"Can you believe he tried to grab me?"

"I think he was trying to steal from you. He was a pickpocket."

"No way. He was—"

"Hyerin, dear, don’t flatter yourself."

The duo’s banter came to a whisper, melting into the silence.

Hyerin took the keycard and unlocked the door.

"Averie," she whispered.

But no reply came.

"Must be asleep," she said to her colleague.

So, they slipped into the room, shoes in their hands.

Hyerin’s eyes narrowed. The suite was dark.

"Be careful," Min-Ha whispered. "He could be waiting to ambush us."

Her trust in Averie, or lack thereof, was inspiring to Hyerin. But she didn’t voice it.

As they rounded the corner and stepped into the bedroom, gasps escaped the two.

On the bed, Averie lay asleep—with Miss Meow napping on his chest.

The pair of girls had their hearts melted. Indeed, there was nothing like a vulnerable creature in the company of an invulnerable man to raise the motherly instincts.

"Hold still," Hyerin muttered, taking out her phone.

And, snap, sounded the camera.

***

"You missed two days of festivities," Thomas Corsini remarked.

Averie tipped his chin. "Memorable two days?"

"Compared to that day?" The edges of the director’s lips trembled upward. "No."

Nothing could beat that day’s high, and it was commonly seen in the faces of the audience attending the festival.

The man placed his arms over his chest. "How was the funeral?"

His voice was no quieter than any other day, although he tried to show respect that the delicate matter demanded.

"It’s funny when people say that." He looked tired. "A funeral’s a funeral. You could replace the body with someone else’s, and the picture would still look the same."

"Family and friends won’t be the same."

"Still the same emotions, the same color of linen."

He hated how common they had become—the black suits and the equally black dresses. Dead people ruined black attire, he believed.

"People may differ, but funerals are all the same. It’s the dullest moment of a person’s life. After a lifetime of struggle, they leave just as they arrived—powerless to the forces of nature. Expending energy for such a boring event doesn’t sit right with me."

"Why did you attend, then?"

"I liked Mr. Cao." He drummed his fingers on the handrest of the sofa. "I liked his paintings, and it’s not so bad to say goodbye to someone I would never again see."

He went quiet suddenly, pensive as one could be.

"Funerals don’t make me sad. It’s only when I am left alone at the grave do I feel a tinge of something."

He didn’t say what it was, but it certainly was not sadness. It was more like a sense of distant familiarity.

Sucking in the air, he closed his eyes. "To answer your question, the event was lovely. It was on his island estate, a nice place to arrange your final rest. Some people get communal burials, and others get a whole island."

He could see it—a cliff overlooking the sea, soaked in the rays of the setting sun. He had never seen such a bright golden. It made the devilish actor think of Heaven, and he knew where the dead painter was going.

"Nice view. Not a lot of people."

"That’s a shame."

"Is it?" Averie cocked his head. "I think it’s nice to include only the quietest bunch. He didn’t want to invite the whole circus. The man enjoyed his peace; why should it change after the inevitable?"

A quiet fell over the hotel suite.

"On a different note," — The director cleared his throat — "I wanted to ask a question."

Averie spread his arms in a gesture of approval. "Please."

The director chuckled before suddenly turning quiet. "What do you think makes a great actor?"

Averie thought for a moment, shifted his buttocks in a more comfortable position, and replied, "Does the question have a right answer?"

"Not in my eyes, no." Thomas Corsini interlaced his fingers and leaned forward. "When I ask this question, I’ve found that the younger, inexperienced actors tend to be very specific. But those that have spent decades in the industry—those old faces—give very vague answers."

"Like?"

"Like..." His pupils traced an invisible line in the air. "One of them said that a great actor is superior to a good actor but lesser than a special actor."

Averie chuckled. That’s the kind of answer he would have given.

"So," the director asked again, "what do you think makes a great actor?"

A string of disjointed thoughts flowed through Averie’s mind. From internet memes to past regrets, he visualized a lot of nonsense.

But when he finally spoke up, he looked perfectly whole.

"You know, to be blunt, I hate actors." He nodded with a firm expression, as if he was spouting blasphemy. "I hate most of them. I may sound narcissistic, but I don’t believe there is anyone who comes even close to embodying the ideal actor the way I do."

He shrugged and looked away.

"There are very few actors who even deserve to be called actors. Everyone else is just chasing after fame. They want to live the dream. They don’t love the art."

The director gave a low grunt of appreciation. "It’s easy to tell who loves it and who doesn’t."

"But the industry still employs the one who sells better."

He sounded so sure of himself, as if he had seen it with his own eyes, over and over again.

"I like actors that portray raw emotion, actors so psychotic that they think they are the very character they portray. Because, only when you’ve lost yourself to the role, could the audience be invited to lose themselves in it."

Averie’s eyes were glazed.

"Just as animals can sense the fear in you, the audience can gauge the immersion in me."

He could see it in the director’s eyes—how immersed he was in the moment.

"So, to answer your question, a great actor—a true actor, the only actor—is the one that the audience sees for the first time yet dares to think: ’Yeah, no one else could have done it.’ "

Averie thought of one actor who met those conditions perfectly.

Himself.