The episode aired on a Tuesday night.
Lune did not watch it live.
He knew what he had done. Watching would add nothing. Instead, he waited until the city's attention had settled into patterns—until reaction replaced anticipation. Only then did he open his phone.
The response arrived in layers.
At first, it was noise: comments scrolling too fast to read individually, usernames blurring into repetition. Then the shape emerged. He slowed the feed, filtered by time, by platform, by engagement type.
People noticed him.
Not loudly. Not universally. But distinctly.
"Who's that guy?"
"He didn't even do much, but I couldn't stop watching him."
"Why does he look like that when he says nothing?"
Lune read without emotion, scanning for frequency rather than praise. He noted which clips were shared, which screenshots circulated. He observed that reactions clustered around moments where he had not been the focus of the scene.
Background presence had become foreground interest.
That was important.
He checked demographic splits next—age, region, platform. Younger viewers reacted faster, more intuitively. Older viewers used language like grounded and natural. Critics ignored him entirely.
For now.
His agent texted twice in quick succession. Good response. Then: Casting offices are asking.
Lune set the phone down and waited ten minutes before replying. Delay signaled stability. Hunger repelled attention faster than indifference.
Later that night, he allowed himself to watch the episode—not as audience, but as analyst. He paused frequently, studying how the camera caught him unintentionally. How stillness became emphasis. How the absence of overt emotion created space for projection.
Viewers filled that space eagerly.
That was the shift.
He realized it mid-scroll, reading a comment that stopped him not because it was flattering, but because it was precise.
"He feels real. Like he's thinking something we're not allowed to hear."
Lune stared at the sentence longer than the others.
Real.
The word carried weight.
Reality, he knew, was what people trusted. What they defended. What they projected onto when truth felt inaccessible.
He closed the app.
Outside his window, the city moved on—cars, voices, light. The world had not changed. But something in how it looked at him had.
He was no longer just acceptable.
He was interesting.
And interest, once sparked, did not fade quietly.
As he lay down to sleep, Lune did not feel excitement. He felt recalibration begin automatically, like a system detecting new variables.
Public reaction was data. And data always demanded adjustment.