Hell's Actor-Chapter 246: Indeed

Director Thomas Corsini looked at the string of letters with amusement and admiration.

’Funny.’

He had made a mental note of that name at the beginning of the film.

’Did every cast member take on more than one role?’

He had noticed them.

The actors of Les Vigne and Anselme de Roschillian were one and the same.

The actor of Jacquet was also the one who played Mr. Luca.

Margaux Delcour played the mother of Jacquet as well as a few minor roles.

Josephine Petite was the only one he didn’t find in any other role.

It was a fascinating choice.

Personally, he wouldn’t have done it that way, but it wasn’t an approach he despised.

On the other hand, Averie breathed out a sigh of relief.

’The things we do to save money, right?’

It wasn’t an artistic approach but a purely monetary choice.

’No one knows about that, right?’

He looked around.

Most people were either mildly impressed or too engrossed to care. Thankfully, no one was chanting ’cheapskates.’

Throughout the filming, they had to fight this foe called budget.

So, when the director complained about not being able to afford a decent actor for this one short yet interesting role, Averie was more than willing to lend a hand.

Hyerin wasn’t happy, of course. But when did he ever listen to her?

Regardless of Averie’s thoughts, the scene on the big screen continued.

When The Photographer opened the door, he found himself in a dusty room that seemed to be suspended in time. It was furnished entirely with wood, a luxury in The City.

His feet moved on their own, his gaze overcome with a myriad of emotions.

She was there, as she always was—hiding her face partially from him. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

But he could at least take comfort in catching a glimpse of that perfectly rich hair flowing down the bed she was sprawled on.

Her grace hadn’t faded since he last saw her.

But she wasn’t in her usual attire; a white gown adorned her instead.

Moonlight entering through the windows caught her hair at the right angle to make it shine in a silver hue.

Bed hangings draped her like blankets on a wintry night.

Lying at the foot of her bed was a porcelain doll. The wood of the windows smelled freshly oiled. The scent of old books could be discerned through the pollen that gusts carried in.

The Photographer kneeled down beside the bed and brought the assembled camera to his eye.

He held his breath.

He had one chance to capture her, as the sound of the shutter would surely wake her up.

The shot captured the two from behind The Photographer. It showed the back of his out-of-focus auburn hair, capturing The Lady’s covered face.

Only her closed eyes were visible. The rest was covered by the bed hangings, acting like a veil, which were in turn covered by The Photographer’s silhouette.

As anticipation froze and the flow of time continued unhindered, almost like an act of divine miracle, the veil slipped.

Brushing against her skin, it fell.

The Photographer’s pupils expanded like a drop of ink in a cup of nectar.

The finger on the trigger of his camera pressed down firmly.

A shutter sound filled the room.

The next moment, he felt funny, as if the ground had collapsed underneath his feet.

Baptiste, who had been peeking into the room through the door, lowered his head.

The window of the room was wide open, and his guest wasn’t inside anymore.

He was another lost case, perhaps the worst yet.

The masked man opened the door but didn’t take a step inside. Even though not a single figure could be spotted anywhere, he remained cautious.

The burned half of his face was a reminder enough of what not to do.

Carefully, he swept a gaze across the room. There was no moonlight fleeting in, as no moons hung in the artificial sky of The City.

Cautiously, without taking his eyes off the inside of the room, Baptiste stepped outside and locked the door with a heavy metal chain and an equally heavy padlock. His steps were measured as he walked down the corridor.

In the dark room, ignited only by the light of the fireplace, the portrait of a woman on a snowy stroll remained the most captivating piece. She wore red Eastern clothing, and her head was covered by a redder wooden umbrella, which shielded her from the weather.

Yet her curved lips remained charmingly alluring.

It painted a different emotion and distinct illusion for each member of the audience.

Some saw joy. Some glimpsed sorrow. Some found evil. Some gauged benevolence.

Someone saw the ceaselessness of eternity in her. Someone caught a glimpse of the divine. Someone experienced the first snow of winter. Someone felt the chill of the thawing ice.

But they were all illusions born of a single enigmatic smile.

As the camera closed in on the signature in the bottom right corner of the frame, heavy orchestral music crept in like the sounds of a broken music box.

The Lady

The words were written in an elegant yet morose hand with an ink reminiscent of blood.

Averie Quinn Auclair

The men nearby stared at the picture on the screen and subsequently at Averie, their faces blank and their thoughts overwhelmed.

The sound of a cello intensified as the flames in the fireplace burst into a frenzy.

They danced out of the grate, desperately clinging to the air, raging to be let out.

Embers flew, their clutches taking hold of the carpet. Singed threads spelled the names of the cast and the crew. The dry air crackled as the fire spread.

The books burned, and the furniture too.

Soon, the window exploded, raining shattered glass on the passersby.

The entire room was on fire, but the portrait on the wall remained untouched by its fury.

The orchestral music was all that filled the cinema halls across Berlin. Every pupil peering at the screen only reflected bright flames.

No one spoke.

Their thoughts seemed to lag behind the sheer intensity of the moment.

With the name of the last crew member displayed, ink from Averie’s signature trickled down onto the burning carpet.

It spelled:

The End.

The intense emotional music reached its crescendo before abruptly cutting off.

Silence filled the room as the names of various studios and production houses filled the black screen.

Seconds turned into minutes.

And after what seemed like a significant amount of time, a sigh broke the silence of the cinema hall.

"Ah," Director Thomas Corsini exclaimed.

A flash of realization was the cause.

He remembered, through his impeccable memory, that none of the three—The Photographer, The Lady, and Baptiste—had their faces shown in a single frame together.

They hadn’t used the green screen. They had painstakingly planned around to ensure the quality.

’How many individual shots did they shoot for one scene?’

He couldn’t help but admire such meticulous planning.

The good director looked around the room.

He envied Jean-Louis Groux, for never in his decades as a filmmaker had he received such a reaction to one of his films.

The utter silence was proof enough of their awe.

Finally, someone spoke.

"Holy shit."

Those words were quite unbecoming of the prideful celebrities that they were. But there was no reaction more apt than that.

Director Thomas Corsini smiled.

’Holy shit, indeed.’