The spotlights were still dimly lit, hanging like false moons in the artificial sky. The artificial rain had just been stopped. The fake street gleamed, reflecting the city sky that never truly grew dark.
A few crew members were still milling about, rolling up cables, covering cameras, fixing props that were almost collapsing from the winter wind.
Charlie Douglas stood in the corner of the set, wearing a wool jacket. His hands were tucked in his pockets, but the cold of the night had nothing to do with the faint tremor at his fingertips. His gaze was fixed on a single point in the distance—outside the bounds of the stage lights, near the half-collapsed wire fence.
A black Cadillac stopped.
Its door opened slowly.A young man stepped out. His blond hair swayed gently, touched by the night wind like a caress that never quite landed. And in front of him, a man stood—erect, calm, almost unreal. His black suit contrasted with the studio lights. He was like a shadow lost from another night.
No words. No movement. Just one look—long, silent, sharp. A look that only grows from something that once belonged to each other, then was lost.
They were silent to each other. And the world seemed to fall silent too.
From afar, Charlie held his breath. He knew he shouldn't be watching. But he also knew—not one of them was aware he was there.
Then, Domenico turned around.
His steps were slow,like an old machine that never ran out of power. He got back into the car. The engine purred softly.
Joey didn't move. Didn't raise a hand. Didn't call out. Didn't plead.
The car drove off slowly, leaving ripples in the puddle of artificial rain. The red brake lights swept across Joey's face for a split second—like an old wound that had never truly healed.
He stood there, watching the back of that car disappear. Like watching a memory choosing to leave. Again.
Charlie took a deep breath.
He knew that if he called Joey now,the young man would turn with his signature thin smile, then ask, "Sorry I'm late. What's the next scene?" As if nothing had happened.
But Charlie also knew, something inside Joey had just left—without a sound.
Joey remained standing there.
Until the car vanished into the dark end of the studio lot.Until all that was left was the cold air, weary spotlights, and one slender body refusing to crumble.
---
"Am I late?" Joey asked one of the crew, his voice soft yet clear enough amidst the now-subsiding bustle.
The crew member turned and smiled warmly. "You're right on time."
Joey gave a brief nod. A smile as thin as paper appeared on his face—almost like a reflex, not warmth.
"You look happy tonight," commented Leonhart, appearing from the left side, still holding a clipboard and an unlit cigarette.
Joey turned, his blue eyes still slightly misty. "Do I look that way?" His tone was calm, but wary. His gaze shifted for a split second—a wariness he couldn't hide. Had Leonhart seen? Seen the car?
Domenico's car had stopped far enough away. Joey was sure. But anyone could have noticed. Security cameras. Window reflections. Or just the intuition of someone too perceptive.
"Something good happen, perhaps?" Leonhart continued, trying to read the body language of his co-star. "Meet a fan?"
Joey almost laughed, but no sound came out. His lips curved, as if holding back irony.
"A dedicated fan," Joey uttered. Cold, yet almost teasing. One eyebrow lifted slightly.
In his head, the image of a man appeared. They sat facing each other in an Italian restaurant. The man barely blinked as he watched every moment Joey ate lasagna. Dedicated fan—if that word meant someone who stalked your heart to the point of breaking, who cooked lasagna like a sedative, who remembered your birthday better than your own mother..., then yes, he was the most dedicated fan that ever existed. His obsession, so possessive and controlling.
Leonhart looked at Joey for a moment. Didn't respond. But his eyes grew thoughtful—as if filing away a small note in the back of his mind.
Joey lowered his hoodie. The night air bit at his neck; he let the cold in. Maybe that's what he needed now—something real. Something that could stab without having to touch the heart.
"Any scenes tonight?" Joey asked flatly.
Leonhart nodded slowly. "On the rooftop."
Joey nodded. Then walked past the man without another word.
—
The cold wind swept across the surface of the artificial studio rooftop, carrying a thin mist from the slowly falling artificial snow. The spotlights flickered dimly on the rig above, casting the shadows of two people sitting at the edge of the set.
Joey Carter leaned casually against the cold iron railing, wearing his character Kevin's jacket and his own gray wool scarf. Beside him, Leonhard Stahl—Detective Voss in the series—sipped coffee from a personal thermos, his eyes on the fake sky above them.
"So we have to pretend to have a major confrontation on a snowy rooftop," Leonhard mumbled, half-laughing. "When the only conflict I have right now is..., this coffee being too bitter."
Joey smiled faintly. "Maybe it fits. Kevin's world is bitter too."
Leonhard glanced at him briefly. "You and Kevin. Sometimes I have a hard time telling you apart."
Joey just stayed silent, his gaze directed at the fake city lights blinking far off on the set. Artificial rain dripped from his hair onto his neck. But he didn't care.
"You know, Joey..." Leonhard started again, his voice casual but with a slowly deepening tone. "Sometimes I see a car stopping outside the studio. Never gets out, never truly leaves. Just sits there, watching."
Joey turned slowly, the smile on his lips unchanged. "You're observant, Leon."
"I'm a detective, remember?" Leonhard laughed softly. "And sometimes I feel Kevin isn't the only one living a double life among us."
For a moment, silence hung in the air.
Then Joey gave a small shrug. "You've absorbed your character too much."
"Or maybe I just notice that you're too smart to just be an actor."
Joey looked at him, this time more deeply. But there was no anger, no defense. Just the vague expression of someone too accustomed to keeping secrets.
"If I had a double life," he said softly, "I'd make sure no one knew."
Leonhard gave a small laugh. "Including me? We've only been close since the start of season one filming."
Joey smiled faintly. "Including anyone who likes me." The sentence hung in the air like snow that hadn't yet fallen.
Suddenly, Charlie's voice came through the walkie-talkie. "Scene 2x06 rooftop confrontation. Take one. Cameras ready. Quiet on set."
Joey stood up and straightened his jacket. But before they walked to their positions, Leonhard managed to say, "If you need someone to talk to, outside of Kevin and the cameras, I can be that person. I'm not a real FBI agent, Joey."
Joey paused briefly, then gave a small nod. "And I'm not a real criminal. But..., who knows, right?"
Then they laughed—faint, soft, like two people who knew they were circling something bigger than a script.
The cameras started rolling. The snow machine turned on. And that artificial night transformed into a stage of judgment for two equally shattered souls—Kevin and Voss. But off-script, behind the shadows of fake buildings and spotlights, Leonhard began collecting pieces of the puzzle about the mysterious blond man beside him.
Joey took off his scarf and handed it to Leonhard. "For later. In case I get too into character and forget we're friends."
Leonhard nodded and accepted it. "If you jump off the rooftop, I'll climb down with you to get burgers after this."
They shared a small smile—two actors, on-screen and... in the real world. Then walked to their respective positions.
And when the cameras started rolling again, the artificial snow fell once more, the spotlights sharpened, and Kevin and Voss came back to life.
Beyond it all, the two men standing on the rooftop that night weren't just characters in a script. They were two people who, even in the dark world of a crime series, could still share a laugh before filming the heaviest scenes of their lives.
*
The air on the mansion's upper floor was still and heavy, as if its walls held too many secrets and whispers of the night. Behind the carved oak door, Domenico Cassano stood straight in his study, still wearing the dark coat from his visit to Manhattan.
His desk was neat as usual, except for one opened file left spread out—its contents were business documents, reports from Calabria, several sheets of a recently read profile arranged in a folder, and a photograph that made the surrounding air feel colder than the snow outside.
Domenico stared at a candid photo. A very familiar blond young man together with a fairly senior German-blooded actor. His eyes didn't leave Joey's face, which looked comfortable, even warm. A smile that should only belong to one person—him.
The door was knocked twice.
"Come in," Domenico's voice was heavy, hoarse from the cold and something else.
His underling entered, handing over an additional printed photo.
"They seem more familiar than we thought, Don."
Domenico said nothing. He simply took the photo, holding it up to eye level.
His gaze was empty,but his jaw tightened.
"Should we take care of it?" asked the underling, his voice low like a whisper of sins ready to be carried out on the command of a single word.
Domenico slowly closed his eyes. There was a long second of held breath before he answered, "Their relationship seems close..."
He opened his eyes again. His gaze now was like a black ocean with an unseen depth.
"...but getting rid of him now isn't the right time. Unless he acts recklessly."
"Understood, Don," replied the underling, bowing slightly before leaving the room.
Silence enveloped the room once more.
Domenico sat down slowly.Placed the photo on the desk. Then he tore it—one neat tear separating Leonhard Stahl's face from Joey's. He placed the piece with Joey's photo into the thin black wallet in his pocket, slipping it behind his personal metal cards.
The piece with Leonhart's photo he placed on a small crystal ashtray in the corner of the desk. Then, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver lighter—an old object, engraved with the initials D.C.
Click.
A small flame sparked at its tip. Hot, but steady—like himself.
Domenico lowered the flame to the edge of the photo. Its corner began to burn slowly. A tongue of fire crept up, consuming the edge of Leonhart's face. The face crumpled, blackened, then vanished into ash. Like a threat not yet issued, but already assured. The paper curled, shriveled into brittle ash.
Domenico watched it until the fire died out on its own, leaving behind charred flakes.
His hand reached for the lighter, closing it again with a small click.
"When you meddle with what is mine, you will know who you're dealing with." The words were heard by no one, but the old stone walls of the room would remember them. Always.
[]