The audition room was smaller than Lune expected.
Not cramped—just deliberately contained. Four chairs behind a folding table. Fluorescent lights softened by age. A camera positioned slightly too high, angled to flatten faces rather than flatter them. Lune noticed these things immediately, the way he always did: as data points, not impressions.
He stood on the tape mark and waited.
The casting assistant didn't look up right away. Power moved subtly here, through pauses and eye contact withheld. Lune let the silence stretch, reading the room as it read him. The panel consisted of three people: a casting director with practiced neutrality, a producer pretending to be relaxed, and an assistant whose pen moved constantly, anchoring the group's authority.
Lune adjusted before anyone spoke.
He softened his shoulders. He let his gaze settle—not eager, not distant. He chose a posture that suggested openness without need. He had learned long ago that rooms like this punished hunger and rewarded control.
"Slate," the assistant said.
Lune complied. Name, age, agency. His voice landed exactly where he wanted it—clear, steady, forgettably pleasant. He felt the micro-shifts in attention as he spoke, the way eyes sharpened when something aligned with expectation.
The casting director finally looked up.
"Whenever you're ready."
Lune nodded once.
The sides were thin—two pages, emotionally straightforward on the surface. A young man confronting loss. Regret, tenderness, a final admission. Lune did not approach it as emotion. He approached it as structure.
He began quieter than the room expected.
Not weak. Controlled.
He placed the first beat carefully, letting the pause before the second line stretch just long enough to create anticipation without discomfort. He watched the producer's foot still. He felt the assistant's pen slow.
Halfway through, Lune adjusted.
The casting director leaned back—an unconscious signal. Authority relaxing when it felt accommodated. Lune modulated accordingly, allowing the performance to swell just enough to suggest vulnerability without tipping into excess.
He did not feel the grief. He performed its timing.
The room responded.
He reached the final line and let it land without emphasis. No button. No plea. He let the silence afterward do the work.
No one spoke.
The pause was longer than protocol allowed.
Lune kept his face neutral, receptive. Inside, he tracked the delay precisely. This was not indifference. This was recalibration.
The casting director's gaze lingered on him—not appraising now, but measuring.
"Thank you," she said finally.
Lune nodded again and stepped back.
As he left the room, he caught the assistant's eyes flicker upward—too late, too curious. The producer whispered something, barely audible.
The door closed behind him.
Lune walked down the hallway without changing pace, heart rate steady. He did not wonder if he had done well.
He knew exactly what reaction he had produced. The only variable left was whether they were prepared to admit it.