"What’s your approach to wrapping it up?"
It was a question that had risen naturally to the surface of Averie’s mind. It wasn’t particularly profound, but he was curious nonetheless.
"Elaborate," the director said.
"Do you prefer to address every detail and every subplot before ending the film?" The actor breathed out a cloud of hot air. "Take BSPH, for example. By the end of the last episode, it felt like every role—major or minor—had reached its conclusion, every conflict resolved."
’Although most ended up dead,’ he whispered in his mind.
"It didn’t feel like sothing was missing or needed to be shown." He rubbed his cold fingers, blowing hot air on them. "This has beco the norm in modern filmography, and if you were to ask , I would say it is the most refined way to end a production."
He hamred the toe of his left foot with the heel of his right.
"But then, occasionally, you’ll see films where obvious plot points—that felt like they were leading up to sothing—weren’t addressed. Easily abandoned, it’s as if they never even mattered."
He paused, taking in the early morning scene.
"There is a hint of romanticism in not knowing—perhaps because these are mostly films focused on only one character."
He cleared his throat and rubbed his weary eyes. But the black circles couldn’t be wiped away. They were authentic.
"So, which approach do you prefer," — He grinned — "for a film that doesn’t seem to care about its side characters?"
The mory faded away into the distant reaches of Director Groux’s brain.
Yet the familiar face remained on the big screen. It was just as weary as he rembered. Although he tried, the director could not tell whether the pale skin and dark circles were authentic or the result of his makeup team’s work.
At so point during filming, the actor and the role had beco indistinguishable. So easily the director had co to accept that situation, as if it were only natural for them to be one and the sa.
Even the conversations they had together, at so point, had devolved into the older gentleman’s attempt at peering into the psyche of a role he had written himself.
’When did I start seeing Averie Quinn Auclair as The Photographer?’
He couldn’t tell.
He wanted to bla himself, but instead chose to applaud the actor.
On the screen, the carriage stopped in front of Charles’s apartnt building. The couple, their gazes away from each other, did not disembark right away. There was tension in the air.
When the chauffeur opened the door, they did not idle away.
They walked up the staircase, underneath which three little dachshunds were huddled together.
"Have you thought about moving out of this haunt?" Marianne inquired.
Charles looked back at her before opening the locked door.
"It’s so small," complained the woman.
She had never liked the flat, which ca as no surprise for a noble lady. If she weren’t filthy rich, the thought of marrying Charles would’ve seed laughable. But she was a De Roschillian. She could afford to splurge money on so young artist.
The place had no source of light of its own, and The Photographer had to make do with the light pouring in from the window and the flickering bathroom bulb.
"We have hot water," the man muttered, pointing at the door behind him. "Would you like a soak?"
Marianne nodded, taking off her fur coat. "Sure."
As Charles filled the bathtub, his fiancée’s voice filtered in through the sound of running water.
"Do you keep cheeses here?"
The broken bulb precariously flickered as he walked out.
The first thing he saw was the picture of her. It felt so distant, so alien compared to when he first took it.
’So disparate.’
She was so distinct from The Lady, so far removed from his latest idea of perfection. Her once beautiful visage suddenly seed so imperfect compared to his muse.
And a thought suddenly jolted awake his senses to their extre.
Why was the picture staring at him?
From that angle, it was only possible if the fridge door was open.
That was correct. The fridge door was indeed open.
Behind it, the silhouette of a woman bathed in neon red could be seen, slightly hunched to examine the contents inside—the contents that could not be seen from where he stood.
One would be hard-pressed to list the items in their fridge without looking, but Charles knew what was in there.
And from the slight tremble in her fingers clutching the fridge, even Marianne knew ’the contents.’
With his detached gaze solely on the photo, the swirling madness within his eyes could be glimpsed.
The photo drew closer, his stride almost effortless.
Separated only by the door, he could not see her face as her feet faltered.
He knew that she knew he was there. He could sense it in her behavior—the subtle emotions. And in that mont, he instinctually felt a kinship with Jacquet and a deep familiarity with his stories about hunting beasts.
The cara cut to a wide shot. It caught the flickering bathroom lights, the still figure of Charles, the fridge in front of him, the window in the background, and the long shadow the man cast. It was as still as its owner and almost as eerie.
Classical piano began playing, its keys giving way to an ominous lody.
Lifelessly staring at her picture, through a series of flashing, epilepsy-inducing shots, The Photographer’s hand reached forward.
The shot cut to the contents of the fridge as a scream erupted, footsteps thumped the floor, and sothing collapsed heavily.
Inside the fridge, surrounded by ice, the head of a woman could be seen, her eyelids taped closed. Cut into perfectly asured sections, the rest of her body was arranged underneath.
Although clumsily done, it was apparent that care was put into preserving her.
The ominous piano had long blended into the desperate screams of a once beautiful woman.
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