#studiocall

It was her idea. The cause of Julian’s patience being shortened was because of her idea. Kitty, for the publicity, was going to be visiting his set in minutes, which made him push in as much work as possible before her arrival, knowing and preparing for the lack of focus that she would bring with her. It wasn’t his focus or attention that he was concerned with, though; it was those of his cast and crew that were more vulnerable to the former pin-up model flouncing in in God knows what. He had already warned her of keeping the visit short. It was different when it was outside of the studio, but here, in his dominion, there were another set of rules. 

“Stop,” his frustration was evident in his tone, straining his accent in the single syllable. His hand was resting against the side of his forehead, thumb resting at his temple where he could feel his pulse beating through the constricted pathway. A headache was forming.

He left his chair as the cameras had stopped rolling. The actors had paused, watching as he approached them with unsure faces. 

“He feels eyes boring into his soul. It’s electric. Unsettling. It’s cocking the hammer back on a loaded gun,” he recited perfectly from the script he’s read and edited and learned by heart, and while speaking his eyes mirrored the exact feeling that the writing portrayed: diving into the bare bones of the actor he was speaking to.

“Where is that? Where is that feeling? I don’t see it. I’m bored,” he shrugged after his hands whipped through the air with the aid of his words. “Is that how you act when you feel, when you know, someone can come up and kill you?”

The next sound didn’t come from any of his cast, though. It came from the sound of the door closing loudly, echoing through the building. Julian’s teeth gritted behind his pursed lips, knowing who was responsible. Knowing who would be his death.