen. The production van smelled like coffee gone flat, energy drink cans, and the faint antiseptic of prosthetic glue. He sat against the vinyl bench and let the city sounds tuck around him. Outside the windows, the lot had become a string of tentacles and light, crew tents and stolen darkness. His phone buzzed with a crew voicemail; he listened half-awake: "Don't forget wardrobe for eight A.M., D. And seriously, don't eat