Fuming, Jorah looked at the stack of papers sitting by his front door. This was ridiculous, even by Tanner's standards.

For a whole week, a torrent of scripts endlessly flooded his apartment, multiplying no matter how many he destroyed.

He was sure this counted as some form of harassment and he could probably sue.

By the sheer volume of deliveries, the claim of losing them or not getting them at all was made moot.

Jorah could almost see Tanner's smug expression.

"Stubborn bastard," he grumbled as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. Tanner had called him that more times than he could count. Maybe he needed a mirror to see who the stubborn one really was.

At this point, two things were crystal clear: there was no escaping this audition, and it was a battle of stubborn wills.

Amid his frustration, somewhere between anger and helplessness, Jorah realized that a change in strategy was not only necessary, it was inevitable. He couldn't beat Tanner at this game, so he would sidestep the board altogether.

"Fine," he'd said aloud . "You want me to play? I'll play." But his rules would be different. If he could not escape the audition, he'd ensure his performance would be unforgettable—in a way they didn't expect."

Today was the day.

His plan was foolproof. The studio needed him to audition, fine, he would. If he didn't land the part, well, that was out of his control, wasn't it? A smug grin unfurled.

"Brilliant," he muttered to himself, relishing the taste of victory. He could already imagine the conversation with Tanner afterward. Of course since he'd done as asked, Tanner would have no reason not to put in a good word for that other project

Jorah checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. In his brown eyes there was steely resolve. There was no going back.

He glanced at his watch: 8 am. There were thirty minutes left before he had to get this farce on the road.

A sudden trill from his phone pierced Jorah's musings."

"Hello?" His voice was steady, cool

"Please tell me you're on your way to the audition." Tanner opened the conversation.

"What do you want Tanner?" growled, his annoyance thinly veiled. His thumb hovered over the 'end' button, ready to cut their chat short if he needed to.

He peered through his car's heavily tinted windows. It would soon be time for him to step on a stage he had no desire to grace. He glanced at the script on the passenger seat. He knew every line, not out of dedication, but as a necessary prelude to failure.

His plan was a delicate dance between defiance and compliance.It was the only thing keeping him from turning the car around and speeding away from this mockery of his aspirations.

"You didn't answer my question,"

"Did you ask a question?" Jorah parried.

"Alright alright," Tanner grunted, resignation laced with command "Just give it your best." A warning lingered in his voice, "And don't try any funny business."

Jorah smirked "I wouldn't dream of it," his tone a blended sarcasm and sincerity.

He ended the call and pocketed the phone, before alighting from his car.

With a sharp exhale, Jorah's gaze lifted to the building. Sunlight glinted off the glass facade, a taunting beacon for all those who entered with hope shimmering in their eyes.There was no hope no hope in his eyes however, just calculated coldness

As the automatic doors whisked open, a draft of conditioned air brushed against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat that simmered within him.

His hands reached up, fingers threading through the tousled strands of his inky hair, pulling them back into a messy bun atop his head. A few strands went rogue but he didn't mind them.

His eyes, hidden behind aviator shades, scanned the environment with the precision of a hawk. This was his first line of defense. He could look at the world without it looking back to see the churning mix of defiance and reluctance that roiled within him.

He was met with an unexpected sea of bodies—a throng of men shifting and murmuring, their collective presence filling the space with a palpable, nervous energy. He hadn't anticipated that number of people to be in the room; they were like a flock of birds, unpredictable and everywhere.

Still, no matter how many men were in the room, his arrival was like a ripple across still water.He could sense the shift in the room as eyes began to latch onto him. Whispers darted through the air like darts, some tinged with recognition, others laced with curiosity.

Jorah's indifference was obvious as he strode past the hushed whispers and furtive stares, betraying none of the disquiet brewing inside

The registration table loomed ahead, an island amid a stormy sea of aspirants. He approached languidly and stood before it, arms folded over his chest.

The young man at the table glanced at Jorah's shirt, where "RULES" was splashed across in bold white lettering, followed by the subscript "are made to be broken," then back up to his face.

Jorah wordlessly arched a thick brow.

The man's eyes widened briefly before he began fumbling with the sheets on his desk, keen to avoid Jorah's piercing gaze. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his brow, betraying his discomfort.

Jorah didn't need to hear the question aloud to know what it was. It screamed silently from the boy's darting eyes, echoed in the murmurs around the room. Why was Jorah Jindaya, the man whose name sparked whispers in any crowd, standing here? It was truly a mystery.

While he waited,the attendant handed over a slip with a hastily scrawled number—1071. Jorah accepted it with a nod.

The young man could not hide his shock when Jorah thanked him before walking away.

He strode toward the anonymity of a corner. The sea of faces parted ever so slightly as he moved. The hush that followed his movement was like a wave retreating from the shore. Eyes flickered in his direction, some filled with recognition, others with fascination or disbelief.

In that chosen corner, he could observe without being encroached upon. He eased down onto the cold, polished floor, the small of his back finding solace against the plaster wall. Now seated, he extracted the tightly rolled script from the depths of his back pocket, unfurling it with a flick of his wrist.

From this vantage point, he could drink in the room and feed his nagging curiosity. What kind of people, outside of him who weren't being strong-armed by their Managers, would show up at a place like this?

He leaned forward slightly, allowing the script to rest on his bent knees as his gaze wandered over the room's occupants. Clusters of men huddled together, their body language an open book of nerves and quiet bravado.

A variety of shapes, sizes, and features filled Jorah's vision—faces that ranged from the rugged to the refined. Honestly speaking, there were alot of attractive men in that room; they possessed the kind of visages that cameras loved and audiences would remember. It struck him then, a realization that this gathering was less about the spectrum of acting talent and more a showcase of human diversity.

Yet, despite the myriad of forms before him, Jorah felt an odd detachment. These men were his competition, but not truly. His mission diverged from theirs; his performance today was a contrivance, a careful orchestration of failure. And as he sat there, script in hand, ready to sabotage his chances, he couldn't help wondering how many of these hopefuls harbored secrets behind their eager faces — how many were playing roles long before they took the stage.

Among that skimmed throng, as though drawn by an invisible thread, his attention landed on one figure in particular. The man was seated with an ease that suggested self-assurance.With long legs crossed high at the knee, his demeanor was markedly different from the rest. While his outfit consisted of various shades of gray, it made him stand out even more.

There was an arrogance on his brow that kept others at bay. Even though quite a few eyes were on him, no one was in his immediate radius.

Involuntarily, Jorah's lips twitched into a half-smirk. He wondered to himself if this was also a person who also didn't want to be there. He was quite handsome with his dark hair and gray eyes.

Jorah's curiosity was piqued.

It was interesting to look at the others who were watching Mr. Angry brows. Across the room, a tall actor with angular features squinted slightly, tilting his head as he chewed his bottom lip — a gesture that seemed to straddle the line between evaluation and something more personal. Another, shorter and more compact in build, allowed his gaze to linger a touch too long, corners of his mouth twitching upwards in what could be construed as a furtive smile.

Were they merely sizing up their competition, Jorah mused, or was it possible they saw something more in the man? The air in the waiting room felt charged with unspoken assessments, the silent dance of glances and half-smiles weaving an invisible web of intrigue.

Jorah's jaw clenched, a mix of irritation and bemusement coiling within him. He had no interest in whatever silent exchanges passed amongst them, yet he couldn't help but note the way their eyes tracked every minute shift of the man's posture.

Jorah's brow instantly dented when he was suddenly approached by someone.

"Checking out the competition?" came a query, buoyant and tinged with a mirth that grated against Jorah's already frayed patience.