Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The air conditioning in the black van had given up the ghost somewhere around Chinatown, leaving me to stew in the thick, suffocating reality of a Bangkok afternoon. Outside the tinted windows, the heat distorted the air above the asphalt, turning the chaotic traffic of Talad Noi into a shimmering mirage of exhaust fumes and relentless sun. It was forty,two degrees in the shade, but inside my chest, it felt colder than a morgue. 

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, my sunglasses sliding down the bridge of my nose, hiding eyes that were swollen from a night spent doom,scrolling. My phone, currently face down on the beige leather seat next to me, buzzed against the upholstery every few seconds. A relentless, mechanical heartbeat. Bzzt. Bzzt. Another notification. Another tag. Another stranger analyzing the tremor in my voice from yesterday’s interview. 

P'Koi, my manager, turned from the front seat, her expression a mix of pity and professional anxiety. She held out a bottle of water, the condensation dripping onto her wrist. "Nong, are you sure about this? P'Bo said it's just a read,through. I can come in. Considering the... noise online, maybe you shouldn't be alone in there." 

I looked at the water, feeling nausea roll in my stomach. "I'm fine, P'Koi," I lied, the words tasting like ash and old pennies. "I need to do this. If I walk in there with a chaperone, I look weak. I look like the little girl everyone is talking about on Twitter." 

"You aren't a little girl, Jane. You're the lead actress of a major motion picture." 

"Then let me act like one." 

I grabbed my canvas tote bag, sliding the heavy van door open before she could argue further. The heat hit me instantly, a physical slap that knocked the breath out of my lungs. It was suffocating, sticky, and smelled of frying oil from street vendors, stagnant river water, and the metallic tang of ozone. I kept my head down, ignoring the few curious locals sitting by the shophouses, and marched toward the heavy steel door of the converted warehouse that loomed at the end of the alley. 

"The Box" wasn't a glamorous studio. It was a relic of the district's industrial past, a cavernous space chosen specifically by our director, P’Bo, for its "texture." He wanted grit. He wanted shadows. He wanted something that smelled of secrets and decay. As I reached for the scorching metal handle, my palm sweating against the iron, I realized he was going to get all of that today. 

I paused, unable to open the door just yet. Inside my head, the clip played on an agonizing, high,definition loop, louder than the traffic behind me. I could see the bright studio lights of the Talk with Toey show blinding me. I could see the host’s teasing grin, the way he leaned in like a conspirator, sensing blood in the water. 

"Fans ship you with P’Kao. As a fan yourself, having to play along, doesn’t that make you shy?" 

It was a trap. It was always a trap in this industry. But usually, I was good at sidestepping. Usually, I had the "P'Kao is a wonderful senior and a mentor" script memorized down to the syllable. But yesterday... yesterday I had been tired. Yesterday, I had been missing her after three weeks of no contact while she went "method" for this role. 

"I do get shy... I’m someone who gets emotionally invested easily. When we act, sometimes I really feel those emotions for real." 

That should have been the end of it. A cute, fan,service answer that would make the edits on TikTok go viral for a day. But the silence had stretched, and like a fool, I had filled it. 

"And at times I can’t tell whether it’s just acting or real life... that happens to me quite often." 

"Then how do you manage to separate the two?" 

"It takes time." 

I squeezed my eyes shut, cursing myself silently in the oppressive heat. It takes time. Three words. That was all it took to strip myself naked before the entire industry. I had basically admitted that I had no skin, no armor. That when P'Kao touched me, the scene didn't end when the director shouted "Cut." I carried her home with me. I carried her in my chest, heavy and aching, long after the cameras stopped rolling. I was the unprofessional amateur who fell in love with her co,star, while P'Kao was the untouchable genius. 

And now, I had to walk into a room and face her. Not the gentle P'Kao from Love Design who bought me pink milk and fixed my hair between takes. But Sira. The character she had disappeared into. The monster she had become for this film. 

I pushed the heavy door open and slipped inside, escaping the blinding white sun for the cavernous dark. 

The transition was jarring, blinding me for a moment until my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The studio was vast, a cathedral of concrete and shadows with a ceiling that disappeared into darkness. The air conditioning was fighting a losing battle against the heat radiating from the roof, leaving the air heavy, stagnant, and humid. It smelled intensely of turpentine, fresh oil paint, and the sharp, acrid scent of stale cigarette smoke,a smell that shouldn't have been there, because P'Kao didn't smoke. 

But Sira did. 

The lighting was minimal, just a few amber mood lights scattered around the perimeter and a harsh, clinical spotlight focused on the center of the room. It illuminated a worn leather Chesterfield sofa, a chaotic table of art supplies, and a large, blank canvas standing like a sentinel. 

And her. 

She was sitting on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a script resting loosely in her hand. She wasn't looking at the door. She was staring at the blank canvas, her expression unreadable, her stillness absolute. 

I halted, my sneakers squeaking softly on the polished concrete floor. My breath hitched in a way that was becoming humiliatingly familiar, a reflex I couldn't control in her presence. 

I had spent all morning preparing myself to see P'Kao. I had rehearsed my smile, my polite wai, my casual joke about the interview to break the tension. But the woman sitting in that circle of light wasn't P'Kao. 

She was wearing a black tank top that had seen better days, the fabric thin and clinging to her skin as if it had been worn for days. Her arms, usually covered by polite long sleeves in public appearances, were bare, exposing the lean, ropy muscles of her shoulders,arms that were currently glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. Her hair was a disaster, a calculated mess of dark waves falling over her forehead, damp at the temples. She wore no makeup. Her skin looked raw, golden, and dangerously real. 

She didn't look up when the door clicked shut. She just turned a page of the script, her movements sharp, precise, and utterly dismissive. 

"You're late," she said. 

The voice stopped me dead. It wasn't the melodic, higher,pitched tone she used for press conferences or fan meets. It was a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to scrape against the bottom of her throat, darker and rougher. It vibrated through the empty space between us, heavy with judgment. 

"Traffic," I managed to say, my voice sounding thin and pathetic in the large room. I clutched the strap of my bag tighter, my knuckles turning white. "The bridge was blocked near the river. I'm sorry, P'Kao." 

At the mention of her name, she finally looked up. 

The air in the room seemed to vanish, sucked out by the sheer force of her gaze. Her eyes were dark, rimmed with fatigue or intensity,I couldn't tell which. She didn't smile. There was no polite greeting, no softening of the eyes, no "It's okay, Nong." 

There was only a dissecting gaze. She looked at me the way a butcher looks at a carcass, deciding where to make the first cut. She swept her eyes up from my sneakers, lingering on the fraying hem of my jeans, pausing at my throat where my pulse was visibly jumping under the skin, and finally locking onto my eyes. 

"Come here," she commanded. 

It wasn't a request. It wasn't an invitation. It was an order given to a subordinate. 

My legs moved before my brain gave permission. I walked into the circle of light, feeling exposed under the glare while she remained comfortably half,shadowed on the leather sofa. As I got closer, the smell of her hit me,expensive tobacco, sandalwood, and the salty tang of sweat. It was overwhelming. It was the scent of a stranger wearing my favorite person's face. 

"Put your bag down, Jane. You look like you're ready to run." 

"I'm not running," I lied, dropping the canvas tote onto a wooden crate nearby. My hands felt empty and awkward without it, hovering by my sides. 

"Good." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, the script dangling from her fingertips. "Because Lyn wouldn't run. Lyn is desperate. She needs this job. She needs Sira's validation more than she needs oxygen. Are you desperate, Jane?" 

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a stone. We hadn't even started the reading yet, and she was already in character. She was already Sira, the obsessive, manipulative painter who would ruin my character’s life for the sake of a masterpiece. 

"I'm ready to work," I said, trying to summon some backbone, trying to find the professional actress buried somewhere under the fan,girl panic. 

Kao,no, Sira,tilted her head. A slow, mocking smirk touched the corner of her mouth. It was a cruel expression, devoid of warmth. 

She reached for her iPad, which was lying face down on the cushion next to her. With a flick of her wrist, she woke the screen and turned it toward me. 

The volume was turned up to the max. The sound echoed off the concrete walls, louder than a gunshot in a church. 

...sometimes I really feel those emotions for real. 

My stomach dropped through the floor. I watched my own face on the screen, flushed and naive, confessing my sins to the nation. 

Sira watched me watching myself. She didn't look at the screen; she kept her eyes fixed on my reaction, studying the way the blood rushed to my cheeks, the way my breathing grew shallow and rapid. She was enjoying this. She was feeding on my humiliation. 

She paused the video right on the frame where my eyes fluttered shut, right as I whispered, It takes time. 

"Interesting method," she murmured, standing up. 

She moved with a predatory grace, unfolding her body from the sofa and closing the distance between us. She didn't walk; she stalked. 

"P'Kao, I..." I started, stepping back instinctively. "That interview... they caught me off guard. It's just... talk. You know how the industry is. They wanted a headline." 

"Do I?" 

She took another step. I took another step back, my heel hitting the wooden crate. I was trapped. 

She stopped inches from me. She was slightly taller, just enough that she had to look down at me through her lashes. The heat radiating from her body was intense, mixing with the ambient temperature of the studio until I felt feverish. 

"You said you can't tell the difference," she whispered, her voice dropping to a register that sent a shiver straight down my spine, bypassing all logic. "You said you get emotionally invested. That it becomes... real." 

She raised a hand. I flinched, expecting her to touch my face, my cheek, maybe tuck a hair behind my ear like P'Kao would. But she didn't. She reached past my face, grabbing a lock of my hair that had fallen loose near my shoulder. She twisted it slowly around her index finger, tugging it just enough to be uncomfortable. The knuckle of her finger brushed against the shell of my ear, a ghost of a touch that felt like a brand. 

"This film," she said softly, leaning in until her lips were hovering just above the sensitive skin of my neck. She wasn't touching me, not really, but her breath was hot and damp against my skin. "Traces of Desire. It's not a romantic comedy, Nong. It's not Love Design. We aren't holding hands and drinking pink milk and staring at the sunset." 

She tugged on my hair, harder this time, forcing me to tilt my head back, exposing the vulnerable column of my throat to her. 

"Sira is going to consume Lyn," she whispered into my skin, her voice dark and promising violence. "She is going to take everything Lyn has,her body, her mind, her shame,and put it on a canvas. And if you..." 

She paused, inhaling sharply against my neck, as if smelling my fear. As if smelling the desire rotting underneath it. 

"...if you can't tell the difference between acting and reality, Jane... then you are going to be in a lot of trouble in this room." 

I couldn't breathe. My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure she could feel it radiating through the air between us. Everything in my body screamed at me to run, to push her away, to demand professionalism. But another part of me,the part that had admitted the truth on national television,was rooted to the spot, mesmerized by the danger of her. 

"I can handle it," I managed to whisper, though my voice trembled like a broken string. 

She pulled back, releasing my hair slowly, letting the strands fall against my shoulder. Her eyes searched mine, looking for the lie. Then, slowly, that terrifying, dark smirk returned. 

"Prove it." 

She turned her back on me, dismissing my presence entirely, and walked over to the chaotic table covered in art supplies. She picked up a thick stick of black charcoal, testing its weight in her hand, staining her fingertips instantly. 

"Scene 4. The boundary violation," she announced, her back to me. "Take off your shirt." 

The air left the room. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the hum of the dying air conditioner and the rush of blood in my ears. 

"What?" I choked out, my hand flying to the hem of my oversized t,shirt. 

She turned around, her expression bored, clinical, terrifyingly detached. "The script, Jane. Scene 4. Sira sketches Lyn's collarbones and spine to understand her structure. To own her shape. Lyn is wearing a silk camisole. You are wearing..." She gestured vaguely at my clothes with the charcoal stick. "...a tent." 

"I... I didn't think we were doing that part today. I thought we were just reading lines. No one else is here. P'Bo isn't even here yet." 

"I don't just read lines," she said coldly. "I build the character. Sira needs to see the canvas. If you want to stay in Love Design land, go home. P'Bo can find another actress by tomorrow morning. One who isn't 'shy'. One who knows the difference between a job and a diary entry." 

The insult landed exactly where she intended. It stung. It burned. It woke up a part of me that wasn't fearful,a part of me that was proud. I was an actress. I had won awards. I wasn't just P'Kao's cute little junior to be toyed with. I wouldn't let her win. I wouldn't let her see me crumble. 

Without breaking eye contact, I reached for the hem of my t,shirt. My hands were shaking, but I forced them to move. I pulled the fabric up, the cotton dragging over my skin, and pulled it over my head, dropping it onto the crate behind me. 

Underneath, I was wearing a simple, thin white tank top. It was revealing, the fabric almost translucent in the harsh studio light, but it covered what it needed to. Still, in the sudden coolness of the studio air hitting my damp skin, with her eyes locked on me, I felt completely naked. 

Sira's eyes darkened. The boredom vanished. She didn't look at my face anymore. She looked at the slope of my shoulders, the dip of my collarbones, the rapid, shallow rise and fall of my chest. 

"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a wooden stool in the center of the spotlight. 

I walked to the stool, my legs feeling like jelly, and sat. The wood was hard and unforgiving against my thighs. I stared straight ahead, at the darkness beyond the spotlight, refusing to look at her. 

But I heard her. I heard the scuff of her boots on the concrete. I heard the rustle of her clothes. 

She walked towards me, the charcoal stick held like a weapon. She didn't ask for permission. She didn't apologize. She stepped between my spread knees, her thighs brushing against mine, claiming the space, claiming the air I breathed. 

"Head down," she murmured. 

I lowered my head, exposing the nape of my neck, surrendering. 

I felt her hand,hot, rough, demanding,grasp my bare shoulder to steady me. Her thumb pressed into the tender flesh near my collarbone, not gently. It was a grounding touch, heavy and possessive. And then, the cold, scratchy drag of the charcoal against my skin. 

She traced the line of my spine, starting from the base of my neck. The charcoal was gritty, scraping softly, but her hand... her hand was fire. She moved down, slowly, agonizingly slowly. Every centimeter of friction sent a jolt of electricity through my nervous system, a confusing mix of shame and pleasure that made my toes curl in my sneakers. 

"You're trembling," she observed, her voice flat, devoid of sympathy, hovering right above my ear. 

"It's cold," I lied, gripping the edges of the stool so hard my knuckles turned white. 

She stopped the charcoal right between my shoulder blades. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned down, her chest brushing against my back, her mouth so close to my skin that I could feel the heat of her words before I heard them. 

"Is it?" 

She pressed her thumb deeper into the muscle of my shoulder, digging in, bruising and massaging at the same time. It was a touch that belonged to a lover, or an enemy. 

"Or is it just that you don't know who is touching you right now?" she whispered, the words wrapping around my throat like a noose. "Tell me, Jane. Is it P'Kao? Or is it Sira?" 

I bit my lip so hard I tasted iron. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes,tears of frustration, of confusion, of intense, overwhelming arousal. I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. 

Because she was right. 

I didn't know. And God help me, as her hand slid from my shoulder to graze the side of my neck, leaving a smudge of black soot on my skin like a claim, I realized I didn't want her to stop. I wanted her to ruin me. Just like the script said. 

"Silent," she hummed, dragging the charcoal down the side of my arm now. "Good. Lyn should be silent. Lyn is a canvas. And canvases don't speak." 

The charcoal stopped moving, but the phantom sensation of it lingered on my skin like a burn, a ghost of friction that refused to fade. 

Sira,because I could no longer convince myself, no matter how hard I tried, that this was P’Kao,stepped back. The sudden absence of her body heat was a physical shock, leaving my damp back exposed to the stagnant, heavy air of the studio. I sat frozen on the wooden stool, my spine locked in a curve of submission, my hands gripping my knees so tightly my fingernails were digging painful crescents into the denim of my jeans. 

I didn't dare turn around. I didn't dare breathe too loud. I felt branded. 

"Structure is good," she murmured, her voice sounding bored again, detached, as if she were inspecting a piece of fruit at a market stall. I heard the rustle of paper, then the sharp clatter of the charcoal stick being tossed onto the wooden table. "Lyn has a fragile spine. It looks like it would snap if I pressed too hard. That’s useful. Fragility photographs well." 

She walked around the stool until she was standing in front of me again. Her hands were stained black. The charcoal dust had settled into the grooves of her fingerprints, making her look like she had just dug her way out of a grave or a fire. She wiped her palms on the front of her black tank top, not caring about the mess, leaving faint, ghostly streaks on the fabric over her ribs. 

"Look at me, Jane." 

I forced my chin up. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to meet her eyes without flinching. 

Her gaze dropped immediately to my chest. I looked down, my breath catching in my throat. 

There were black smudges on my white tank top. Smudges where her arm had grazed me, where her body had pressed against mine in the heat of the moment. And lower, right on the sensitive skin of my collarbone, a distinct, dark thumbprint. 

It looked like a bruise. It looked like ownership. 

"You're a mess," she said, her lip curling slightly in distaste. 

"I..." My voice cracked, dry and brittle. I cleared my throat, hating the weakness in it. "I didn't realize." 

"You never realize until it's too late. That's Lyn's problem." She tilted her head, studying the dark mark on my skin with a clinical fascination. "And apparently, it's yours too." 

She turned abruptly and walked toward the far corner of the studio, where a large, industrial sink was bolted to the peeling concrete wall. It was a utilitarian thing, stained with years of paint and chemicals. 

"Come here." 

I hesitated. My legs felt heavy, disconnected from my brain, filled with lead. 

"I said come here," she repeated, her back to me as she turned the tap. The pipes groaned, shuddering in the walls before spitting out a stream of water that sounded loud in the quiet room. "Unless you want to walk out to your driver looking like you've been rolling around in the dirt with me. The paparazzi are camped outside the gate, Nong. I’m sure they’d love that narrative. 'N'Jane leaves private session with P'Kao looking disheveled and marked.' It would really sell the movie." 

The threat was subtle, but effective. She knew exactly which buttons to push. She knew I was terrified of the rumors, of the way the media twisted every interaction we had. She knew I was terrified of her, and worse, she knew I was terrified of how much I wanted her to ruin me. 

I stood up, my knees trembling, and walked over to the sink. 

The area was dimly lit, smelling of wet rust and old, harsh soap. Sira grabbed a rag from the counter,a rough, paint,stained piece of cloth that had seen better days. She held it under the tap, wringing it out with one hand. Her veins popped against the skin of her forearm as she squeezed the excess water, the muscles moving like snakes under her skin. 

"Turn around," she ordered. 

I turned my back to her, gripping the edge of the cold porcelain sink for support. The ceramic was slick with condensation. 

"Hold your hair up." 

I reached up with both hands, gathering my hair into a messy bun at the crown of my head, exposing my neck and shoulders completely. I stared at the peeling paint on the wall in front of me, counting the cracks to keep from hyperventilating. 

One. Two. Three. 

The wet rag hit my skin. 

I gasped. The water was tepid, but against my overheated skin, it felt like ice. 

"Steady," she murmured, her voice right at my ear again, so close I could feel the vibration of it in my own jaw. 

She began to scrub. 

This wasn't the gentle, calculated touch of the charcoal sketch. This was rougher. More utilitarian. She pressed the coarse fabric against my shoulder blade, scrubbing in firm, circular motions to remove the black lines she had drawn. The friction burned, a raw, scraping sensation that made my nerves scream. 

"You're tense," she noted, her other hand coming up to rest on my waist to hold me in place. Her thumb dug into the hollow of my hip bone, anchoring me. "Relax. Or it will hurt." 

"I can't," I whispered, my voice barely audible. 

"Why?" She moved the rag to the center of my back, tracing the line of my spine downward, erasing the evidence of her art. "Because it's me? Or because of the cameras?" 

"There are no cameras, P'Kao." 

She stopped scrubbing. Her hand on my waist tightened, pulling me back a fraction of an inch until my lower back collided with her front. I could feel the hardness of her belt buckle, the heat radiating from her stomach, the solid wall of her body pressing against mine. 

"Exactly," she whispered, her breath ghosting over the damp, newly scrubbed skin of my shoulder. "There are no cameras. No director. No script. So why are you shaking, Jane?" 

She dropped the rag into the sink with a wet slap. 

"Is it because you're scared?" Her voice dropped lower, vibrating against my back, wrapping around me like smoke. "Or is it because you like it?" 

My breath hitched. The question hung in the humid air, heavy and poisonous. 

Because I like it. The answer was screaming in my head, loud and terrifying. I liked the weight of her hand on my hip. I liked the cruelty in her voice because it meant she was focused entirely on me. I liked being her canvas, her subject, her victim. I liked that she saw the darkness in me that I tried so hard to hide with polite smiles and fan service. 

"I..." I tried to speak, but no words came out. My throat was closed tight. 

Sira chuckled. It was a dark, low sound, devoid of humor. "You're so easy to read. It's almost boring." 

She let go of my waist abruptly. The loss of contact made me stumble forward slightly against the sink, bereft. 

"You're clean," she announced, her tone shifting instantly. The darkness vanished, replaced by a cold, professional indifference that was somehow crueler than the heat. "Or clean enough." 

I let my hair fall, turning around slowly, feeling unsteady on my feet. 

She was already walking away, drying her hands on the front of her jeans. She didn't look back at me. She walked over to the table, picked up her pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter, and headed toward the heavy metal door. 

"Read,through starts in ten minutes," she threw over her shoulder, not breaking her stride. "Fix your face, Nong. You look flushed." 

And then she was gone. The heavy door slammed shut with a final, metallic clang, leaving me alone in the vast, silent studio. 

I slumped against the sink, my legs finally giving out. I slid down until I was crouching on the dirty concrete floor, burying my face in my hands. My skin was still tingling where she had touched me. My heart was beating so fast it felt like a bird trapped in a cage, battering itself against my ribs. 

I looked down at my tank top. The smudge on my collarbone was gone, scrubbed away by her rough ministrations. But the skin underneath was red, irritated, stinging. 

I traced the spot with my trembling fingers. 

It takes time to separate the two. 

I let out a shaky, hysterical laugh that echoed in the empty room. Time wasn't going to help me. I was already drowning, and we hadn't even shot the first scene. 

The read,through was a blur of voices and static. 

I sat at the long wooden table, surrounded by the rest of the cast and crew, clutching my script like a shield. P'Bo, our director, was an eccentric man with wild hair and a vision that terrified me. He paced the room, talking about "raw emotion" and "stripping away the ego," his hands flying as he described the hell he wanted us to create. 

Across the table, P'Kao sat. 

She had tied her hair back into a severe ponytail. She had put on a thin, white linen shirt over her black tank top, buttoned halfway up. She was laughing at something the co,star, a young actor named Bank who played Sira's rival, had said. Her smile was polite. Her posture was relaxed. She was P'Kao again. The consummate professional. The star everyone loved. 

Every now and then, she would look at me. Just a glance. A flicker of eyes over the rim of her plastic water bottle. And in those split seconds, the mask would slip. Sira would peek out, just for me, mocking me with the secret of what had happened in the studio ten minutes ago. 

"N'Jane?" 

I snapped my head up, disoriented. P'Bo was looking at me expectantly. 

"Sorry, P'Bo. Can you repeat that?" 

"I said, the chemistry is vital," P'Bo said, waving his hands enthusiastically. "Sira and Lyn have a toxic codependency. Lyn is terrified of Sira, but she craves her approval. She needs to look at Sira like she's the sun and the executioner at the same time." 

He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming behind his thick glasses. "Can you give me that, Jane? Can you give me that fear?" 

I looked across the table. Kao was watching me, twirling a pen between her fingers. The charcoal stain was still faintly visible under her fingernails, a secret only I knew the origin of. 

"Yes," I whispered, my voice steady for the first time that day. "I can give you the fear." 

Kao’s lips quirked upward, just a fraction. A smile only I could see. 

"Excellent," P'Bo clapped his hands. "Okay, let's wrap for today. Tomorrow, we start the workshop. Intimacy coordination in the morning. I want you two comfortable with each other's bodies." 

Comfortable. I almost choked on the word. 

As the meeting broke up, I gathered my things as quickly as possible. I needed to get out of there. I needed to go home, shower, and scrub my skin until I couldn't feel her anymore. 

"Jane." 

I froze near the exit, my hand on the doorframe. P'Kao was standing there, blocking my path. She was smiling, that sweet, fan,service smile that fooled everyone. 

"Good work today," she said, loud enough for the producers to hear. "You really nailed Lyn's vulnerability in the reading." 

"Thank you, P'Kao," I said, keeping my head down, refusing to look at the lie in her eyes. 

She stepped closer, ostensibly to give me a supportive pat on the arm. But her hand lingered on my bicep, her fingers squeezing just a little too hard, digging into the muscle. 

"Get some rest," she murmured, her voice dropping so only I could hear, slipping under the radar of the room. "You're going to need your energy tomorrow. I have a lot of ideas for the workshop." 

She winked. 

I fled. I practically ran to the waiting van, ignoring P'Koi's questions about why I looked like I had seen a ghost. 

As the van pulled away, merging into the chaotic Bangkok traffic that was now choked with evening rush hour, I pulled out my phone. 

Twitter was exploding. Someone had snapped a photo of us walking into the studio separately earlier that day. 

@KaoJaneOfficial: N'Jane looks so stressed walking in! Hope P'Kao takes care of her baby 🥺 #TracesOfDesire 

@SiraLynMain: The tension in this movie is going to be INSANE. Did you see Jane's interview? She's already in love lol. 

I turned off my phone and leaned my head against the cool glass of the window. The city lights blurred into streaks of red and neon, washing over my face. 

I closed my eyes, but all I could see was the darkness of the studio. All I could feel was the scratch of charcoal and the rough drag of a wet rag. 

I wasn't acting. I knew that now. 

When P'Kao touched me, I didn't become Lyn. I became hers. And the terrifying part wasn't that I couldn't tell the difference. 

The terrifying part was that I didn't want to be saved. 

The morning sun over Bangkok was a white bruise on the sky, hazy and indistinct through the smog. I had slept for exactly three hours, my dreams haunted by charcoal hands and the sensation of water running down my spine. 

I stood outside the glass doors of Rehearsal Room B, clutching my water bottle like a weapon. Unlike the main warehouse studio from yesterday, this room was smaller, mirrored on one wall, and lined with yoga mats. It looked innocent. It looked like a place where people did pilates and drank green juice. 

But I knew better. 

Today was the Intimacy Workshop. 

P'Bo had hired a coordinator, a woman named P'May, to ensure that everything remained "safe" and "consensual" while we explored the dark, toxic dynamic between Sira and Lyn. It was standard industry practice now. It was supposed to make me feel protected. 

I pushed the door open. 

P'May was there, setting up a Bluetooth speaker in the corner. She looked kind, professional, wearing loose linen pants and a soothing smile. 

"Sawasdee ka, N'Jane," she greeted me warmly. "How are you feeling today?" 

"Ready," I lied, putting my bag down in the corner. My reflection in the wall,to,wall mirror mocked me. I looked pale. I had dressed carefully today,high,waisted leggings and a sports bra that offered maximum coverage while still allowing for movement. Armor. 

"Good. We’re going to start slow," P'May assured me. "Just breathing. Connection. Establishing boundaries." 

The door opened behind me. 

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. It didn't drop in temperature; it spiked. 

Kao walked in. 

She looked... awake. While I felt like a zombie, she looked as if she had been up for hours, energized by some internal, dark battery. She was wearing black running shorts that exposed her long, toned legs, and a loose grey t,shirt that hung off one shoulder. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. 

She didn't look at P'May. She looked straight at me, her eyes locking onto mine in the mirror reflection. 

"Morning," she said. Her voice was raspy, intimate. 

"Morning, P'Kao," I replied, my voice sounding too high. 

She walked past me, close enough that the air displaced by her body hit my skin. She smelled of peppermint soap and that underlying, spicy scent of sandalwood. She dropped her bag next to mine, her shoulder brushing my arm. 

"Did you sleep?" she asked, keeping her voice low so P'May wouldn't hear. 

"Like a baby," I lied again. 

She smirked, leaning in. "Liar. You look like you've been haunted." 

Before I could respond, P'May clapped her hands. 

"Okay, ladies. Let's begin. Please take a mat in the center of the room. Facing each other." 

We moved to the center. I sat cross,legged on the purple mat. Kao sat opposite me, her knees almost touching mine. The distance between us was less than a meter, but it felt like miles of minefield. 

"We’re going to start with the basics," P'May instructed, her voice soft and melodic. "Eye contact. I want you to look at your partner. Don't look away. Just breathe. Observe. Acknowledge the human in front of you." 

I looked at Kao. 

It was a mistake. 

Up close, she was devastating. I could see the golden flecks in her dark eyes. I could see the tiny mole on her cheek. I could see the way her pupils dilated slightly as she looked back at me. 

She wasn't looking at me with P'Kao's kindness. She was looking at me with Sira's hunger. She was searching for the cracks in my mask, the evidence of the effect she had on me. 

"Breathe," P'May instructed. "Inhale... Exhale." 

We breathed. But even our breathing felt out of sync. I was breathing shallowly, trying to keep my chest from rising and falling too noticeably. Kao was breathing deep and slow, a rhythmic, hypnotic sound. 

"Now," P'May said. "I want you to synchronize. Jane, follow Kao's breath. Kao, lead her." 

Kao’s lips parted slightly. She took a deep, audible breath in through her nose. Her chest expanded. 

I tried to match her. I inhaled. 

She exhaled slowly through her mouth, a soft shhh sound. 

I exhaled. 

"Good," P'May murmured. "Keep going. Lock into each other’s rhythm." 

We sat there for minutes, just breathing. The world outside the glass walls faded. The traffic noise of Bangkok disappeared. There was only the sound of Kao’s breath, and the desperate attempt of my lungs to match it. It was intimate in a way that touching wasn't. I was letting her control my oxygen. 

"Okay," P'May said, shifting the mood. "Now, physical connection. Sira and Lyn have a relationship based on control and surrender. We need to find the weight of that. Kao, I want you to place your hand on Jane's heart. Jane, place your hand on Kao's back." 

My pulse skyrocketed. 

Kao didn't hesitate. She reached out, her hand warm and heavy, and placed it flat against the center of my chest, right over my sternum. Her fingers spread out, her thumb resting near the curve of my breast. 

I reached out, my hand trembling, and touched her upper back. The muscles there were hard, tense. 

"Feel the heartbeat," P'May instructed. "Is it fast? Is it slow?" 

Kao’s eyes bored into mine. Her hand on my chest wasn't just resting; it was pressing. I could feel the heat of her palm seeping through the fabric of my sports bra. 

"It's fast," Kao noted, her voice a low purr. "Very fast." 

"I had coffee," I whispered, defensive. 

"Mmm," she hummed, unconvinced. She pressed harder, grounding me. "Jane, tell me what you feel." 

"You're... calm," I managed to say. "Steady." 

"Sira is the anchor," Kao murmured, breaking the fourth wall of the exercise. "Lyn is the storm. That’s why she needs me." 

P'May watched us, pleased with the "character work," oblivious to the fact that Kao was dismantling me piece by piece. 

"Excellent," P'May said. "Now, let's move to the floor. I want to try an exercise called 'The Melt'. Jane, lie on your back. Kao, you are going to manipulate her limbs. You are going to move her. Jane, you must be dead weight. You must trust her completely not to drop you or hurt you." 

I lay back on the mat, staring up at the fluorescent lights. The ceiling tiles were stained with water marks. I focused on them, trying to dissociate. 

Kao stood over me. From this angle, she looked monumental. A giant. 

She knelt beside my legs. 

"Dead weight, Jane," P'May reminded me. "Close your eyes if it helps." 

I closed my eyes. It was worse. Now, I was just a body in the dark, waiting for her touch. 

I felt her hands on my ankles. 

She lifted my right leg. I tried to stay limp, to let her take the full weight of it. She moved my leg slowly, bending the knee, rotating the hip. Her grip was firm, professional, but there was a possessiveness to it. She wasn't just moving a limb; she was testing the joint, learning the range of motion. 

She lowered my leg and moved to my arm. 

She lifted my wrist. Her fingers circled the delicate bones there. She lifted my arm high above my head, stretching me out. 

"You're fighting me," Kao whispered, her voice right above my face. 

I opened my eyes. She was leaning over me, her face inches from mine. 

"I'm not," I breathed. 

"You are. Your muscles are tense. You're holding on." She lowered my arm, pressing it against the mat, pinning my wrist there. "Let go, Lyn." 

The use of the character name was a trigger. It gave me permission to be weak. 

I exhaled, forcing my muscles to unlock. My body sank into the mat. 

"Good," she praised, a sound that made my toes curl. 

She moved over me. 

P'May was saying something about "checking the range of motion in the neck," but Kao wasn't listening to P'May anymore. 

She straddled my hips. 

She wasn't putting her full weight on me, hovering on her knees, but she was caging me in. Her thighs bracketed my waist. Her shadow fell over my face, blocking out the light. 

"P'Kao..." I warned, glancing at P'May. 

"She can't hear us," Kao murmured, leaning down. "We're just working, Jane. Just exploring boundaries." 

She reached out and placed both hands on either side of my neck. Her thumbs rested on my jawline. She began to turn my head slowly, left, then right. It was a massage, but it was also a threat. I have your neck in my hands. 

"You said it takes time to separate reality from fiction," she whispered, staring down at me with an intensity that burned. "How about now? Is this acting?" 

She slid her hands down from my jaw to my shoulders, pressing me into the floor. 

"P'May is watching," I hissed. 

"P'May thinks we are building chemistry," Kao corrected. "And we are." 

She lowered her body until her chest was brushing against mine. She rested her forehead against my forehead. We were breathing the same air again. 

"Tell me to stop," she challenged softly. "Use your safe word. You have one. P'May gave it to you. 'Red'. Say it, Jane. Say 'Red' and I'll get off." 

I opened my mouth. The word was there. Red. It was so easy. I could end this torture right now. 

But I looked into her eyes. The darkness in them called to the darkness in me. The part of me that had been lonely for three weeks. The part of me that wanted to be consumed. 

"I..." 

I couldn't say it. 

Kao smiled. It was a terrifying, victorious thing. 

"I didn't think so." 

She shifted her weight, settling her hips more firmly against mine. The friction was electric. Through the layers of our clothes,her shorts, my leggings,I could feel the heat of her center against my stomach. 

"P'May," Kao called out, not moving an inch, her eyes still locked on mine. "We're going to try the resistance exercise now. Is that okay?" 

P'May, checking her notes in the corner, looked up and smiled. "Of course, P'Kao. If Jane is comfortable." 

Kao looked down at me, her eyebrow raised. "Are you comfortable, N'Jane?" 

I was burning alive. I was terrified. I was more aroused than I had ever been in my life. 

"Yes," I choked out. 

"Good," Kao said. 

She grabbed my wrists, which were lying by my head, and pinned them to the mat. 

"Fight me," she commanded, her voice a low growl. "Lyn fights back. She hates that she wants this. Show me that hate." 

I struggled. I bucked my hips, trying to throw her off. I twisted my wrists in her grip. 

But she was stronger. She rode out my struggle, her body moving with mine, turning my resistance into a dance. The more I fought, the more friction we created. The sweat started to bead on my forehead, on her upper lip. 

The room smelled of exertion and mint and sex. 

I gasped, arching my back, my chest heaving against hers. 

"That's it," she whispered, her lips grazing my ear. "Give it to me. Give me the confusion. Give me the panic." 

She released my wrists suddenly and grabbed my face, forcing me to look at her. We were both panting, sweaty, our hair sticking to our faces. 

"You aren't acting," she accused, her voice filled with wonder and triumph. "You aren't acting at all." 

"Neither are you," I shot back, a spark of defiance flaring in my chest. 

Kao froze. Her eyes widened slightly. 

For a second, the mask slipped. For a second, I saw P'Kao,my P'Kao,looking back at me, startled by her own intensity, by the raw hunger she had just unleashed. 

But then Sira slammed the door shut. 

"Doesn't matter," she said, pushing herself off me and standing up in one fluid motion. She offered me a hand, her expression closed off again. "The camera won't know the difference." 

I stared at her hand. I wanted to slap it away. I wanted to pull her back down. 

I took it. She pulled me up, pulling me close for one brief second before letting go. 

"Water break," she announced to the room, turning her back on me. 

I stood there, swaying slightly on the purple mat, my body humming with residual adrenaline. I looked in the mirror. My face was flushed red. My hair was a mess. I looked exactly like what I was: a woman who had just been thoroughly, completely conquered. 

And the worst part was, we hadn't even kissed. 

The first day of shooting, or rather the first night, began like a fever dream and was currently ending like a nightmare. 

Outside, a monsoon rain hammered against the corrugated tin roof of the warehouse, a relentless, metallic roar that drowned out the city. Inside, the silence was heavy enough to crush bone. P'Bo loved it. "Natural chaos," he had whispered earlier, his eyes manic behind his glasses. "It sounds like the inside of Sira's skull." 

I, on the other hand, was just cold. Or maybe I was burning. I couldn't tell anymore. 

I had been in the same position for four hours. 

I was lying on a velvet chaise longue positioned on a raised wooden platform in the center of the studio. I was wearing nothing but a silk robe, which had been artfully draped by the wardrobe mistress to slide off my shoulders, exposing my skin to the damp air and to Sira's voracious gaze. 

Sira stood between me and the cameras. 

She was standing before a massive canvas, palette in one hand, a thick brush in the other. She was covered in paint. Not makeup designed to look like paint, but real, oil,based pigment. Crimson, ochre, and a black so deep it looked like void. P'Bo had insisted. "Sira must actually paint," he had said. "Kao, I want you to feel the resistance of the canvas." 

And Kao was feeling it. God, she was feeling it too much. 

For four hours, she hadn't spoken a single word to me. She would look at the canvas, then look at me, then slash the brush against the fabric. The sound of the bristles dragging through the wet paint was wet and sticky, louder in my ears than the thunder outside. 

"Cut!" P'Bo shouted suddenly, his voice breaking the spell. "We need to reset the lights. The shadows are dragging. Ten minute break!" 

The tension holding my body together snapped. My shoulders slumped. My legs, numb from holding the pose, tingled painfully. 

I pulled the silk robe up, clutching the lapels together to cover my chest. A production assistant immediately rushed forward, draping a heavy wool blanket over my shoulders and thrusting a bottle of lukewarm water into my hand. 

"Thank you," I mumbled, but my eyes were glued to Sira. 

She hadn't moved. It was as if she hadn't heard the director at all. She was still staring at the canvas, the brush hovering in mid,air, her back rigid. 

I pulled the blanket tighter around myself and stepped off the platform. My legs were trembling, but I walked toward her. I needed P'Kao. I needed to hear her voice, the real one, the one that cracked jokes and complained about the heat. After the workshop this morning, I needed to ground myself in reality. 

"P'Kao?" 

My voice sounded thin, swallowed by the noise of the crew moving light stands. 

She didn't turn. 

I took another step closer, entering her personal space. "P'Kao, do you want some water? You've been standing there for hours." 

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she turned her head. 

The breath died in my throat. 

Her eyes were empty. Not vacant, but hollowed out by an obsession that left no room for humanity. She wasn't looking at me; she was looking through me. As if I weren't a person, but merely a collection of light and shadow that she hadn't quite figured out how to capture yet. 

"You broke the pose," she said. Her voice was a rasp, rough not from fatigue, but from barely contained rage. 

"We're on break," I said, my grip on the blanket tightening until my knuckles turned white. "P'Bo needs to fix the lights..." 

"Lyn doesn't take breaks," she interrupted, her voice slicing through my defense. She slammed the brush down onto the wooden palette with a wet thud. Red paint splattered onto the concrete floor like blood. "Sira is painting. And when Sira paints, Lyn doesn't move. Lyn doesn't breathe. Lyn doesn't exist unless Sira is looking at her." 

She stepped toward me. The smell of her was overpowering,turpentine, oil paint, sweat, and that dark, spicy tobacco scent. It made my stomach turn and my head spin all at once. 

"P'Kao, please," I whispered, glancing around frantically. The crew was busy, the PAs were running cables. No one was looking at us. We were in our own private bubble of hell. "You're scaring me." 

She stopped. She leaned down until her face was level with mine. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris. 

"Be scared," she murmured, a terrifying softness entering her tone. "Fear looks beautiful on you. It makes your skin luminous." 

She reached out. 

My instinct was to recoil, but she was faster. She grabbed my shoulder through the heavy wool of the blanket. Her fingers dug into the fabric, finding the bone underneath. 

"Go back," she ordered. "And don't move until I say I'm done. Or I will have to nail you to that canvas to keep you still." 

I stared at her, my mouth dry. Was that a line? Was that in the script? I couldn't remember. I knew the script by heart, but in this moment, my mind was a blank slate. 

"Go," she hissed, giving me a shove toward the platform. 

I stumbled back. I should have walked away. I should have called P'Koi. I should have told P'Bo that his lead actress was having a psychotic break. 

But I didn't. 

I turned around and walked back to the platform. I climbed up the wooden steps. I let the heavy wool blanket fall to the floor. I adjusted the silk robe, letting it slide off my shoulder again, exposing the skin she wanted to see. 

I resumed the pose. 

Kao watching me from the shadows, a dark satisfaction settling over her features. She picked up the brush again. 

"Rolling!" P'Bo shouted from the darkness. "Action!" 

The scene resumed, but the air had changed. It was no longer a performance. It was a hostage situation. 

Sira painted with renewed violence. She attacked the canvas. I could feel every stroke as if she were dragging the bristles across my own skin. My arm began to cramp. My neck screamed in protest. But I didn't move. I didn't blink. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes from the strain, hot and stinging. 

One tear escaped. It rolled down my cheek, over my jaw, and dripped onto the silk robe. 

Sira stopped. 

She stared at the wet spot on the silk. 

She dropped the palette and the brush. They clattered to the floor, echoing in the silence. 

She walked onto the set. 

The script said she was supposed to stay at the easel. The script said she was supposed to throw the painting in frustration. 

But Sira was walking toward me. 

P'Bo didn't yell cut. The cameras turned to follow her. 

She climbed the steps of the platform. The wood creaked under her heavy boots. She stood over me, looming like a storm cloud. Her hands were covered in red and black paint. 

She reached out and touched my face. 

Her thumb, slick with red oil paint, traced the track of my tear. She smeared the paint across my cheekbone, mixing the pigment with the salt of my pain. 

"Don't cry, Lyn," she whispered, her voice trembling with a twisted kind of adoration. "I haven't even started hurting you yet." 

She slid her hand down my neck, leaving a streak of red on my throat. It looked like a slash. It looked like a wound. 

She gripped my chin, forcing me to look up at her. 

"Do you know why I paint you?" she asked, improvising, rewriting the movie in real time. 

I shook my head, unable to speak, paralyzed by the heat radiating from her body. 

"Because you are the only thing in this world that is real," she said. "And I need to capture it before you shatter." 

She leaned in. Her eyes dropped to my lips. 

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Kiss me, I thought, a desperate, insane prayer. Kiss me and ruin me so I don't have to guess anymore. 

She hovered there for a second, two seconds, an eternity. Her breath mingled with mine. 

Then, she pulled back. 

She looked at her handiwork,the red paint smeared on my face, the fear in my eyes. She smiled. 

"Perfect," she whispered. 

She turned and walked off the set, leaving me lying there, marked and trembling, while the cameras continued to roll. 

"Cut!" P'Bo screamed, sounding ecstatic. "That was genius! Print that! Okay, that's a wrap for the night!" 

The crew burst into applause. The lights came up. The spell broke. 

But I didn't move. I lay on the velvet chaise, staring at the ceiling, touching the wet, sticky paint on my cheek. 

Kao didn't come back to check on me. She didn't come to apologize. I saw her walking toward the exit, wiping her hands on a rag, already lighting a cigarette. 

I looked over at the easel, at the painting she had been working on for four hours. 

I expected to see a portrait. I expected to see my face, my body. 

But the canvas was a mess of violent black slashes and red smears. It was chaotic. It was ugly. It wasn't a picture of me. 

It was a picture of a cage. 

The shower was running, but the water wasn't hot enough to melt the numbness in my bones. 

I stood in the center of the massive marble bathroom in my hotel suite, staring at my reflection in the fogged,up mirror. I looked like a crime scene. 

The red oil paint Sira had smeared across my face, neck, and chest had dried into a tacky, suffocating crust. Under the harsh halogen lights, it didn't look like art. It looked like a slash. It looked like she had cut my throat and left me to bleed out on the set. 

I grabbed a white face cloth, soaked it in hot water, and scrubbed at my cheek. 

The friction stung. My skin was already raw from the earlier scenes, from the crying, from the sheer exhaustion of holding myself together. I scrubbed harder, panic rising in my throat like bile. 

It wasn't coming off. 

The pigment just smeared, spreading wider, turning my skin a sickly shade of bruised pink. 

"Damn it," I sobbed, throwing the cloth into the sink. It landed with a wet slap, stained crimson. 

I gripped the edge of the vanity, my knuckles turning white. I was shaking. The adrenaline from the shoot had crashed, leaving me hollowed out and terrified. I wasn't Lyn anymore. I was Jane. And Jane wanted to go home. Jane wanted her mom. Jane wanted P'Kao to hug her and tell her she did a good job. 

But P'Kao was gone. She had walked off the set without a backward glance. 

A knock at the door made me jump. 

My heart hammered against my ribs. P'Koi had already gone to her room, exhausted. I had put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on. 

I grabbed the hotel robe, wrapping it tightly around my paint,stained body, tying the belt with trembling fingers. I walked into the living area of the suite. The shadows stretched long and menacing across the carpet. 

I looked through the peephole. 

It was her. 

She was still wearing her costume,black combat boots, paint,splattered cargo pants, and a black tank top. She hadn't showered. She hadn't changed. She looked wild, her hair damp from the rain outside, her eyes dark holes in the fish,eye lens. 

I shouldn't open it. Every instinct I had screamed at me to back away, to lock the deadbolt, to hide. 

I opened the door. 

Sira stood in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with a deceptive nonchalance. She held a bottle of clear oil in one hand and a pack of cotton pads in the other. 

"You can't scrub oil paint with water, Jane," she said. Her voice was low, raspy, stripping away the silence of the hallway. "You'll just hurt yourself." 

"I'm fine," I whispered, clutching the robe closer to my throat. "I can manage." 

She pushed off the doorframe. She didn't ask to come in. She just stepped forward, forcing me to step back or collide with her. She walked past me into the room, the scent of turpentine and rain following her like a storm front. 

"You're not fine," she noted, glancing around the suite as if she owned it. "You're bleeding." 

I touched my cheek. I had scrubbed too hard. A tiny bead of real blood was mixing with the fake red paint. 

"Go away, P'Kao," I said, though the name felt wrong on my tongue. "The cameras are off. P'Bo is sleeping. You don't have to do this anymore." 

She turned slowly. She placed the oil and cotton on the glass coffee table. 

"Do what?" she asked, her head tilting to the side. 

"This," I gestured vaguely at her, at the air between us. "Being scary. Being... her." 

She laughed. It wasn't a nice sound. "You think I can just turn it off? Like a light switch?" 

She walked toward me. I backed up until my legs hit the edge of the sofa. 

"Sit," she ordered. 

"No." 

"Sit down, Jane. Before you fall down." 

My legs betrayed me. They buckled, and I sank onto the sofa cushion. 

Sira uncapped the bottle of oil. She knelt on the floor between my legs, disregarding the expensive carpet. She was lower than me now, but she still held all the power. 

"Look at me," she murmured. 

I looked down. Her face was smudged with black paint. Her eyes were impossibly deep. 

She poured a generous amount of oil onto a cotton pad. 

"Tilt your head back." 

I obeyed. I leaned my head back against the sofa cushions, exposing my throat. I stared at the ceiling, waiting. 

The cold oil hit my skin. 

I gasped. 

"Shh," she soothed. Her touch was surprisingly gentle. She began to wipe away the red stain on my neck. The oil dissolved the pigment, lifting the "blood" away. Her fingers moved in slow, rhythmic circles. "See? Easy." 

She worked in silence for a few minutes. The only sound was the rain lashing against the hotel window and the soft rustle of the cotton. She cleaned my throat, my jaw, my chin. 

Then she moved to my cheek. The spot where I had scrubbed it raw. 

She threw the cotton pad away and poured oil directly onto her fingers. 

She touched my cheekbone. The oil was slick, slippery. Her thumb glided over the sensitive skin. 

"You have thin skin," she whispered, her eyes focused intently on her work. "Lyn bruises if you look at her too hard. You bruise if you touch yourself too hard." 

"Why did you do it?" I asked, my voice trembling. "On the set. That wasn't in the script." 

Her hand paused on my cheek. She looked into my eyes. 

"Because you needed it," she said simply. "You were holding back. You were acting. I needed you to stop acting and start feeling." 

"I was scared," I confessed. 

"I know." Her thumb stroked my cheekbone. "I felt it. It was delicious." 

My breath hitched. "You're sick." 

"Maybe," she agreed. "But look at us now." 

She cleaned the last of the paint from my face. But she didn't stop. Her oily hands slid down my neck, pushing the collar of the robe aside. 

There was more paint there. Smudges on my collarbone. Streaks on the swell of my breast where the silk robe had slipped during the shoot. 

"P'Kao..." I warned, my hand coming up to catch her wrist. 

She didn't pull away. She looked at my hand holding hers. 

"Say it," she whispered. "Say my name." 

"P'Kao," I said firmly. 

She shook her head slowly. "No. That's not who is in this room with you, Jane. Look at me. Who am I?" 

I looked at her. I looked for the kindness. I looked for the senior who bought me snacks. But all I saw was the hunger. All I saw was the woman who had painted a cage instead of a portrait. 

"Sira," I breathed. 

Her pupils dilated. A shiver ran through her body, communicating itself to mine through our joined hands. 

"Good girl," she purred. 

She pulled her hand free from my weak grip. She pushed the robe further open. I didn't stop her. I couldn't. I was paralyzed by the heavy, suffocating heat of the room. 

She poured more oil into her palm. She rubbed her hands together, warming it. 

Then she placed both hands on my chest, right over my heart, sliding the oil over the dried red paint. 

It was intimate. It was invasive. It was the most erotic thing I had ever felt. 

Her hands moved in slow, firm strokes, cleaning me, claiming me. She watched her own hands moving over my skin with a possessive fascination. 

"You're mine," she murmured, almost to herself. "The canvas belongs to the painter." 

"The movie..." I gasped, my head falling back, my eyes fluttering shut. "It's just a movie." 

"Is it?" 

She leaned forward. I could feel her breath on my wet, oily skin. She pressed her mouth to the hollow of my throat. 

She didn't kiss me. She inhaled me. She breathed in the scent of the oil, the paint, and my fear. 

"You said it takes time to separate," she whispered against my skin, her lips brushing the pulse point that was beating frantically under her mouth. "We have time, Jane. We have all night." 

She moved her hands lower, tracing the curve of my ribs. 

"Or," she paused, her voice turning sharp, testing. "Do you want me to stop? Do you want me to leave, go back to my room, and see you on set tomorrow at 6 AM as P'Kao?" 

It was the ultimate test. It was the cliff edge. 

I could save myself. I could tell her to leave. I could lock the door and cry myself to sleep and be safe. 

But I remembered the painting. I remembered the cage. And I realized, with a jolt of horror, that I didn't want to be outside the cage. I wanted to be inside it, with her. 

I reached out. My hands, trembling and weak, grasped her shoulders. I dug my fingers into the black tank top. 

"Don't go," I whispered. 

Sira let out a shuddering breath. It sounded like a growl. 

"I wasn't planning to." 

She stood up, pulling me up with her. The robe fell open, hanging loosely off my shoulders. I was exposed, painted, and oily. 

She didn't look away. She grabbed the lapels of the robe and shoved it off my shoulders completely. It pooled on the floor at our feet. 

"To the shower," she commanded. "We need to get the rest of this off." 

She walked me backward toward the bathroom. I didn't argue. I didn't fight. I was Lyn, walking willingly to the slaughter. 

She turned on the shower, cranking the handle to hot. Steam began to fill the room instantly, blurring the mirrors, turning the world into a soft, white haze. 

Sira turned to me. She reached for the hem of her own tank top. 

"I'm dirty too," she said, her eyes locked on mine as she pulled the shirt over her head. 

Underneath, she was all muscle and scars and golden skin. She looked like a statue carved from obsession. 

She stepped into the shower, fully clothed in her cargo pants and boots. The water soaked her instantly. She reached out a hand through the steam. 

"Come here, canvas." 

I stepped into the water. 

The heat hit me. The water hit me. And then Sira hit me,her body crashing against mine, pressing me into the tiled wall. 

Her hands were everywhere,slick with oil and water, sliding over my back, my hips, my hair. She wasn't washing me anymore. She was memorizing me. 

"Who are you?" she demanded, her face inches from mine, water streaming down her nose. 

"I don't know," I sobbed, clutching her wet shoulders. 

"Who are you?" she shouted over the noise of the water, shaking me. 

"Yours!" I screamed back. "I'm yours!" 

She slammed her mouth onto mine. 

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of iron and water and salt. It was violent and desperate and absolutely terrifying. Her tongue swept into my mouth, demanding entry, demanding everything. 

I melted. My knees gave out, and she held me up, her arm like an iron bar around my waist. 

For a moment, in the steam and the heat, I forgot where the camera was. I forgot my name. I forgot that this was supposed to be acting. 

And as Sira devoured me under the spray of the hotel shower, I realized the scariest truth of all. 

She hadn't been acting since the moment she walked into the read,through. 

And neither had I. 

I woke up to the sound of a door clicking shut. 

My eyes snapped open, adjusting to the dim light of the hotel suite. The blackout curtains were drawn, but a sliver of aggressive Bangkok morning sun sliced through the gap, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. 

I reached out across the mattress. 

The sheets were cold. 

I sat up, ignoring the dull ache in my muscles and the deeper, sharper ache between my legs. The bed,a king,sized ocean of white Egyptian cotton,was empty. The pillow beside me was dented, smelling faintly of sandalwood and damp hair, but she was gone. 

"P'Kao?" I croaked, my voice rough from sleep and... other things. 

Silence. 

I dragged myself out of bed, wrapping the discarded hotel robe around my body. It smelled of the oil we had used last night. It smelled of her. 

I walked into the living area. Empty. The coffee table where she had cleaned the paint off my skin was wiped clean. The oil bottle was gone. The cotton pads were gone. 

I checked the bathroom. The wet towels were piled neatly in the corner. The steam had cleared. The mirror was spotless. 

It was as if she had never been here. 

Panic began to rise in my chest, a cold, suffocating tide. Had I imagined it? Had the stress of the shoot finally snapped my mind? 

Then I saw it. 

On the nightstand, next to my room key, was a small bottle of fresh orange juice and a note written on hotel stationery. 

I picked it up, my hands trembling. 

Get some rest, Nong. Big day today. See you on set. , P'Kao. 

Not Sira. P'Kao. 

And a smiley face drawn at the end. 

I stared at the paper until the lines blurred. A smiley face. After what she did to me in the shower? After she had consumed me, stripped me bare, and made me scream her name until my throat bled? 

I crushed the note in my fist. 

I walked to the mirror and let the robe fall open. 

My skin told a different story. The red paint was gone, dissolved by the oil. But in its place were other marks. A darkening bruise on my hip bone where she had pinned me. A faint, reddish abrasion on my chin from the stubble of her brush,or her teeth. And right on the hollow of my throat, a purple love bite that no amount of concealer was going to hide easily. 

"It wasn't a dream," I whispered to my reflection. "She was here." 

But looking at that cheerful, polite note, I realized something terrifying. 

Sira had been in the room last night. But P'Kao had been the one to leave. And I didn't know which one terrified me more. 

"Nong Jane, hold still, please." 

P'Annie, the head makeup artist, clicked her tongue in annoyance. She was holding a palette of green color,corrector and a dense brush. 

"I'm sorry, P'Annie," I murmured, gripping the armrests of the chair. 

"What happened to your neck?" she asked, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Did you run into a door? Or a person?" 

I froze. "Mosquito," I lied. "A really big one." 

P'Annie raised an eyebrow in the mirror. She didn't buy it for a second. In this industry, a mark like that meant one of two things: a secret boyfriend, or a mistake. 

"Well, this mosquito has very specific taste," she muttered, dabbing the green paste over the purple mark on my throat. "P'Bo wants 'no makeup' makeup today. This is going to be hard to hide without looking cakey." 

The trailer door swung open. 

A blast of hot air and energy rushed in. 

"Good morning, everyone!" 

It was her. 

P'Kao walked in, holding a tray of iced coffees. She looked... radiant. Fresh. She was wearing clean jeans, a crisp white t,shirt, and her hair was blown out in soft, shiny waves. There was no trace of the dark, oily, paint,stained monster from last night. There were no bags under her eyes. 

She looked like Thailand's Sweetheart. 

"P'Annie, I brought you an Americano," she chirped, placing a cup on the counter. "And a Latte for our star." 

She placed the second cup in front of me. She met my eyes in the mirror. 

I stopped breathing. I waited for the flash of darkness. I waited for Sira to wink at me, to acknowledge the secret we shared. 

But she just smiled. A bright, professional, terrifyingly platonic smile. 

"Did you sleep well, Jane?" she asked, her voice light and breezy. 

I stared at her, unable to process the disconnect. My body was still throbbing from her touch. My skin was branded by her mouth. And she was asking me if I slept well? 

"I..." I stammered. "Yes. Thank you for the juice." 

"Oh, good!" She clapped her hands together. "I was worried. That scene last night was intense, right? P'Bo really pushed us." 

Pushed us. As if it were just P'Bo. As if she hadn't improvised the violation of my soul. 

"Yeah," I managed to say, feeling sick. "Intense." 

"P'Kao, sit," P'Annie commanded. "I need to dirty you up. You look too clean to be a tortured artist." 

Kao laughed,a musical sound,and hopped into the adjacent chair. "Make me look miserable, P'Annie. Sira needs to look like she hasn't slept in a week." 

I watched her in the mirror as P'Annie began to apply dark circles under her eyes and smudge charcoal onto her pristine hands. I watched P'Kao become Sira. I saw the moment her shoulders slumped, her expression darkened, and the light left her eyes. 

It was a magic trick. A terrifying, seamless transformation. 

And for the first time, I realized the trap I was in. 

For Kao, the line between acting and reality was a door she could open and close at will. She could be Sira in the dark and P'Kao in the light. 

But for me? 

I touched the concealed bruise on my neck. 

For me, the door was broken. I was stuck in the room with Sira, even when P'Kao was sitting right next to me drinking iced coffee. 

"Action!" 

The scene was quiet. Intimate. Sira and Lyn in bed, the morning after a fight. It was supposed to be tender, but with an undercurrent of dread. 

We were lying in the set bed. The sheets were grey silk. I was wearing one of Sira's shirts. Kao was shirtless, her "tattoos" (painted on by P'Annie) displayed prominently on her back. 

She was spooning me. Her arm was draped over my waist. Her breathing was slow and steady against my neck,right against the spot she had marked last night. 

"I'm sorry," Sira's character said, the line from the script coming out as a rough whisper. "I lose control sometimes." 

I felt tears prick my eyes. This was the script. These were lines written by a screenwriter named P'Ton three months ago. 

But they felt like an apology for last night. 

I turned in her arms, looking up at her. 

Kao’s face was inches from mine. She was Sira now. The intensity was back. The hunger was back. 

"Do you forgive me, Lyn?" she asked. 

I looked at her lips. The lips that had devoured me in the shower. 

"I don't know," I improvised. It wasn't the line. The line was 'Yes, I know you didn't mean it.' 

P'Bo didn't yell cut. 

Kao’s eyes flickered. A flash of surprise, then delight. She leaned in closer, breaking the blocking. 

"You have to forgive me," she whispered, her hand sliding under the shirt to touch my bare skin. Her fingers were cold. "Because you're the only one who understands the masterpiece." 

She kissed me. 

It was scripted. A "soft, reconciling kiss." 

But the moment our lips touched, the electricity arced between us again. It wasn't soft. It was heavy. It was loaded with the memory of the hotel room. 

I felt her tongue graze my lower lip, asking for entrance. 

I gasped, opening for her. 

She deepened the kiss, her hand tightening on my waist, pulling me flush against her. I forgot the cameras. I forgot P'Annie watching on the monitor. I forgot the lies. 

"Cut!" P'Bo yelled. "Perfect! That was beautiful! The chemistry is undeniable!" 

Kao pulled back immediately. 

The connection severed. 

She sat up, clearing her throat. She rubbed the back of her neck, looking... awkward? 

"Sorry," she muttered to me, not making eye contact. "Got a little carried away there." 

She swung her legs off the bed and reached for her robe. "P'Annie, can I get a touch,up? I think I sweated off the tattoos." 

She walked away. 

I lay in the bed, wearing her shirt, feeling the ghost of her mouth on mine. 

She had done it again. She had pulled me in, made me feel everything, and then switched it off the moment the director yelled cut. 

I sat up, wrapping my arms around my knees. I felt used. I felt confused. 

And God help me, I couldn't wait for the next take. 
 

Disorientation had turned into something sharper. Anger. 

All morning, I had watched P'Kao switch effortlessly between the devastatingly intense Sira and the bubbly, coffee,buying P'Kao. She treated me like a colleague she was fond of, not the woman she had ravaged in a shower stall six hours ago. She patted my head. She joked with the crew. She ignored the bruising on my neck that P'Annie had so carefully covered. 

If she could pretend, so could I. 

I was an actress too, wasn't I? I had won awards. I wasn't just a prop. 

"Places, everyone!" P'Bo called out. "Scene 22. The Betrayal." 

This was the scene where Lyn, suffocated by Sira's obsession, seeks comfort in the arms of the rival artist, "Tan" (played by Bank). It was a scene of rebellion. A scene where Lyn tries to reclaim her autonomy by doing the one thing that would destroy Sira. 

I sat on the edge of the rooftop parapet, dangling my legs over the fake city skyline. Bank sat next to me. He was sweet, handsome in a safe way, and smelled of laundry detergent,a stark contrast to Sira's turpentine and smoke. 

Kao wasn't in this scene. But she was on set. 

She sat in her usual director's chair behind the monitors, legs crossed, wearing sunglasses even though it was overcast. She was watching. 

"Action!" 

I turned to Bank. I let my shoulders drop. I let the exhaustion of the last two days seep into my expression. 

"I can't breathe when I'm with her," I said, delivering Lyn's line. "It feels like drowning." 

Bank reached out and took my hand. His skin was dry and warm. Safe. "Then swim to me, Lyn. I'm right here." 

The script called for a hug. A tentative moment of connection. 

But I was angry. I was angry at the woman sitting in that chair, watching me like I was a bug under a microscope. I wanted to crack that perfect, indifferent mask she was wearing today. 

I didn't just hug Bank. 

I leaned into him. I buried my face in his neck. I let my hand slide up his chest, tangling my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. It was intimate. It was desperate. It was real,not for Bank, but for the reaction I wanted from her. 

Bank, bless him, froze for a second, surprised by the intensity, but he went with it. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. 

"Cut!" P'Bo shouted. "Okay, that was... unexpected, but good! Jane, that was very passionate. Let's go again, maybe a little less clinging this time." 

I pulled away from Bank, smoothing my hair. 

I looked directly at the monitors. 

Kao had taken off her sunglasses. 

Her face was a mask of stone. But her hand,the hand resting on the arm of the chair,was gripping the wood so hard her knuckles were white. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't P'Kao anymore. Sira was back, and she looked like she wanted to burn the building down. 

I felt a thrill shoot through my veins. A dark, dangerous rush of power. 

I got you. 

"Reset!" the AD yelled. 

Bank leaned in, whispering. "N'Jane, are you okay? You're shaking." 

"I'm acting, P'Bank," I said loudly, making sure my voice carried. "Just getting into character. Lyn is finally realizing she has options, right?" 

From the corner of my eye, I saw Kao stand up abruptly. Her chair scraped loudly against the concrete floor. 

"Five minute break," she announced, though she wasn't the director. Her voice was ice cold. "I need to speak to my co,star." 

The crew went silent. P'Bo looked confused but didn't argue. When P'Kao spoke in that tone, you listened. 

She walked onto the set. She didn't look at Bank. She walked straight to me, grabbed my wrist,the same wrist Bank had just been holding,and pulled me off the parapet. 

"P'Kao?" Bank started. 

"Stay there, Bank," she snapped, not looking back. 

She dragged me across the rooftop set, past the cameras, past the confused sound guys, and into the narrow stairwell that led down to the dressing rooms. 

She kicked the heavy fire door shut behind us. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the concrete stairwell. 

We were alone. The air was cool and dusty. 

She shoved me against the wall. Not gently. She pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, her body pressing me into the rough concrete. 

"What the hell was that?" she hissed, her face inches from mine. 

I looked up at her, breathing hard. My heart was racing, but this time, I didn't look away. 

"It was a scene," I said innocently. "Scene 22. The Betrayal. Didn't you read the script, P'Kao?" 

"Don't play dumb with me," she growled. "You were climbing him like a tree. You were looking at him like..." 

She cut herself off, her jaw clenching. 

"Like what?" I challenged. "Like I wanted him? Maybe I did. Bank is nice. He doesn't leave bruises on my neck and then pretend nothing happened the next morning." 

Her eyes darkened. The reference to the mark hit home. Her gaze dropped to my neck, where the green concealer hid her claim. 

"I didn't pretend," she whispered dangerously. "I gave you space. There is a difference." 

"You left," I accused, my voice cracking. "You left a note. A smiley face, P'Kao? Really?" 

"I had to leave," she said, her grip on my wrists tightening. "Because if I had stayed... if I had woken up in that bed with you..." 

She paused, struggling for breath. Sira's mask was slipping, revealing something rawer underneath. Panic. 

"If you stayed, what?" I pushed. 

"If I stayed, I wouldn't have been able to come to work today," she confessed, the words torn out of her. "I wouldn't have been able to let you out of that room. Do you understand? I am trying to keep it together, Jane. I am trying to finish this movie without completely losing my mind." 

"You're failing," I whispered. 

"I know." 

She let go of my wrists. Her hands dropped to my waist, pulling me off the wall and into her. She buried her face in my neck, right over the concealed bruise, inhaling sharply. 

"You smell like him," she muttered into my skin. "Detergent and cheap cologne. I hate it." 

"It's just acting," I threw her words back at her. 

She pulled back, her eyes blazing. 

"Then act for me," she commanded. "Forget him. You don't belong to Tan. You don't belong to the audience. You're Sira's muse. You're mine." 

"Prove it," I dared her. 

It was a mistake. Or maybe it was exactly what I wanted. 

She didn't kiss me. She bit me. 

She sank her teeth into the sensitive cord of muscle where my neck met my shoulder, right next to the old mark. It was sharp, sudden pain mixed with blinding pleasure. I cried out, my hands clutching her shoulders. 

"Mine," she murmured against my skin, soothing the bite with her tongue. "Let him touch you again, Jane. Let him touch you, and I will rewrite the script so Sira kills him in the next act. I'm not joking." 

The door to the stairwell creaked open above us. 

"P'Kao? N'Jane? P'Bo is asking for you." It was a PA, their voice echoing down the stairs. 

Kao pulled back instantly. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She fixed my collar, buttoning it up to hide the fresh redness. 

She looked at me. Her eyes were clear again. Focused. The jealousy had centered her. 

"Fix your hair, Nong," she said, her voice calm but her eyes promising retribution. "We have a movie to finish." 

She turned and walked up the stairs, leaving me trembling in the semi,darkness, touching the fresh, stinging mark on my shoulder. 

I had wanted a reaction. I had wanted to know if she cared. 

Well, I knew now. 

Sira didn't just care. She was territorial. And I had just poked the beast. 

The set was quiet. A church,like, suffocating silence that pressed against my eardrums. 

It was the final day. Scene 95. The Farewell. 

The studio had been stripped bare. The chaotic mess of art supplies, the wine bottles, the stained rags,all gone. P'Bo wanted the set to look empty, reflecting the state of Lyn's soul. There was only the easel, covered by a white sheet, and me. 

I stood in the center of the room, wearing a simple white dress that felt too light, too flimsy against the cold. I was barefoot. 

Sira stood by the door. She was holding a suitcase. 

This was it. The moment Sira leaves Lyn, having taken everything she needed for her art, leaving the husk behind. 

"Rolling," the AD whispered. "Speed." 

"Action." 

I looked at Sira. 

Kao looked back. She looked tired. Not the fake, makeup,induced fatigue of the first week, but a deep, bone,weary exhaustion that lived in her posture. She gripped the handle of the suitcase tight. 

"You're leaving," I said. My voice didn't tremble. I had no energy left for trembling. I felt hollowed out, just like the room. 

"The painting is finished," Sira replied. Her voice was flat. Cruel in its simplicity. "I have nothing left to do here." 

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm still here." 

Sira looked at me. She walked over, her boots echoing on the concrete. She stopped inches from me. She didn't touch me. She hadn't touched me all day, as if she were weaning herself off a drug. 

"Are you?" she asked softly. "Or are you just the reflection of what I needed?" 

This wasn't in the script. The script said: Sira looks at Lyn with regret. But Kao... Kao was looking at me with a terrifying finality. 

"Don't do this," I improvised, tears hot and fast springing to my eyes. "Don't walk out that door. If you walk out, Sira, I won't be here when you come back." 

"I'm not coming back, Lyn." 

She reached out then. One last time. She brushed a stray hair from my forehead, her fingers lingering on my temple. It was the same spot she had kissed yesterday. The same spot she had marked. 

"You were a beautiful tragedy," she whispered. "Thank you for the inspiration." 

She pulled her hand away. It felt like she had ripped a layer of skin off my face. 

She turned around. She walked to the door. 

My heart was screaming. Scream, it told me. Beg. Fall to your knees. Do something. 

But I stood still. Because Lyn was paralyzed. And Jane... Jane was realizing that this scene felt too real. It felt like a rehearsal for the end of us. 

Sira opened the heavy metal door. The light from the hallway spilled in, blinding and harsh. 

"Goodbye, Lyn," she said, without looking back. 

"Sira!" I screamed. 

The door slammed shut. The sound echoed, bouncing off the empty walls, vibrating in my bones. 

I was alone in the spotlight. 

I looked at the easel. The covered painting. The symbol of everything I had given up for her. 

I walked over to it. My legs felt heavy. I reached out and ripped the white sheet off. 

The canvas was blank. 

P'Bo had decided it was more powerful if the audience never saw the painting. If the masterpiece Sira had destroyed me for was invisible. 

I stared at the blank white canvas. I saw my own reflection in the white void. I looked broken. Used. Discarded. 

I sank to my knees. The tears came then, ugly and choking. I wasn't crying for Lyn. I was crying because the door had closed, and I didn't know if P'Kao was waiting on the other side, or if she had just walked out of my life along with Sira. 

I curled into a ball on the cold concrete floor, sobbing into the silence. 

"Cut!" P'Bo’s voice cracked through the air, thick with emotion. "That's a wrap! That is a wrap on Traces of Desire!" 

The studio exploded. 

Confetti cannons,which I hadn't even noticed,popped. People were cheering. The crew was clapping. P'Bo was crying, hugging the cinematographer. 

But I couldn't move. I couldn't stand up. I lay on the floor, shaking, the echoes of the slamming door still ringing in my ears. 

Someone rushed over to me. P'Koi, my manager. She draped a jacket over me. 

"Jane! Oh my god, you were amazing! That was incredible!" 

I looked past her. I looked at the door. 

It was still closed. 

Kao hadn't come back in. 

Usually, when a scene ends, the actors hug. They high,five. They reassure each other. 'It was just a scene. I'm here. We're okay.' 

But she wasn't here. 

I pushed P'Koi away, stumbling to my feet. 

"Where is she?" I asked, my voice frantic. 

"Who? P'Kao?" P'Koi looked confused. "She probably went to the monitor to check the playback. Jane, wait, we need a photo..." 

I ignored her. I ran. 

I ran across the studio, my bare feet slapping against the concrete. I pushed open the heavy metal door, the same one Sira had just walked through. 

The hallway was empty. 

I ran down the corridor toward the dressing rooms. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. 

I reached her door. It was closed. 

I didn't knock. I pushed it open. 

The room was empty. 

Her costume,Sira's black boots, the cargo pants, the tank top,was piled on the chair. 

Her personal clothes were gone. Her bag was gone. 

On the makeup mirror, written in red lipstick on the glass, was a message. 

See you at the wrap party. Good job, N'Jane. 

I stared at the red letters. They looked like blood. They looked like a dismissal. 

I slid down the doorframe, hugging my knees to my chest. 

The movie was over. Sira was gone. 

And P'Kao... P'Kao had done exactly what she said she would do. She had separated the two. She had stepped out of the character and walked away, leaving me trapped in the wreckage she had created. 

"It takes time," I whispered to the empty room, repeating the words that had started this whole mess. 

But as I sat there, shivering in the cold light of reality, I knew the truth. 

Time wasn't going to fix this. 

I was in love with a ghost. And now, I was the one who was haunted. 

They say it takes twenty,one days to break a habit. 

I was on day twenty,two of not seeing Kao, and my hands still shook whenever my phone buzzed. 

The movie had wrapped. Sira was dead. The studio in Talad Noi was probably empty now, just a dusty warehouse smelling of old paint. But I was still living in the wreckage. 

I sat in the makeup chair, staring at my reflection. My skin was clear. The bruises on my neck had faded to nothing. The redness was gone. I looked healthy. I looked like N'Jane, the rising star with the bright smile. 

I hated it. 

I missed the marks. I missed the soreness. I missed the proof that I had been hers. 

"Chin up, darling," the stylist said, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. "You look a bit pale. Are you eating?" 

"I'm fine," I said automatically. The lie tasted like ash. 

Today was the first time I would see her since the wrap. Since the slamming door. Since the lipstick message on the mirror. 

We had texted, of course. Brief, polite messages. ‘ hope you’re resting well.’ ‘saw the rough cut, looks good.’ ‘see you at the photoshoot.’ 

Polite. Professional. Distant. It was like texting a stranger, not the woman who had pinned me to a shower wall and dismantled me. 

The door opened. 

My heart slammed against my ribs, a painful, conditioned reflex. 

Kao walked in. 

She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a Balenciaga hoodie. She held an iced Americano. She looked... normal. She looked like P'Kao. 

She took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were clear. The dark, obsessive void of Sira’s gaze was gone, replaced by a warm, friendly sparkle. 

"Jane!" she exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face. "Long time no see!" 

She walked over and hugged me. 

It was a "Hollywood hug." Shoulders only. Air kiss near the cheek. No chest contact. No lingering scent inhalation. Just a polite greeting between colleagues. 

I froze, my arms hanging uselessly by my sides. The lack of heat coming from her body was physically painful. It was like hugging a mannequin. 

"Hi, P'Kao," I whispered. 

She pulled back quickly, her hands retreating to her pockets. She scanned my face, but not with hunger. With... concern? Guilt? 

"You look good," she said, though her eyes lingered on the hollows of my cheeks. "Rested." 

"You too," I lied. 

"Okay, beauties!" the photographer, a high,energy man named P'Arm, clapped his hands. "Wardrobe change! We are doing 'The Aftermath' concept. Minimalist. Chic. Emotional distance but underlying tension." 

I almost laughed. We didn't need a concept for that. 

The set was blindingly white. Stark. Clinical. 

I was wearing a black silk slip dress. Kao was wearing a sharp, tailored black suit with no shirt underneath. We were visual opposites. 

"Okay," P'Arm directed. "Kao, stand behind Jane. Jane, look at the camera. Kao, look at Jane's neck. But don't touch. Just... almost touch." 

Kao moved behind me. 

I could feel her warmth radiating against my back, but she wasn't touching me. There was a solid inch of air between us. 

I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply. I smelled her perfume. The same sandalwood. But the smoke and turpentine were gone. 

"Open your eyes, Jane," P'Arm called out. "Give me longing." 

I opened my eyes. I looked into the lens. I didn't have to act. I was starving. 

"Kao, closer," the photographer commanded. "Put your hand on her waist. Claim her." 

Kao hesitated. 

I felt it. The pause. The reluctance. 

Slowly, carefully, she placed her hand on my waist. 

It was a light touch. Tentative. Respectful. Her fingers were stiff. 

It made me want to scream. 

Where was the grip? Where was the bruise? Where was the woman who had said 'Mine'? 

I couldn't take it. I needed to feel her. 

I leaned back, pressing my body against hers, closing the gap. I reached up and covered her hand with mine, pressing her fingers harder into my side. 

Kao flinched. 

She didn't pull away, but she went rigid. Her breath hitched against my ear. 

"Jane," she whispered, a warning. "Don't." 

"Don't what?" I whispered back, not moving my lips, keeping my face perfect for the camera. "Don't touch you? You're my co,star. We're selling a romance, aren't we?" 

"We're selling a movie," she corrected, her voice tight. "Be professional." 

Professional. The word cut deeper than any knife. 

"Great!" P'Arm shouted, oblivious to the war happening in front of his lens. "Now, turn around. Face each other. Foreheads touching. Intimate." 

I turned. 

We were inches apart. I looked up at her. 

Her eyes were guarded. Walls up. Shields active. She was looking at my forehead, my nose, my chin,anywhere but my eyes. 

"Look at me," I begged softly. 

She forced her eyes to meet mine. 

And there it was. The guilt. Deep, drowning guilt. She wasn't looking at me with desire. She was looking at me like I was a crime scene she had left behind. 

"Why are you doing this?" I whispered. 

"Doing what?" 

"Pretending it didn't happen. Pretending we're strangers." 

"We aren't strangers, Jane," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "We're friends. Colleagues." 

"Friends don't do what we did in the shower," I hissed. 

Kao’s jaw clenched. A flash of the old fire,Sira's fire,sparked in her eyes, but she suffocated it instantly. 

"That wasn't me," she said coldly. "That was the character. It's over, Jane. Sira is gone." 

"And what about me?" I asked, tears threatening to ruin the makeup. "Am I gone too? Did you scrub me off with the paint?" 

She didn't answer. She just closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against mine as the photographer started clicking rapidly. 

"I'm trying to protect you," she breathed. "You don't want me, Jane. You wanted the performance. You wanted the intensity. I can't give you that in real life. I'm just Kao. I'm boring. I'm safe." 

"I don't want safe," I said. "I hate safe." 

"You shouldn't," she murmured. "Safe doesn't break your heart." 

"Cut! Beautiful!" P'Arm yelled. "Check the lighting!" 

Kao pulled away instantly. She stepped back, putting three feet of distance between us. She smoothed her suit jacket, putting the armor back on. 

"I'm going to grab water," she mumbled, avoiding my gaze. 

She walked off the set. 

I stood there in the blinding white light, feeling colder than I had ever felt in the dark studio. 

She thought she was protecting me. She thought she was saving me from her darkness. 

She didn't realize that she was the one who was addicted to the light, and I was the one who had learned to see in the dark. 

I watched her walk away. 

Sira is gone, she had said. 

Liar, I thought. She's hiding. And I'm going to drag her out.