The callback came faster than expected. That alone told Lune something.
The second room was larger, better lit. A different table. More people. The hierarchy was clearer here—executives occupying the center, assistants forming a loose perimeter. Authority had multiplied, and with it, scrutiny.
Lune adjusted again.
This time, he arrived already calibrated. He scanned faces without appearing to scan, noting who avoided eye contact and who held it too long. The casting director from before was present, seated slightly off-center—important, but not final.
"Same scene," someone said.
Lune nodded.
He began differently.
Not louder. Not more emotional.
Truer to the shape of what they wanted.
He refined the timing further, shaving milliseconds off pauses that had lingered before. He allowed a crack in his voice exactly once—placed, controlled, believable. He watched the room respond in sequence.
One executive leaned forward. Another exhaled without realizing it.
The assistant at the edge of the room stopped typing entirely.
Lune felt the shift as a physical thing—not excitement, not triumph, but alignment. He was no longer performing for them. He was guiding them through a reaction they wanted to have.
Being seen, he understood, was not about exposure.
It was about control of perception.
He reached the final moment and let the silence fall again. This time, it held differently—charged, attentive. He did not rush to break it.
Someone cleared their throat.
"Thank you, Lune," the casting director said, using his name now. "That was… very clear."
Clear was a word people used when they couldn't articulate impact without revealing vulnerability.
As Lune stepped back, he noticed one man near the end of the table—a script consultant, judging by the way he held his pages. The man's expression was not impressed.
It was unsettled.
His eyes lingered on Lune with a faint crease between his brows, as if something about the performance had slipped past craft and brushed against recognition.
Lune met his gaze briefly, then looked away first—generous, unthreatening.
The casting director smiled. "We'll be in touch."
The phrase was standard.
The tone was not.
Lune left the room with the same unhurried pace, but something inside him adjusted. Not emotionally—strategically. He had felt the difference between approval and disturbance.
Approval created opportunity.
Disturbance created longevity.
Outside, his phone buzzed with a message from his agent—already half-formed enthusiasm, careful not to promise.
Lune read it and put the phone away.
He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, letting the city move around him. Cars passed. Voices overlapped. Faces blurred.
Being seen, he understood now, was not a risk.
It was a tool.
And if he used it correctly, the world would never look closely enough to see anything else.