The role was small.
A supporting character in a late-night television drama—three scenes across two episodes, no narrative weight beyond exposition and reaction. Lune understood this immediately when his agent explained it, voice careful not to oversell.
"It's a foot in the door," she said. "Visibility."
Visibility was not what interested Lune.
Access was.
He arrived on set early, script already annotated—not emotionally, but spatially. He studied the blocking diagrams, the call sheet, the order of scenes. He paid attention to where the cameras would be, not where the audience would look.
The difference mattered.
During rehearsal, he noticed how the director framed him unintentionally—how his height altered composition, how his stillness drew focus away from louder actors. He adjusted accordingly, angling his body just enough to avoid dominance while retaining presence.
The camera noticed anyway.
Lune felt it the first time they rolled. Not emotionally—mechanically. The lens responded to him differently, lingering even when it wasn't meant to. He registered the way the frame tightened subtly, how the focus puller corrected a fraction too late.
The camera loved economy.
It loved restraint.
Between takes, Lune observed the monitors with polite distance, pretending not to study them. He watched how minimal movement translated into intensity on screen. How micro-expressions magnified. How doing less resulted in more.
This was familiar.
The camera functioned like people did—rewarding what appeared effortless.
In one scene, his line was meant to be forgettable. Lune delivered it without emphasis, eyes steady, posture neutral. The director frowned slightly, then nodded.
"Again," she said. "Same thing."
They ran it twice more.
On the third take, she smiled. "That's the one."
Later, the script supervisor leaned toward another crew member and whispered something. Lune caught only the tail end: "—doesn't waste the frame."
He filed it away.
By the end of the day, his role had not grown—but his presence had. The director adjusted shots to include him more clearly. The editor requested a clean close-up "just in case."
Just in case was where careers began.
As Lune left the set that night, he checked his reflection in the darkened glass of a production trailer. His face looked calm, unremarkable, exactly right.
The camera had responded.
And cameras, he knew, did not lie.
They revealed.