"Joey! So glad to see you back!" exclaimed Alice, running over and immediately pulling him into a tight hug.
Joey was momentarily startled, but quickly returned the embrace. There was a smile on his face—soft, a little hesitant, but warm.
The meeting to reschedule the shoot for their film project in Brooklyn had just ended. The studio where they gathered had now transformed into a space full of laughter and warmth, not just because of work, but because of a longing held back for too long.
For the first time since the case broke, a bright smile returned to Joey's face. That smile wasn't yet fully healed—it still carried the shadow of pain. But today, that smile grew without force.
He was happy to be surrounded again by people who made him feel normal—chatty yet loyal Sheira, always spirited Alice, the crew who welcomed him with hugs and warm jokes, and of course, Charlie, who just patted his shoulder with sharp eyes and a relief too deep to put into words.
None of them talked about the past. No one asked. No one brought it up.
And precisely because of that, Joey felt safe. For now.
*
"Joey..."
The voice was soft, almost cracked with emotion. Chelsea appeared from behind a studio pillar, her eyes red but shining with relief. She hugged Joey without saying anything. Joey returned the hug—tight, without a sound. In that embrace, only their breathing was audible. No words, just a relief that had finally found a place to land.
After a moment, Joey whispered softly, "You have a problem, Chel?"
Before Chelsea could answer, Alice chimed in—her tone half-teasing, half-sincere, "She's upset because the pop singer she has a crush on became a suspect in that cocaine trafficking case among celebrities."
Chelsea gave a small grimace, still hugging Joey. "I really didn't expect it. He seemed so innocent. But it turns out..."
Then her gaze shifted to Joey, and there, behind her disappointment in the world, was an honest pride. Joey—who had been shattered, dragged through the dark headlines—was still standing here. Still clean. Or at least, appeared to be.
Alice also leaned against the makeup table, her tone more sincere than before. "No one in this industry is truly healthy. Sometimes I even think about finding a sugar daddy to make my career climb faster." She laughed softly, bitterly. "I know it's wrong. But Joey... you're different. You're still the best of all of us."
Joey just looked down, smiling wryly—not out of pride, but bitterness. "Truly healthy, huh..."
The sentence echoed in his head.
Truly healthy.
The world praised him as a shining young actor—a clean career, never involved with drugs, no drunk bar scandals. But only he knew how broken he was during those long nights spent with a man named Domenico Cassano—whose body and breath could make Joey forget what was love, what was ruin, what was enslavement.
With that man, he had once buried himself—without a gravestone, without a ceremony, without mourners.
But today, he was still here. Surrounded by the artificial studio lights and people who praised him without knowing his darkest side. And for now, Joey just wanted to be silent. Because sometimes, keeping a smile on your face is the only way to survive.
*
One question from Charlie to Joey. "You're going home, right?" Soft but firm. His tone sounded like a father to a son who had been lost for too long.
The home Charlie meant wasn't just a building. It was a place where Joey could sleep without nightmares. A place where he could offer the warmth of family with his wife and Jack.
Joey fell silent. His gaze dropped to the floor, and in his head, another voice spoke.
"I'll be waiting for you, just as you waited for me to come home yesterday."
That was Domenico's voice. The last sentence before the man sank back into the affairs of a world that never truly finished.
"Don't wait. I'm not coming home."
That was Joey's answer this morning. Now Joey knew, those were just words. Nothing is truly absolute when it comes to feelings.
"Yeah, um... maybe," he finally said. Joey's voice sounded light, but also uncertain—because he really wasn't sure.
Charlie frowned. "Maybe?"
Joey just took a deep breath.
Charlie wanted to say something about the place he had stayed previously with Cassano. But he held back. Joey was old enough to choose which wounds he wanted to carry home tonight.
Joey would go back to his apartment. Let's just say he was being reckless—after the incident with the ski-mask intruder pointing a gun. Domenico knew. That man surely wouldn't stay idle. Without telling Joey, Domenico's men spread out—interrogating the building owner, checking CCTV footage, throwing money and threats in ways that couldn't be told to anyone.
"Charlie," Joey called. "I just need a little time. To decide where I really want to go home."
Charlie let out a long sigh. He knew Joey's answer would be like that. The man gave Joey some time while he went away, called by the production assistant.
*
"Welcome back, Kevin Richardson," greeted a man with a warm tone and a hint of a joke that almost sounded flirtatious.
Joey turned quickly. At the end of the studio corridor, a few steps from where he stood, a tall man leaned casually against the wall. His pitch-black hair was neatly slicked back, and thin round glasses perched on his nose, giving an intelligent yet quirky impression.
He wore a slightly worn black leather jacket, a classic biker style with a large collar and a slanted zipper. Underneath, a dark sweater and loose beige-brown pants hung loosely at his waist, giving a casual vibe unusual among the formally dressed production crew. In his hand, a half-empty bottle of mineral water—as if he had just returned from outside.
There was a friendly smile on his face—a smile that had barely changed since the last time they acted opposite each other in front of the camera.
Leonhard Stahl.
That face was too calm, too smooth—and his fashion style gave a touch of rebel that was atypical for an actor often playing intelligent detectives on screen.
Leonhard played Detective Eli Voss, the lead investigator in the series A Genius Criminal, a character relentlessly pursuing Joey's character, Kevin Richardson, a slippery, enigmatic genius killer.
Joey paused for a moment. There was a brief pause between them, as if two worlds collided—the fictional world where they were archenemies, and the real world, far darker than what was written in the script.
Leonhard stepped closer. His steps were calm, elegant, unhurried. Like a man who knew time was always on his side.
"You still living in the same apartment?"
Joey hesitated slightly. "Yes."
Leonhard gave a slight smile. "That's brave."
Joey breathed in softly. "I thought you were still in Europe."
"Finished shooting a perfume ad two weeks ago," Leonhard replied lightly. "Echtmann No. 7, you know the one."
Joey glanced to the left and only then realized—on the studio corridor wall, just a few meters from where he stood, was a large poster for the Echtmann No. 7 perfume ad. In the poster, Leonhard stood half-turned away from the camera, wearing a wet black shirt in the dusk mist, staring sharply behind him as if hiding something. The slogan below read:
"Trust No One. But Smell Like You Do."
Joey raised an eyebrow. "Your perfume, your slogan. I feel like I'm in a murder scene."
Leonhard chuckled softly. "That's what they pay big for. The image of a secretive man you can't trust."
Joey looked at him—for a long time. "And you play it very... convincingly."
Leonhard responded with a small nod, almost like a silent acknowledgment. "Because sometimes... acting isn't far from our real lives, is it?"
Joey didn't answer. However, the look in his eyes was clearly not just listening.
The entertainment world, Joey thought, truly is a stage of illusions. But behind the friendly smile and glossy poster, who knows who might devour you in the dark of night?
"See you on set on the 1st, Joey," said Leonhard, patting his shoulder gently—a friendly gesture, almost like a truly sincere old friend.
Joey nodded lightly, giving a small smile. "See you then."
Leonhard walked away with confident strides, his posture upright, a faint, soft scent of perfume lingering in the studio corridor air. On the wall not far from where Joey stood, a poster for a luxury watch ad was displayed: Leonhard Stahl for LUXWEISS. The man's face stared sharply at the camera, with a half-smile full of secrets.
Joey looked at the poster for a moment. There was something in Leonhard's gaze—cold and controlled, like someone who knew how to hide wounds behind a smile, like someone who deeply understood how to play a killer on screen.
Weird, thought Joey.
Somehow, whenever he was near that man, there was an intangible aura that made his shoulders tense slightly. Not out of fear. Not discomfort either. But as if his body held a trauma that hadn't yet been given a name.
Joey shook his head slowly, trying to dismiss the strange thought.
Maybe it was just because they had too often chased each other on screen. But there was something in the way Leonhard looked at him—like a man who knew too much to be fully trusted.
Regardless, Leonhard was his co-star in A Genius Criminal. They rarely interacted off-set, but Leonhard was known as friendly, professional, low-drama, and an actor liked by the crew for his calm demeanor. Joey even remembered the director calling him "the type of actor who can read a script and immediately get into the character's head—without needing much direction."
Their on-screen dynamic was full of tension, though behind the camera, everything was fluid and easy.
Joey took a short breath, then turned. His steps took him past rows of lighting equipment not yet put away, towards a small area where the crew usually relaxed—and there stood Charlie, discussing quietly with the production assistant while occasionally glancing at his watch.
As soon as he saw Joey approaching, Charlie ended the conversation and turned.
"Finished chatting with the perfume ad star?" he asked, his tone light but his old eyes probing, as usual.
Joey gave a small shrug. "He's friendlier than I thought."
Charlie nodded slowly, then smiled slightly. "Leon does seem friendly. But sometimes, the calmest ones are the ones hiding the most."
Joey didn't respond immediately. He stood silently before Charlie, letting a pause hang between them. Finally, he said, his voice almost soft, "I'm going to the apartment tonight. But maybe tomorrow I'll stop by your place."
Charlie looked at him. Deeply. His eyes weren't judging, just containing—like a calm puddle holding back waves.
"I understand," he said finally. His tone was almost resigned. "You know you can come with me tonight, Kid. That house is still your place. But I also know, sometimes a person has to walk alone first before they can truly come back."
Joey looked down slightly, avoiding the man's gaze.
Charlie added, more gently, "But be careful, Kid. That apartment holds more ghosts than you can fight alone."
"I know," Joey whispered.
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn't suffocating. There was just an understanding—that some wounds need to be touched with time, not force.
"Thank you, Charlie," Joey said.
Charlie nodded. "Always. But that door remains open, whenever you want to come home. Tonight. Tomorrow. Even five years from now, it's fine."
He patted Joey's back gently—not as a push, but as an affirmation that no matter what happened, he was still on Joey's side.
For the first time since that morning, Joey felt his heart was a little lighter. Not entirely free, but enough to make him brave enough to step into a night that might not forgive him.
*
Night fell.
Silence enveloped every corner of the mansion in Todt Hill, Staten Island—a house standing on a height, as if distancing itself from the world, while hiding many secrets behind its thick stone walls.
The room where Joey used to sleep was located on the east side of the second floor. Its walls were lined with old mahogany wood panels, the high ceiling adorned with classical carvings, and heavy gray curtains were half-drawn over the tall window. The large bed with white linen looked too neat, too cold. Beside it, an old leather armchair still held the fold of a small blanket—a remnant of Joey's habit of sitting quietly there wearing headphones when the night was too noisy in his head.
Now the room was dark. Quiet. And untouched.
In the main study, behind the large glass window overlooking the snow-covered backyard, Domenico Cassano stood with his back to the room, wearing a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, his jacket thrown carelessly onto the sofa. One hand held a glass of deep red wine, while the other was tucked into his pants pocket, as if holding something back from falling—maybe patience. Maybe hope.
The late January night air left a thin dew on the glass surface. The vapor of his breath was almost visible as he stood too close to the window.
Joey would not come home tonight.
And for the first time, Domenico truly knew what it felt like to be left in silence.
It felt like waiting for someone who didn't say "when" or "if" they would return.
It felt like Joey waiting for his return earlier that same winter, when he was busy with business and blood, and Joey just sat on the sofa in front of the television in an oversized sweater.
Domenico brought the glass to his lips but didn't drink immediately. Instead, he stared intently at his own reflection in the window glass. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight.
Then he picked up his phone.
"He went back to his apartment," Domenico said softly but firmly, his voice cold without excessive intonation. "Watch him."
Not because Domenico didn't trust Joey. But because he knew too well that someone who looked calm on the outside could explode in an instant when alone. And Domenico never trusted solitude. It was the first enemy in this business. And in love.
Immediately after hearing "yes, Boss," Domenico ended the call. No further explanation. No request. Because when it came to Joey—Domenico would not take risks, even when what he feared most wasn't wounds from the outside, but the slow destruction brought by loneliness.
The wine remained in his hand. Untouched. And the night, once again, fell slowly—like clock hands not ticking in a house too quiet. In a house once full of the sounds of two people breathing, now only one shadow remained.
[]