A week passed. Samuel noticed that Julian hadn't touched the clothes he'd bought him.

Julian still rotated between his two cheap Uniqlo suits. When the NYC wind turned biting, he reached for that same black puffer—the one with the fabric so washed-out it looked like matted wool.

Samuel rarely second-guessed his own actions, but a dull ache of regret settled in his chest.

Julian's pride was a jagged thing, and Samuel's lecture at the precinct had clearly drawn blood.

He opened a private messaging app and found the contact for the luxury furniture brand.

"I've changed my mind," he typed. "If the collaboration offer still stands, contact me."

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Back in his cramped apartment, Julian carefully hung the charcoal suit in the back of his closet.

It wasn't that he didn't like the feel of the cashmere. But wearing it to Apex Capital was a death sentence. People at the office weren't gossips, but they had eyes for luxury; they'd see a three-thousand-dollar suit on an intern and start doing the math.

Julian preferred to earn his own way. The incident at the club had left him hyper-vigilant, but the reality of his parents' upcoming visit still weighed on his bank account.

He logged into his social media account. A message from the Soli-lunar PR team sat at the top of his inbox: The project is back on. @Orca has agreed to the shoot.

Julian's heart skipped.

He'd already written the gig off as a scam, but then a new notification appeared—a direct message from Orca himself.

@WorkIsKillingMe: Why did you agree to this?

@Orca: I owe someone a favor.

@WorkIsKillingMe: Oh.

@Orca: If you're worried about safety, I'll have the brand process the contract through the official platform.

Julian felt a rush of relief.

Official platform contracts meant the brand, the agency, and the payout were all verified. He accepted the offer and waited for the script.

When the PDF finally loaded, Julian nearly dropped his phone.

[Scene 1: Living Room. @WorkIsKillingMe is blindfolded and thrown onto the sofa. @Orca pins him by the neck.]

[Scene 2: Kitchen. Julian lies on the island. @Orca pours milk over his head and chest.]

[Scene 3: Bedroom. Julian steps onto @Orca's chest with bare feet and delivers a sharp slap to his face...]

Julian stared at the screen, his face burning. Is this even allowed?

Fifty thousand dollars.

That was the figure that kept Julian's internal moral compass steady.

If a mega-influencer with ten million followers wasn't worried about the "heat" of the script, Julian decided he didn't need to be either.

The shoot was set for Saturday. Julian spent all week praying for a clear schedule, but by Friday afternoon, the VP of Synapse AI slammed a folder onto his desk.

"Business trip. Boston. This weekend."

Julian gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning white. "I have... a personal commitment on Saturday. I can't go."

The VP didn't even look up. "Career over comfort, Hale. Administration is booking your flight for tomorrow morning."

Julian was ready to walk into the man's office and risk his internship with a flat no when the VP suddenly emerged, looking confused. "Forget it. I just got word you're already booked for a project with Samuel. Why didn't you just say so?"

Julian froze. Samuel?

He knocked on Samuel's door ten minutes later, his pulse a frantic rhythm in his throat.

Samuel looked up from a stack of IPO filings, his expression a wall of professional ice. "Yes?"

"Sir... the Synapse VP said I'm working for you this weekend?"

Samuel didn't blink. "No. The project was canceled."

Julian bit his lip. "Then why did you—"

"Private matter," Samuel interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. "You're dismissed."

Julian left the office in a daze. He'd expected another lecture, but Samuel had simply... let him go. He went home early, but sleep was a ghost.

He stared at the ceiling, spraying his favorite room mist until the air felt heavy with the scent of sandalwood. Will I see his face? Julian wondered, clutching his blanket. Will I finally see Orca?

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Saturday morning. The Soli-lunar showroom was a three-story glass-and-steel mansion in the heart of the city.

Julian kept his mask pulled high as he entered. He recognized the photographer immediately—Dot, a fashion legend known for high-tension, atmospheric portraits. Julian had spent years imitating her style; seeing her in person made his hands shake.

A woman in a tailored black blazer stepped forward. "You @WorkIsKillingMe?"

Julian nodded.

"I'm Rita, your PR lead." She shook his hand with a grip that screamed efficiency. "You can head to the lounge. We'll call you when we're ready to light the first set."

Julian ducked into the private room, the silence of the space settling over him like a shroud. He stood up abruptly as Rita turned to leave.

"Wait. About the face... the camera won't..."

"Relax," Rita said, offering a professional smile. "Orca is even more protective of his identity than you are. No faces. Just the story."

Rita closed the door. Julian sat on the velvet sofa and opened the script for the hundredth time. He knew every line by heart, but the words still felt like a dare.

Thirty minutes later, Rita knocked. Julian Hale pulled on a heavy, oversized hoodie and adjusted his mask before stepping onto the set.

Studio lights flooded the showroom's living room. A staffer occupied the Bauhaus sofa, marking @Orca's position, while a second worker lay on the rug where Julian was meant to be.

Julian scanned the room. No sign of the main influencer.

A girl with a low ponytail approached with a silk scarf. Julian leaned down, offering his neck. The silk tightened over his eyes, plunging his world into black.

Julian's pulse hammered. Loss of sight brought an instant, clawing panic.

"Are you claustrophobic? Afraid of the dark?" Rita's voice was close. Julian shook his head. "Good. If it's too much, just say the word. We'll cut immediately."

He began to pace the set, memorizing the furniture's edges. The mask turned humid against his skin. Julian hooked a finger over the top edge, pulling it just below his nose to breathe.

He walked straight into a wall of heat. His balance shifted. Julian began to tip back until a hand clamped around his waist.

"Steady."

Spicy leather hit Julian's senses—sharp, aggressive, and expensive. His cheek brushed a heavy wool chest. The scent suggested a man who didn't take no for an answer.

Julian fumbled for the silk at his temples. A hand covered his eyes first, the glove feeling cold and smooth as a serpent's skin.

"Please... don't," Julian whispered, his voice a tremor.

The pressure vanished. Julian tore the scarf away, catching only the silhouette of a man in a long black overcoat and dark lenses. A predatory gait. Orca.

He was led back to the rug and blindfolded again. Ribbon looped around his thin, pale wrists. The girl's hands shook; the binding was loose.

"Tighter," Julian prompted.

"Okay, I... tell me if it hurts." The ribbon tightened, biting into his skin.

A cold, distant voice cut through the room. "Too tight. His skin is marking."

"Sorry! I'm so sorry." The girl fumbled with the knots. The man didn't speak again. Julian's heart thudded against his ribs.

"Is that okay?" the girl asked. No answer came. Julian realized she was looking at him. "It's fine," he said.

"That was Orca," she whispered, helping him sit. "He's terrifying."

The project lead stepped onto the rug to brief them. "You've been captive for three days. You're lost, terrified, but desperate for a way out. Clear?" Julian nodded. "Interact naturally. We want to see the friction."

Music swelled. Julian was shoved onto the carpet. Blind and adrift, he scrambled backward until his spine hit the hard edge of the coffee table.

The silence was a physical weight. According to the script, Orca was on the sofa, watching him. Julian couldn't hear a breath.

Heavy footsteps thudded on the floor. A gloved hand hooked under Julian's chin, forcing his head back.

A soft spotlight caught the porcelain line of his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed—a frantic, visible rhythm.

Beneath his sunglasses, Orca's gaze turned dark. The camera lens zoomed in, capturing every shiver.

The script hadn't called for this. A thumb slid under the edge of the silk, grazing Julian's eyelid. Julian's lashes hammered against the skin.

Is he taking it off? Julian froze. He couldn't let his face be seen here.

"Cut!" the planner shouted.

The hand vanished. Julian slumped on the rug, chest heaving.

"Break for five," the planner called, checking the monitor. "Beautiful shot, but we're blocking the sofa. We need more conflict."

Julian remained on the floor. He could feel Orca's presence, though the man made no sound.

The inequality of the gaze made Julian restless. He shifted, rubbing his head against the carpet until the blindfold loosened. A sliver of light appeared at the bridge of his nose.

Julian saw a pair of sharp, red-soled oxfords with skull detailing. suit slacks stretched over powerful thighs. The man was sitting on the coffee table, inches away.

His eyes traveled up. A tailored suit jacket. A broad, muscular chest.

Orca sat there in the silence, a perfect silhouette of Samuel Frost. Julian's throat went dry.