The studio smelled like disinfectant and ambition.
Lune arrived early, as instructed. Early enough to observe before being observed. The rehearsal room was a converted warehouse—mirrors on one wall, taped marks on the floor, chairs stacked with careless precision. A handful of other trainees filtered in, carrying nerves openly. Lune noted posture, breathing, eye contact. He mapped insecurity the way he always had.
The first coach introduced herself briskly and began without ceremony.
"Acting is discipline," she said. "Talent is secondary."
Lune felt a flicker of alignment.
Discipline was familiar territory.
They began with movement. Posture drills. Weight shifts. How to enter a room without announcing fear. Lune adjusted instantly, his body responding as if it had been waiting for permission. Years of controlled mimicry translated seamlessly into physical command. He watched the mirror not to admire, but to calibrate.
The coach noticed.
"Again," she said, pointing at him. "Exactly like that."
They moved into voice work. Breath control. Projection without force. Lune listened carefully, then executed with precision. He did not strain. He did not overreach. He treated each instruction as a system input, testing output in real time.
The room quieted around him.
By midday, the coaches had begun to cluster subtly—whispering near the mirrors, glancing at Lune when they thought he wasn't looking. He let them believe he didn't notice.
During a break, another trainee asked how long he'd been studying.
"Not long," Lune replied honestly.
The trainee laughed nervously, unsure whether it was a joke.
They moved into scene work. Pairings were assigned at random. Lune was given a confrontation scene—simple on paper, emotionally charged in execution. His partner struggled, stumbling over lines, eyes darting for approval.
Lune adjusted.
He softened his energy to support the other actor, giving them something to push against. He modulated intensity, allowing the scene to breathe without overpowering. The coach's pen paused mid-scratch.
"Hold that," she said. "That's it."
They ran the scene again. And again.
Each time, Lune refined—not emotionally, but structurally. He adjusted pacing to compensate for his partner's hesitation. He angled his body to catch the light better. He allowed silence to do more work than dialogue.
When the session ended, applause broke out—unprompted, uncertain, but sincere.
Lune bowed his head slightly, accepting without absorbing.
As people packed up, he overheard fragments.
"He learns too fast—"
"Did you see how he—"
"That's not training, that's instinct—"
Lune changed clothes quietly and left without lingering.
Outside, the city felt unchanged. Traffic. Voices. Heat rising from pavement. He walked to the bus stop with measured steps, replaying the day not with pride, but assessment.
The training environment rewarded what he had already built.
Control. Observation. Adjustment.
That night, as he lay in bed, his phone buzzed with a message from the studio coordinator: Great work today. Coaches very impressed.
Lune set the phone aside.
Excellence, he understood, was not dangerous.
Attention was.
And attention had begun.