Chapter Text
Kaveh took a deep breath.
When he was younger, he would sit by the edge of the fountain to listen to the melodious covers of a busker, or watch small idol groups perform their first gigs in a quaint, public park.
He’d visit after school, an old friend in hand. It was a little routine they shared.
He could barely recall their faces. Those details— how they introduced themselves, the way they performed, the calling cards they left —were spotty when he tried to recall them. Whether or not they broke free from irrelevance, he could barely recall a thing. Things like the past never struck him as particularly important.
Despite his failing memory, there were still points that stood out to him: their desperation to prove themselves, the passion they intertwined with their craft, their enthusiasm in interacting with the crowd—no matter how empty of interest or packed full like sardines.
It was not a pity.
He admired them for what they stood for, the craft they continued to hone for themselves.
What was shown on stage could be summed up within a few minutes, but what looked like a fraction actually made up the entirety of their waking hours.
The behind the scenes was the boring part. The sweat that fell down their brow, a sprinkle of doubt that would settle in after an unsuccessful gig, the stubborn part of themselves that told them they were in too deep to end things right then and there.
Some days, none would come at all. Their guitar cases would barely have a dime, but they continued to perform like that day would be their last.
Kaveh and his old friend would become regulars, the familiar face that never failed to show up for a free show.
They familiarized themselves with their performances, learned how to tune a guitar, messed with the mic stand, and occasionally learned how difficult it truly was. When the curtains closed, they’d be given pieces of advice that eventually made sense when they grew older.
How some members had notebooks filled with lyrics, scribbles of badly drawn doodles and nonsensical ideas.
It was an art without an audience. Covers were sung for a reason, it convinced older fans from other idols to take interest in their work. Their manager needed them to grow in popularity before anything self-made could be used.
Creating songs wasn't a walk in the park.
Lyricists, producers, themes—songs can’t just have meaning, they need the right opportunity and enough luck to make the pay off worth it.
The formula of success was clear to others, but not to Kaveh. These hidden variables were the least of his worries.
If he spent his entire life studying every inch and every mile of intricacies that fell into what made a trend work, or a song go viral, his hair would sooner go gray. This was the monetary side of things. Soulless capitalists like Dori knew more about this than he did.
Some people have a head start in life, with connections thanks to nepotism leading the way to the spotlight. Others fought for a spot under the public eye, where everything was fair game and only the ambitious could get ahead.
Public buskers with barely any pay and small idol groups from no name companies never landed that far in life.
Kaveh could care less about how they were perceived in public, when artists like them were tossed aside and forgotten, when he carried that one point that still struck him many years later.
It wasn’t about the mora, or the attention, or the charisma they developed from performing so often in public.
Later, he learned this was their way of saying “fuck you”. That despite the odds that were constantly stacked against them, where their parents would discourage them, or their best prospects in life remained with blue collar work—they would choose music every time.
Kaveh was still not sure why people did it. Why would anyone in their right mind drop out of regular classes, then neglect their education for such a high risk and low return field?
It would have been easy if there were only a few, but idol work was highly competitive for a reason.
A pretty face is common, and talents are easy enough to pick up—but the right amount of ambition, stubbornness, and personality was hard to come by.
That was the one percent that stood out in a crowd. Celebrities lived the life of elites, but how many can truly brag about becoming a household name?
Even if his parents were separated, with his father never looking too kindly on his mother’s field of work—his father, people like him already had their preconceived notions.
It didn’t give back to society, their field of work had an age limit, and gigs were too unreliable to lay a foundation on.
They were biased against the ideal Kaveh wanted to chase after. Yet his father never asked why they did it.
For what reason? Why were they willing to throw it all away? How little did everything else matter to them?
Kaveh was lucky enough to fall under the latter half. He performed before thousands, sold out tickets, dealt with live concert closet malfunctions with an ease of a professional. There are compilations floating around Metube: how quick he was in improvising an error, how easy he made it look—turning it into something that was part of the plan.
For all intents and purposes, he’s reached his prime and there was no need to look back.
He made stage fright his bitch. In fact, he was quite proud of it himself.
Confidence like that only came with practice. During his early years, he was often fumbling to perform before an audience. His voice would crack—eyes honing in on the bored pair of students about to leave, classmates whispering into each other’s ear, laughing as whatever conversation they had seemed to make fun of him.
Perhaps they weren’t even talking about him. Maybe he didn’t have context and they were laughing at an inside joke he wasn’t aware of. But he never asked them, and those little reactions stuck to him.
Dragged him down. Seizing his worry in an unrelenting grip, ruined his chances to become better.
Bottom of the barrel. It was an obstacle that was larger than life, impossible in the face of his own insecurities.
When your greatest enemy was yourself, Kaveh had a difficult time moving on. He had yet to be backed by the support of his mother, so there were no connections that could help him out.
It was later down the line where she finally took notice of Kaveh.
When he first began, it was all self made. He truly suffered like those buskers he watched when he was growing up. As if his talent had a cap on it, at the brink of bursting—yet stubbornly keeping itself sealed. He knew he had the talent, knew he wasn’t half as bad as the other stars on the screen, but they all had something he didn’t.
Kaveh couldn’t figure it out.
It was a frustrating obstacle he did not know how to overcome.
He could see himself sinking, along with the many other talents he failed to climb that ladder.
Then, Kaveh’s father stopped paying for his bills after he dropped out of college. Like the last nail in his coffin, things couldn’t have gone worse from there.
He didn’t enjoy recalling it, since they had the conversation over the phone, but his father said it was for his own good.
To start thinking about the future, he needed a little taste of reality.
Kaveh no longer had his safety wheels on—his Metube career stalled after he dropped it, he could barely garner up enough charisma to perform before an audience, and his father was disappointed in his decision to choose music over a stable job.
Inspiration came in short bursts. The type you can overlook if you’re desperately searching for it. The more you chase, the further it runs.
Inspiration came in the form of a rusty tap. It felt like puberty all over again. Unfamiliar limbs, pimples over oily skin, without an idea on what to do next. He’s been breaking out, no matter how many free samples he’d nick from those unpaid interns.
A quick search points at an old filter, where he gathered the last of his funds to afford a proper change. He skimmed through tutorials, but he grew impatient from his lack of progress.
Unemployed, unmotivated, and forced at a stand still.
Maybe he bought the wrong type, or his tools were new in comparison to his shitty tap, but Kaveh kept failing in fixing it. That was his tipping point.
His rock bottom brought him crying on the bathroom floor. He could care less about the last time he gave it a thorough cleanse. The clumps of loose hair and clogged drain gave him a clue.
Then, the tap began to cough. It sputtered like a chain smoker on their last pack, filthy brown water bursting through. There was no rhythm to it. No rhyme or reason.
That overwhelming wave of emotions crashed down on him, a conflicting desire to give up and call his father for help, to keep his mouth sealed and endure another night of shitty cup ramen. He didn’t care if his insides rotted off MSG. Or if his face resembled a particularly bad case of skin allergies.
Since Kaveh, who broke down because of something as dumb as a filter change, with his eyes puffy and red rimmed—found inspiration at his lowest point.
One thing led to another, that sample became his first hit. The rest was history.
Kaveh shut the tap water off. It was pristine, clear of any age or indication of how used it was. He wasn’t surprised. Director Yae only expected the best, so basic amenities like bathrooms were in their best shape.
They weren’t filming a period drama, or one set in the middle of nowhere, so it helped with the modern facilities. Kaveh wouldn’t know how to deal with being dropped in the middle of nowhere.
If his roles were action packed, he’d fail the second they’d make him use a gun (firearms freaked him out, fake or not). Let alone a historical role, the effort in physical training or putting in the right amount of research to not make a fool out of himself would kill him.
A highschool drama wasn’t what he expected as his first acting gig, since he was twice the age of your average highschooler—but casting never cared for every little detail.
It was the 21st century, what can’t editing do nowadays? Erasing small aging lines would be the least of his problems. Besides, how difficult would it be to act like an angsty kid?
Kaveh cupped his hands, splashing his face with warm water.
Nevermind. Who was he kidding? He hasn’t felt this nervous since his first time performing on stage.
It was that stupid.
And there was that elephant in the room.
He sighed, groaning to himself. He stared at the mirror, watching his reflection glare back.
He arrived ahead of time, much to the surprise of Faruzan (who rang his phone several times like an overbearing mother, what did she think he was, irresponsible?).
Kaveh purposefully left her on read after that. He knew that it was petty—but he was running on pure energy drinks and no sleep, so excuse him for being bitter.
Anyway, it wasn’t that important. It was just the usual reminder to play nice. He wasn’t going to forget after the rather public thrashing he had after the chocolate affair, it’s not like he had the memory span of a goldfish.
It was just Alhaitham.
I’m sorry. Two simple words. He mouthed it back to himself, watching his reflection taste the words like it physically hurt to do so.
It was far from the fucking script Dori tried to force on him, but this was the extent of what he was willing to do.
Besides, the script felt like it was ripped straight from a cheesy coming of age film—where the highschool bully has an abrupt change of heart—that he could not stop himself from physically recoiling at the thought.
Kaveh was sorry, but not to Alhaitham.
He didn’t like the centerpiece, but that was just the collateral damage that ricocheted from his true object of irritation. He quickly got in touch with the artists who worked on the project, personally going up to them to apologize.
Surprisingly, they were all incredibly forgiving about it. Even before he gave them monetary compensation.
Kaveh felt even worse because of that. It would have been easier if they expressed their frustration, maybe having a prop of cold water in hand and dropping it over his head or something—not assure him that it was okay, how the chocolate would’ve melted eventually and it was already immortalized through enough pictures.
To nobody’s shock, the chocolate affair hit the headlines with scathing remarks.
Kaveh was already getting hit with rotten tomatoes, so the shift from Nilou to another scandal wasn’t a huge prediction to make.
He learned from his previous mistakes and went on a social media purge.
It was only a few days later when Faruzan told him about the news. It came as a complete surprise. Apparently, Alhaitham took the brunt of the blame instead. Few hours after the news broke, in fact.
For some weird, altruistic reason, he released a public statement of being the one to destroy it—not Kaveh. Despite their very public argument, in which Kaveh wasted Alhaitham’s time from attending to this bullshit excuse of his, the latter chose to take the fall. Things were not adding up.
Alhaitham stole his position as host, gave him a gig while he was in a dry spell, and accepted the blame for the destruction of his own centerpiece. He was receiving mixed messages.
Kaveh found it incredibly suspicious. He must be up to something. He didn’t know what exactly, but as annoying as Alhaitham was, he was nowhere near dumb. He must be trying to lower his defenses.
Against Kaveh’s expectations, where he would have to endure a couple days of getting beat up, none of it happened. He went through that purge for no reason.
The heat faded away with that announcement. There was a lot of confusion, from bystanders, the guests who were there in person, and both Alhaitham’s fans and Kaveh’s own—who were fighting each other on who started it in the first place.
Kaveh’s team didn’t post an official statement about it, nor did he publicize his apology with the centerpiece’s artists. Initially, they were just waiting to ride out the waves.
With that plan in mind, they were all caught off guard with Alhaitham’s lie.
Well, technically he did have a part in it, so it was half of a lie. But Kaveh was now sober enough to admit that it was mostly his fault.
I’m sorry.
Kaveh pursed his lips.
He was conflicted, mostly confused, but also alarmed. Mix all that in a blender and that's what he was. A weird sludge of delayed reactions.
He couldn’t bring himself to draft an email to the stupid address Alhaitham gave him, so here he was, fumbling. Where his days of procrastinating the Alhaitham problem ended far too quickly than he would like.
Kaveh took a deep breath. He could do this. Just two words. Say it quickly then it’s all over. Who cared about loose ends? It’s not like Alhaitham did, so why should he give a damn?
He won’t stay for the response, or ask about why Alhaitham took the brunt of the blame. That was too much. He had a bit of backlash, but not at the scale Kaveh endured. His fans were quick to deflect most of it.
Unlike Alhaitham, his fan base was a bit fractured at the moment. Some were still bitter about the Nilou misunderstanding, but others got over it and were quick to defend his dignity. It’s been a while since he logged on to his private Chirper account—he was nosy so snooping was his pastime—but he could always reserve that for another day.
Kaveh would keep Tighnari’s advice in mind and avoid him as much as possible. After the apology. Then he’d cut everything short.
Kaveh gave his reflection some pep talk, saying a few more uplifting words. He jumped on the balls of his feet, distributing his weight side to side. He punched the air a few times. Bam. Bam. Releasing his tension with a few hits.
When did a few words hurt anybody? What's the worst that can happen?
It's not like Alhaitham could throw him in jail for fucking up an apology. And he wasn’t the type to go public with things like this. He wasn’t going to expose him for being awkward! He preferred privacy over settling personal matters under the public eye.
Kaveh winced. Which he kind of did, wrecking Alhaitham’s— still narcissistic, he wasn’t going to take that back—centerpiece into bits and pieces of chocolate. He was tired of blaming the alcohol.
Faruzan looked about an inch away from bursting a vein when she saw the news, but she settled down after a few compromises on his end. Which took a shot at a big portion of his pride, but he was contrite enough to give in to her demands.
He kept track of the time. When it finally landed on its mark, he clenched his fists and strode forward, feeling more nerves curdle in his gut than he has felt in ages.
Kaveh pointed at the mirror, as if he were rehearsing how it would go—
The bathroom’s door opened. Kaveh stiffened. Right. Public bathroom.
He rigidly adjusted his hair, acting like his fingers were a comb. He hoped none of that was seen by the stranger. He washed his hands swiftly, even if he didn’t use the toilet, and kept his eyes down as he abruptly left.
The bathroom door slammed shut from behind him. Kaveh shoved the Alhaitham problem at the back of his head, settling to deal with it when he bumped into him. He’s not going to search for him, that sounded rather pathetic.
He spotted Faruzan sip a half finished cup of coffee. There were panda circles around her eyes, a far away look as she stared at a blank screen on her phone. Her hair was the usual, except it was barely combed, as if she passed out with her hair tied. She was the definition of sleep deprived on two legs.
People were busy setting things up. Director Yae's seat has yet to be occupied, but several crew members were already getting to work.
A few fixed the lights, some last minute adjustments to make things perfect. A poor, unpaid intern was running around and delivering coffee to some snappish looking people. Some auxiliary was called to clean up the mess from a clumsy newcomer, where he was getting shouted at for breaking some fake furniture.
They were some film props. The type action movies would use when an actor would come crashing in and break things for impact. Paper mache to make things safer, plus it allowed for more dramatic opportunities in post production.
If Kaveh was running purely on energy drinks, Faruzan was keeping up through sheer will power alone. "You look horrible."
"That's the fourth time someone told that to me." She sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose.
Kaveh frowned. He opened up his purse and handed some eye drops to Faruzan. "First day and we're already losing sleep. I'm not looking forward to the upcoming weeks."
Faruzan thankfully accepted them. She looked up at the ceiling, then winced when she glanced at the set's bright lights. She turned the other way with a grimace.
"Director Yae runs a tight ship around here.” She said blandly.
Kaveh poked further. He hasn’t been called yet, so he’d take his time familiarizing himself. “What’s with all the new faces? I don’t know if it’s just me being judgemental, but a few of them look like it’s their first day on the job.”
A props person frantically looked around, stressed out when a couple others grabbed the steel plates in her hands and ordered her to get some more. Kaveh winced when she nearly tripped over her two legs, too frantic in getting her job done as soon as possible.
“You’re not wrong.” Faruzan answered his question. ”With the scope of this production, the others thought it would be a good idea to bring in a couple more fresh faces. If it helps, you’re not the only one who’s out of their depths.”
“It doesn’t.” In fact, it did the exact opposite.
“It was worth a shot.”
“I’m going to need a shot. Several if I’m going to make it through it.”
Kaveh received a glare for his offhanded comment.
He quickly back tracked, recalling the horrible time he had in dealing with Faruzan’s wrath. “It’s a joke!”
She rolled her eyes, choosing to ignore him. Her unamused expression was enough to speak for her opinion about that ugly can of worms.
“I'm sure you can tell with," Faruzan frowned, recoiling at the orders being barked out to some loitering extras, "all of this. You can see how the environment works. A few would drop out before the week ends, then a couple more fresh faces would run to replace them."
“Is this your roundabout way of telling me to be appreciative?”
“I’m just saying her attitude is a little authoritarian, but she does give good results.” Faruzan admitted to the positives. “It’s a huge boost in your resume—even if you simply played a forgettable extra.”
Kaveh looked around, still finding no sign of her. "Is she even here?" Director Yae was late to her own production, but the set was already packed with people. Whatever she did, she struck enough fear in the hearts of everyone to always be on time.
She expected much of her crew members but failed to do the same? It reminded him of a certain someone.
A haunted look crossed Faruzan’s face. "She doesn't have to be."
"Ominous."
Kaveh didn't know whether to take this seriously or not. He laughed awkwardly, in an attempt to take things in stride.
He was already a mess of nerves. He didn't want to offend a militant officer-like director on top of that.
This was nothing he didn't already know, but it was a different story when it was done right in front of him.
“They’re all cramming because of last minute changes. Director Yae’s basis for that decision,” Faruzan paused, irritated. She muttered something about issues that should be kept behind closed doors, “was to… lighten their mood. Adaptations have trouble with staying loyal to the source material, but it seems like she chose to concede.”
“She’s susceptible to public opinion?”
Faruzan scoffed. Kaveh didn’t know what she was implying. “In a way.”
Kaveh felt like he was one inch closer to understanding what it felt like to be an actor. Not that he ever wanted to be one, thank you. “Then shows have it rougher than films? With the way it's constantly being crammed with how recent the filming needs to be.”
She nodded, dabbling a little more in the field compared to Kaveh. “That means she can give or take screen time based on your performance. No pressure, but all the pressure.”
That did wonders to his anxiety! “How many times have I said this? I don’t have any—”
“Background in acting, I know. With the sudden changes, the schedule might be a little ahead of time—but nothing you can’t handle.” Faruzan waved away his worries. “Your acting coach will cover for you within the week.”
Kaveh wasn’t optimistic. He doubted Director Yae would be as understanding as Faruzan. "I'm guessing her crew members have taken the brunt of her… constructive criticism," Kaveh carefully worded it, "and have gotten used to adapting through it."
Were those Director Yae’s trials by fire? Kaveh has yet to be the victim of her ire, but he doubted he would come out unscathed.
"For the most part."
Kaveh winced when he spotted a lady run past them, suspiciously hiding her face from being seen. He swore he could hear some sobs slip past her.
"...is she okay?" Kaveh stared after the stranger, who he recognized as the unpaid intern, as she headed straight towards the direction he came from.
Was she going to cry privately in the stalls? Kaveh was tempted to run after her to comfort her. They might be strangers, but he was as lost as she was. They were both on the same boat. It wasn’t happening at the moment, but he doubted his paltry attempts at acting would impress someone like Director Yae.
"You'll get used to it."
Those were not the words he wanted to hear.
Director Yae has yet to appear on set, but the sheer magnitude of her presence, with or without her, still managed to make it seem like Abyss was unleashed upon the overworld.
“Really?” Kaveh gave her a doubtful look. “If we look horrible, these newcomers look like they crawled out of their graves. If she’s normally like this, then how’d the labor union never get a hold of this story?”
“...earlier I did say she was a little authoritarian, but normally? It’s not to this extent.”
“With a reputation like hers, I’d bet plenty of people would be willing to expose her for this.” No matter how many levels of awful this environment can go through. “Maybe then I’d get a break in being the public’s favorite punching bag.”
“You're killing the mood.” Faruzan sighed, keeping her voice quiet. Kaveh huffed. What’s already dead can’t still be killed. “This was a recent development.” She shared a little bit of what she heard, letting him know.
This was something Kaveh wasn’t aware of. It wasn’t surprising since he was never interested in the behind the scenes of a film set, but this was news to him.
Kaveh frowned. “Then what gives?”
A deeper, heavier sigh. It looked like Faruzan was at the brink of tearing her hair out. “Trouble in paradise.”
“Trouble in what?” Kaveh repeated, his voice loud in confusion.
Faruzan hastily shushed him. “Shut it! Do you have any common sense?”
Kaveh reluctantly quieted down. He didn’t know whether to laugh or get worried. Maybe a mixture of both? How authoritarian was Director Yae? It felt like they were under 1984’s surveillance cameras.
It took him a moment to register what she said. Then, it hit. “For something as petty as that?”
“Like you have any right to say that.”
Kaveh took offense in her words. "What’s that supposed to mean?”
Faruzan crossed her arms, leveling him with a knowing look. “How’s Alhaitham?” Faruzan redirected his question with one of her own.
Great. Was she going to bother him about the apology again? The countless missed calls that morning was enough of a message. “I haven’t seen him.”
Faruzan let out another sigh. “Figures. He left the set before you could catch up to him.”
Kaveh took a second to acknowledge what she said.
“ What?! ”
He did all that for nothing? Kaveh was flushed in embarrassment.
He barely had a lick of sleep that night, rolling from one side of his bed to the other as he pictured how this day would end. He made sure to come to the set, earlier than what was expected of him, to repeat those irritating words for some practice.
Kaveh wasn’t hoping to catch Alhaitham before everyone was getting busy with the set. He wasn’t searching for him, nor was he staring at a blank draft to that stupid email address he threw the night of their unwelcome reunion.
Not only did he almost get caught by some guy for his troubles, but Alhaitham didn’t even bother to show up for his apology. This was never going to end! It was like a nightmare that refused to leave. He couldn’t believe he was getting ready, putting all his energy in something that never mattered in the first place.
Again , Kaveh was ghosted without another word.
“He’s not here anymore. Family emergency,” Faruzan put up some air quotations, “he says.”
“How overdone is that?” Kaveh snapped in irritation. “Anyone with common sense knows that the same excuse can’t be used twice.”
“I don’t know,” Faruzan shrugged, “he sounded pretty convincing.”
Kaveh wasn’t falling for that bullshit. “He’s an actor.”
“Alhaitham didn’t have any scenes today, so he had no reason to come at all.”
“Shouldn’t everyone familiarize themselves with each other on the first day? He’s just pulling excuses out of his ass, acting like he’s better than all of us.” Kaveh muttered angrily, annoyed. If he did that, Faruzan would come hunting him down with a shotgun.
“Director Yae didn’t find the need to cause a scene and call after him. Besides, if you’re worried you still have plenty of time to find your chance. Your apology doesn’t have a due date.”
“I’m not worried.” Kaveh denied. It was just a slight inconvenience to him.
“Sure. And I’m a ginger.”
Kaveh ignored her blatant doubt in his words. There were better fish to fry.
“One day I’ll launch a private investigation and catch him on his bullshit excuses. Nobody can be that,” perfect. Objectively, in a derogatory way. That wasn’t his personal opinion—but every scandal of his comes out false, every film he works with sells like hotcakes, he looks like that and thinks like that! It was impossible. He was always in character, just , “like, you know. Alhaitham.”
“Yes, the Alhaitham problem. I’m aware.” Faruzan was unamused. “It’s his private business. Don’t go nosing around in something you’d regret.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid.”
“Sure,” Faruzan didn’t disparage him completely, “but when it comes to certain people?”
Kaveh was about to retort, when they were interrupted.
“Excuse me, Kaveh?” The stranger looked at him, then his manager. “And Madame Faruzan.”
A tired looking lady—did everyone run purely on coffee in this set?—approached them with a stiff smile. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she came from a particularly heavy crying session. Kaveh recognized her as the harried looking intern that was distributing cups of caffeine.
Kaveh didn’t point it out, lest he embarrass her by accident. He greeted her with a gentle smile. Alhaitham could fuck off for all he cared. Teyvat did not revolve around him.
“Yes?” He offered her a hand shake. “And you are?”
“Soph.” She accepted his hand with a soft grip. She quickly let go. “I’m here to assist you with your makeup. Sorry, we’re running a little late. I’m just an assistant, so they asked me to call for you.” She briefly explained the situation, expecting them to follow right behind her.
The clock was ticking. Before Kaveh could go any further, Faruzan tapped his shoulder. “I’ll refill my cup. You want one?”
She was going to leave him to the wolves? Kaveh knew where he laid in her heart, right below her beloved cup of coffee. At least she offered to give him one for the morning.
“No ice, keep it cold. You know the blend.” He answered absentmindedly.
Faruzan hummed, as if she was taking note of it. “Americano?”
Kaveh frowned. She wasn’t new to his petty rants, hell, he was sure she skimmed through some of his posts about how much he hated it. “Are you still in a bad mood?”
“Always. I wouldn’t be here if not for—”
A guy in a hoodie shoved past them, ignoring the pained yelp that came from Faruzan. Before Kaveh could get a proper look of his face, he sped past them like he was in a rush. There were no defining features from this stranger. He looked just like every other unpaid intern in this set.
Kaveh frowned, watching as he slipped into the crowd of busybodies who were working double time. Why would you wear a cap indoors? It was suspicious with a capital S.
“Kids these days, no respect for their elders!” Faruzan muttered under her breath, swiping angrily at her shoulder as she left in a huff.
Kaveh was about to call after her, but he changed his mind last second. Faruzan wouldn’t appreciate the concern—especially when her mood was already down in the dumps. Besides, it wasn’t even a few seconds when she already slipped past his view.
Something was not right with that guy. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but he felt like he should listen to his instincts. As much as he wanted to manifest Detective Holmes on the case, he was in a time crunch.
“Kaveh?” Soph, the assistant, called out to him again.
“Sorry.” He turned away, “in a second.” Kaveh hurried after her. He shoved his worries at the back of his head, settling for the present instead. He’d cross that bridge when he got there.
Soph gently pushed him inside the private room, shutting the curtains closed as she announced their arrival. Kaveh was familiar with the entire process. Film sets weren’t completely separate from their idol counterparts, so he was not surprised with the amount of cosmetics that were in an array before them.
There were a few propped up mirrors plastered on the walls, bright lights by the reflections and lamps that were flexible enough for the artist to reach for. An organized selection of brushes were neatly set aside, a box of natural blush and skin tones right below it. Kaveh noted a few familiar brands, judging them silently on what they had at hand.
He would not call himself a professional, but Kaveh knew a thing or two about what they were going to put on his face. More often than not, he got to know his makeup artists right before they prepared him for concerts, idol shows, or whatever event that called for a little more accentuating of his finer features.
Kaveh was practically a stranger to them, so he decided to keep his mouth shut. If it was one thing he learned as a broke guy who waited tables, he hated nothing more than rude guests who thought they knew better than him—all without lifting a finger.
Soph hurriedly sat him down, almost pushing him forcefully down his seat. She called for the lead makeup artist to do their work, leaving him for a few seconds. Kaveh didn’t comment about the treatment—he didn’t want to make her more anxious than she already was—leaving it be.
