Nathan stares at the director's office door.
Lately, he feels less like a manager and more like a bodyguard—especially now that the director and the writing team have left him outside so they can speak privately with Elma.
And right now, he doesn't feel good about it at all.
The moment he tears his gaze away from the door, the sound of something shattering inside makes him jump. Muffled shouts and sharp words follow, but the soundproof walls prevent him from understanding what's happening.
He doesn't wait. With a surge of worry, he pushes the director's office door open.
_How dare you?! How… How could you?! You filthy bastard!!!"
Nathan quickly scans the room. Script pages are scattered across the floor. Elma's face, half-terrified and half-furious, is ghostly pale beneath her light foundation. The director is pinned against the wall under him. A damp smear stains the wall near his head, and a shattered glass lies at his feet.
_Elma! What's wrong with you?? This is what everyone does! Let it go! Aren't you an actor??
The screenwriter, too afraid to step forward, watches from a distance. The director grinds his teeth, and Nathan sees a vicious glint in his eyes. Before Nathan can pull Elma away, the man violently twists one of the boy's slender wrists. Only Nathan knows just how fragile Elma really is.
_Agh—!
_Director Talor!
Nathan lunges forward, forcefully prying the director's grip off Elma, who's hunched over in pain.
_Don't touch him! Do you even realize what you're doing?! You'll have to pay for this!
The director quickly regains his composure, veins bulging in his whitened temples. He never expected a mere doll like Elma Naven could slam him against a wall. Elma trembles with rage in Nathan's arms as Director Talor straightens his collar and glares at Nathan.
_Me? You're questioning me? He attacked me first! You're all out of control! We're lucky he didn't show up drunk again… Hah! Working with you is pure torture, Naven!
Nathan feels Elma's body shaking with renewed fury in his grasp. The boy's thin fingers dig into his arm.
_I said I didn't want to do it! I didn't sign a slavery contract, you damn bastard! Even in the damn Hollywood, they don't—
Instead of finishing, Elma breaks into a violent coughing fit, nearly collapsing onto Nathan. Nathan immediately checks on him, alarmed.
He's too light.
Too weak.
The relentless coughs leave a smear of blood at the corner of Elma's lips. It takes Nathan too long to realize what they were arguing about. He steadies Elma's body and scowls.
_What's this about? I know we signed a contract, but like he said, he's not your slave… An actor should have a say in the scenes they perform!
He gives Alma's arm a reassuring squeeze.
We'll talk about your condition later.
The screenwriter quietly gathers the scattered script pages from the floor, then turns and thrusts them into Nathan's hands with a sour expression.
_What's so… Ugh. Is Elma any different from other actors? This is an adult film. If he's still a kid, he shouldn't have signed the contract!
Nathan glances at the pages, and his frown deepens.
_What is this? A sex scene?
_It's a sex sequence.
Elma's hoarse voice, heavy with labored breathing, cuts off any further replies. He still leans on Nathan's arm for balance.
Nathan pauses. He knows Elma isn't shy—in fact, when it comes to sex and things like that, he's downright unrestrained.
_Then what's the problem? You've done sex scenes before…
The screenwriter answers instead:
_It's… a bit different. Not completely, but still...More realistic, and—
Elma takes a sharp breath. His tone is dripping with sarcasm.
_ it's gonna be fully naked. It's realistic...
He makes a long pause.
_ and it's a threesome
---
For the first time, Elma has managed to grate Nathan's ears with his piano playing. It seems lately, this boy surprises him more every day.
As Nathan flips through the script pages, his frown deepens. He really ought to worry about those pronounced frown lines—at thirty-five, they're getting worse by the day.
Elma, meanwhile, plays the piano one-handed. His other wrist, now twice its normal size and swollen, is freshly bandaged after Nathan rushed to set the dislocated bone with a doctor's help. Yet he hammers the ivory keys as if slamming dumbbells onto them, twisting "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" into some horror movie soundtrack.
Suddenly, he raises his hand and slams it down on the keys. A dissonant shriek tears through Nathan's thoughts.
_Elma!
The boy's lips curl into that smirk again—always. His grin is upside-down… clown-like. It unsettles Nathan every time.
_I have to, don't I? Not even allowed to complain, even though he basically broke my hand.
A soft, high-pitched chord trickles out. Nathan falls silent, shuffling the papers restlessly.
_ what do you mean by that?!This is practically porn! It's only the second time you're going in front of the camera like this...
He takes a deep breath.
_ But I have to talk. We signed a contract, but they can't force you without considering the publishing laws. Your dad won't let them force you.
Elma's hand stops on the keys. he seems to be thinking deeply about something, but he doesn't turn around.
_ Nathan.
_ Yes?
_ Do you think if I play this scene, with all the details, those videos will become ineffective?
Silence hangs in the air. Nathan takes a deep breath, hoping they won't talk about that subject.
Not now. Please.
Not ever.
_ what videos ?
This time Elma turns to him. There's no mockery in his eyes, his lips aren't turned up. A rare seriousness makes Nathan shiver.
_ The films. The videos. Whatever you call them... the ones my dad has.
Nathan stares at his face. It's too late to deny it anymore. Of course, he knows what this young eight-year-old and twenty-five-year-old is talking about.
_ That's exactly why I say he won't let you play it.
They both stare at each other for a few moments.
Elma's lips take on a mocking shape again. Mockery towards herself, towards the world, even towards Nathan.
_ It's true that it's profitable for him... and people would die for an adult film, but I'm sure he won't let me take the scene that... realistically. He'd lose his trump card that way...
_ You've seen them too?
Nathan is taken aback for a moment.
_ What?
Elma's face looks like a crumpled piece of paper for a moment, but he turns away to smooth out the wrinkles.
_ Nothing. Tell them I'll play it, but I won't let them film my lower body. And don't expect me to actually act something like that out.
His finger plays another high note. Nathan's gaze turns to his other wrist, which has fallen down next to the chair and is swollen.
_ By the way.
With the same swollen hand, barely moving amidst the bandages, he tucks his hair behind his ear. He's beautiful, really beautiful, but like a diamond that's constantly being trampled on the muddy ground.
_ I'm going to a party tonight.
***
By one o'clock, the party had just begun. But Elma was already drunk enough.
By three o'clock, people were still swaying among each other, the crowd thick and buzzing. Now, he was high enough to forget every last one of his dear manager's lectures. He didn't like forgetting. He wanted to remember his words.
But by four-thirty, he can no longer recognize the face of whoever is sleeping beside him. He know there is pain in his body—down there, where he hadn't wanted them to film, where he hadn't protested enough. He know what he'd done. He know tomorrow, standing will be difficult.
But the real pain is different. The world spin around him again, twisting into an endless vortex.
He always - every time tells Nathan he can't remember the faces. But...
When he said "party," even he knew—and Nathan knew—exactly what kind of party he meant. Yet Nathan never made a move to stop him. He knew he couldn't hold back this "eight-year-old" or "twenty-five-year"-old child.
And he didn't try. Even though it frustrated him deeply.
Both of them know Nathan hated seeing Elma the morning after those "parties."
That is why he always tries to hide the morning after . Actually, he doesn't even know himself.
Three days passed.
For all three, Nathan can't stop him.
By the time Elma returns, it is always too late—or maybe too early. By the time he wakes up, it is too late for them to see each other. It stirrs something strange in Nathan, something bitter and unwelcome...
But every morning, Nathan watches his half-dead body on the bed, tracing the kisses that belongs to someone new each night, not very kind looking , even harsh. the needle marks on his arms. Sometimes, he wonderes—when will his heart finally burst out of his chest?
Probably not too long now.
Every time, he is filled with hatred. Every time he see the bites and bruises, too violent for his liking. He is sure the people who left them didn't even realize the slightest pressure would stain this fragile skin.
But is that skin even clean anymore, to worry about?
Nathan doesn't dwell on the answer. Elma avoids him, letting ruin consume him, same as always.
Until the day comes for him to film the sex scene.
The other two actors are both men, and his mind is weak. Nathan know exactly why the Xanax bottles keep emptying. The fear of cameras never left him, not even when he finally became a famous celebrity.
Cameras and a sex scene...
Nathan finally makes his decision.
Half an hour before filming, he walks to the dressing room, where Alma stands alone in front of the mirror. He's always alone for a while, before every mess. Nathan thinks.
Elma and the mirror make a good pair for breaking—both merciless, fragile, and brutally honest.
Elma stares at himself like he still hadn't found what he is searching for. He know he never will. But the moment he spots Nathan behind him, he smiles
_How you doin'?
His body, wrapped in a plain robe, sways lightly as he turns. Mischief flickers in his eyes again, but Nathan know that glint isn't a good one.
He recognizes that unnatural glint in his eyes. The track marks on his arms. The alarming thinness.
The glow of drugs.
_How can I be okay? Ugh, I haven't seen my man in three days!
The colorless liquid in the glass he holds ripples faintly, like their relationship.
But Nathan doesn't smile. He hates alcohol. He hates anything that keeps him from being sober. Even if Elma's sobriety is something terrifying and unwanted.
Elma leans against the vanity:
_Don't tell me you didn't miss me as much as I missed you?
Nathan takes a deep breath, his gaze dropping to Alma's painfully thin legs. He knows he's dangerously underweight—so much so that even when his knees press together, a gap remains between his thighs.
And he knows why.
Grief twists in his chest.
_Elma... seriously, are you okay? I know what you're doing... I'm scared you'll overdose.
_Nathan, darling. Did you think I could play a wild threesome when I'm sober?_
His fingernail taps the glass, producing a soft tink.
The glint in his eyes shifts abruptly. Nathan flinches—because this isn't the glint of sorrow or mischief. Not even anger. It's something like... surrender.
He hates seeing it.
Again, as always, he grabs his wrist and twists it, revealing the constellation of purple and red dots along his veins:
_This is too much, Elma! Why won't you stop? How many times will you go back there? I don't want to drag your corpse out of those parties! You're really—
Nathan bites his lip. He doesn't want to hurt him, he just wants—
Wants to reclaim him, but you can't reclaim what was never yours to begin with.
Elma studies his own arm with detached curiosity, as if someone else painted those marks and they're merely a macabre masterpiece.
_Dad called. Know what he said? That no matter what they do to me, I have to give them what they want. Said tantrums like " I don't want to " and " I won't" are for kids who can afford them . If I want fame and money, I've gotta step up.
He slowly pulls his wrist free. Though he craves Nathan's touch—the only hands that handle him with care. Maybe the only hands that still believe he's human. His hollow laugh answers Nathan better than words ever could.
_Don't be naive. There's no 'me' left to step up for. Who stomps on shattered glass?
_Don't say that to me. If you keep this up, he'll send you back to Moscow... I won't let that happen!
A subtle tremor runs through Elma at the word Moscow. Nathan knows he's struck a nerve—but not whether it was the right one.
He watches his fingers tremble mid-air before the performance resumes. One, two, three pills from the table disappear into his mouth. Elma chases them with vodka, his Adam's apple bobbing violently like he's choking down poison.
Nathan feels like he himself is the one choking.
_He'll—
The half-empty glass is plucked from his hand by Nathan, buying him a moment to recompose. His gaze darts between their feet, as if searching for courage spilled on the floor.
_He'll send me back anyway. Isn't it funny? That he's the one who... makes me like this? Just a matter of time. Maybe if I please him enough this time—
Another convulsive swallow. Nathan feels the razorblade of it in his own throat.
_Maybe... maybe I could go somewhere else.
His fingers spider around the knife on the table.
_Maybe I could run. Right?
Never.
Now Nathan regrets mentioning Moscow. A sick feeling pools in his chest—like he's just scared a child.
He's never met eight-year-old Elma, yet he sees him with unbearable clarity. It hardly matters. Both versions are equally alone.
When his hand finds Elma's arm on instinct, he murmurs:
_I'm sorry. Your father... I don't think he'll ever let you be free. Even if you do everything he asks.
His thumb brushes the boy's frail wristbone.
And this is what he truly believes. He's certain—and hates his own certainty.