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ꕥ ‧₊˚ ⋆ ( emilio sakraya, cis man, he/him, actor ) ⸺ spotted drifting through briar bend lately is ilyas marković, the twenty nine year old gemini. they're kind of the type that tends to linger a little too long in conversations at la paloma cantina. if you ask around town, someone will tell you they always order their vodka soda with a twist of lime, a s.t. du pont lighter, and carry themselves like the mercurial — though whether that confidence is earned or carefully rehearsed depends entirely on who you ask. their friends insist they’re more magnetic than unpredictable, but critics around briar bend have a different story, usually involving vanishing for days at a time with no explanation, as if the script has become too much to bear. of course, in a town where family names are older than most of the buildings and everyone knows exactly which gates lead to which estate, people tend to keep their secrets tucked away where no one can find them. unfortunately for ilyas, the whispers circling their name lately seem to suggest he was the last one seen leaving the marković hollywood mansion before the flames started—which is why he fled back to the old georgia acres his family never let go of — and when the thorn starts circling, it usually means those whispers are about to get a lot louder.
𝐈. basic information.
full name: ilyas marković. alias: emil nacht. taken from an old script, a role that never saw the screen. nicknames: tba. age: twenty-nine ; june 14, 1997. horoscope: gemini sun, tba rising and scorpio moon. gender + pronouns: cis man, he/him. orientation: bisexual. place of birth: tbd. occupation: actor, he's been in the industry for over two decades. heir. moral alignment : chaotic neutral. spoken languages: english, serbian, darija, and german. mother: neïma marković. father: dušan marković.
eye color: brown. hair color: brown. scars: he likes to do his own stunts, and has a long jagged scar running from his hip to his thigh that he got on set during a stunt involving a car chase went wrong—he was supposed to jump out at a safe mark, but in a split second, ilyas didn’t care. the fall sent him skidding across the pavement, tearing through costume and skin. causing production shut down for two weeks. tattoos: tba.
the marković name sank roots into north georgia’s red clay decades before the first camera arrived. serbian emigrants crossed the atlantic seeking new beginnings with the opportunity of investing in real estate. decades on, ilyas' grandfather saw fresh promises in the same dirt. the state’s humid swamps, shadowed manors, and twisting backroads suddenly became cinematic gold. he started leasing family properties for location shoots: looming manors for costume dramas, dripping cypress for thrillers that needed real rot. and not long after, the family gaze swung west toward hollywood’s open mouth.
ilyas' parents were story-makers. they met at a film festival in berlin. by the late 1980s they had founded marković productions, starting with small projects that built their reputation on the festival circuit. their clear breakout came in the early 2000s:
the weight of magnolias — a prestige drama of a crumbling georgia dynasty undone by a forbidden affair, shot on family land. oscar nominations for its suffocating light, and neïma's haunting moroccan-inflected score.
they chased myth over ledgers. courted briar bend's old blood into hollywood’s orbit—investments became private screenings beneath ancient oaks, networking beneath magnolia canopies, cicadas providing the score.
then came their only child, ilyas.
the georgia estate remained the family’s true spine, but ilyas' childhood and teenage years split between summers in briar bend and los angeles permanent noon. summers belonged to the acres: riding horses through pecan orchards, wandering the same backroads his grandfather once leased. the rest of the year belonged to soundstages.
his parents were directing. love arrived as stage directions (“bigger smile, ilyas, you look sullen”). they never once asked what he wanted. resentment for ilyas started as paper cuts and ended in hemorrhage. cast in his father’s films, and later working with other directors, he became impossible on set: refusing direction, going off-script, walking away mid-take when it no longer felt his. he didn’t chase fame. no interviews. no red carpets unless physically escorted. adoration that fed his parents left him cold. mansion arguments turned vicious—slammed doors, irreparable lines delivered off-script.
for months he disappeared. under the alias emil nacht. clubs until dawn, bodies that asked nothing, excess so thick it numbed the lens-shaped hole in his chest. the only stretch of life no one framed. the blankness struck harder than any spotlight. acting—however strangling—had been his native tempo: call time, action, cut, repeat. without that metronome, hours smeared into one long underexposed reel until it became intolerable—dangerous, even. so he returned crawling back to the only rhythm he had ever known.
after fourteen hours on a film that mirrored his own too closely, ilyas lingered alone in the emptied mansion, drunk and furious. he fed scripts and storyboards to the fireplace. a velvet drape caught. he watched the ember take, hesitate only once—then made no move to stop it. he was the last silhouette seen before the structure collapsed into ash.
semi-retired from studio hollywood, but not entirely gone. he's dealing with a faltering sobriety and parents who are outwardly bitter, inwardly pragmatic. the public narrative frames it a “tragic accident,” the fire’s origin remains unspoken, officially undetermined. privately, they pressed: salvage the legacy, “one final picture to honor our foundation.” tense gatherings at the surviving georgia property—pitches delivered like ultimatums. the scandal dulled their luster, but old fortunes are resilient and the marković are already recalibrating toward new post-production deals, anything that keeps the lights on—all orchestrated from the discreet carriage house beside the marković pavilion, the open-air family landmark where monthly screenings still draw briar bend residents in.
𝐈𝐈𝐈. headcanons.
— at eight, ilyas' grandfather gifted him cider, a dapple-gray gelding. mornings were theirs: slow rides along the backroads, grandfather teaching reins and patience.
— he keeps his stash hidden in hollowed-out books on the estate shelves mostly southern gothic classics (absalom, absalom!, the sound and the fury). he chose them because no one in the family would ever read them for pleasure.