"Kirk!! Why didn't you tell me I'd be dancing like a man?" Freen exclaimed, holding up the costume and mask in disbelief.
Kirk grinned mischievously. "Oh? I'm confused now. Aren't you a man? Hahaha!" he teased, doubling over with laughter.
But his amusement faded the moment he saw Freen's cold stare. She stood in front of him, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but sharp as a blade.
"Should I be laughing too?" she said flatly.
Kirk's face fell. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sorry. It's just—you said you didn't want to be recognized during the performance. I thought the costume would help, that it might be fun."
Freen sighed and just wore the mask and joined the performers lined up behind the curtain of the stage. As the music started, Freen felt a sense of liberation and confidence wash over her. She moved with grace and energy, feeling like a completely different person behind the mask.
The anonymity of the mask allowed her to let go of her inhibitions and fully embrace the performance. Freen felt a newfound sense of freedom and self-expression, grateful for the opportunity to dance without judgment or scrutiny. But when her eyes caught the eyes of the most beautiful person in the crowd, all the people around blurred, and her focus was now fixed on just one and only one person.
Her heart skipped a beat as the person she was performing for was now looking at her in amazement, and no happiness would compare to the joy her heart was feeling right now.
"She sees me," Freen whispered to herself inside the mask, the words vibrating against her lips.
For the first time in a long time, the lady finally saw her existence, and she would not waste this chance. She would cherish it, use this fleeting moment to show the woman how deeply she adored her. She would dance with grace and confidence, hoping it would put a smile on the woman's lips out in the audience.
And Freen felt proud of herself for doing so. She couldn't help but smile inside that mask despite the stifling heat and the tight squeeze of the costume. It didn't matter anymore.
"As long as she's looking at me," she thought, "as long as I'm dancing for her."
As the final chorus soared through the venue and her body responded instinctively to the rhythm, she caught a glimpse of something that pulled her heart back down—the man beside the woman. He held her flute. He leaned slightly, saying something only the woman could hear. She laughed gently.
Freen's heart sank, even as she maintained her poise. She lowered her head and bowed with the other performers.
The applause echoed, but it sounded distant.
She had done what she came to do—entertain the crowd, leave a trace. But as Rebecca turned her head one last time, meeting her gaze, Freen felt the bittersweet truth settle in her chest.
The woman wasn't seeing her. She was seeing a masked performer. A man.
And that broke her more than she wanted to admit.
''She'll never look at me the way I look at her," Freen told herself silently. "Not as I am."
Her admiration burned too brightly now, far too intense to keep contained, especially when she had to see the woman she loved holding hands with someone else in the halls of the mansion—always as a shadow, always a servant.
Hope, it seemed, was like trying to punch the moon. Beautiful. Futile. Out of reach.
She had done what she came to do.
But reality rushed back like a wave when the woman—Rebecca—glanced back toward her. And Freen's chest ached.
She only saw a man. Not me. Not really me.
Still, she smiled behind the mask.
Because even if the admiration was misdirected, it was the closest she'd ever come to being seen.
"And... CUT! "The director's voice boomed.
The magic dissolved.
Why did it feel like she had truly lived that moment? Like she had slipped into another era, where the character she played wasn't just a role—she became the woman, one and the same, yet still distinctly herself. Even the people around her felt real, as if they weren't fellow actors but living parts of a world she had always belonged to. The illusion was so vivid that if it hadn't been for the director's voice cutting through the haze—"Cut! That's a wrap for this take!"—she wouldn't have realized she was still on the film set.
The lights adjusted. The cameras reset. The illusion shattered.
Everything was back in place, as it should be.
And yet... something in her heart remained disoriented.
Freen tried to push the feeling away, brushing past the lingering warmth of the moment. She stepped quickly off the stage, lowering her head slightly, not wanting to catch anyone's eyes. Her chest tightened—not from exhaustion, but something far more vulnerable.
As she descended the steps, her gaze unintentionally met Becky's.
Becky's brows furrowed, clearly noticing Freen's sudden retreat and change in energy. There was a flash of concern in her expression. Something unspoken.
Freen averted her eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," she thought. "Not when I'm already trying so hard to keep it together."
She walked away from the lights, from the applause, from the stares—because right now, she wasn't ready to face the woman who unknowingly held her heart.
FRENCH MANSION – LATE AFTERNOON
Becky was already dressed in her casual clothes, quietly standing near one of the windows on the upper floor. She watched from above as Freen stepped into a waiting car, assisted by her personal bodyguard, Mr. Jaa.
She didn't call out.
Didn't wave.
She just stood there—watching her go.
INT. OLD FRENCH MANSION—EVENING
Becky was now inside one of the rooms of the grand mansion rented by the production company. The walls carried stories. Old whispers. Dust and time.
Tee was excitedly walking beside her, admiring the architecture.
"This place is stunning, right? "
But Becky wasn't moved.
The unease had been there since they arrived.
She brushed it off as overthinking.
Just the vibe of the place. Old houses have energy, she told herself.
But deep down, she knew it felt like something more.
As Becky and Tee walk around the mansion, Tee can't help but be amazed by the beauty of this place, but Becky feels far from it. It has been happening since they arrived here, but she always just shrugs it off as she convinces herself it was just the effect of the house as it is, as it looks like it has so many hidden events to tell that only the house knows. Becky's unease about the mansion seemed to grow stronger as they explored further, but she didn't want to ruin Tee's excitement. She decided to keep her feelings to herself and continue the tour.
"Becky, look!" Tee called out, pointing.
"There's a hidden passage here, connecting to the other room!"
Becky turned away from the dusty stack of old paintings she had been inspecting in the corner. Her eyes lit up.
"Let's explore it," she whispered. "Let's see where it leads."
They stepped into the narrow, dark passage, flashlight beams cutting through the gloom.
As they walked, strange noises echoed. A dragging sound.
A chill moved through the air.
"Did you hear that?" Tee's voice trembled.
"I'm not deaf," Becky whispered back, trying to stay calm.
Tee stopped. "Let's go back."
Becky paused, reluctant—but eventually nodded. They quietly retraced their steps, back to where they started.
Something about this room still bothered Becky.
The air. The walls. The smell. The light.
It felt familiar, disturbingly so.
But she had never been here before.
Born in the city. Grew up in England.
She shouldn't know this place.
Her eyes caught a symbol etched into the wall—subtle, almost hidden.
A shiver crawled up her spine.
A memory stirred...
A memory that wasn't hers?
She took a picture of the symbol with her phone.
She'd look it up later.
INT. SECRET PASSAGE—MOMENTS AFTER BECKY LEAVES
A man in a white polo stood at the far end, straw hat pulled low over his eyes, hands in the pockets of his khaki trousers.
He smiled faintly, stepping into the room that had just been vacated.
He moved toward the boxes, inspecting the paintings and documents with quiet interest.
In one corner were old photographs—two figures who looked eerily like Freen and Becky.
The man picked one up, studied it for a moment, and murmured:
"Your soul is near your happiness."
He placed it back carefully.
Straightened his trousers.
And disappeared down another secret passage.
EXT. CITY STREETS – NIGHT
Freen sat silently in the front seat of the car as it drove through the city, her eyes fixed on the window.
Her phone lit up.
A message.
A photo of a woman in a red Victorian dress.
Freen smiled softly.
"Innocent baby," she whispered to herself.
Mr. Jaa glanced over. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Nothing. Just keep driving," she replied, her tone cool.
Mr. Jaa nodded, hiding his concern.
He missed Mr. On—Freen's old driver.
Ever since the murder, Freen had changed.
The guilt still haunted Mr. Jaa.
Mr. Jaa had grown close to Mr. On over the years. It had always been the three of them—Freen in the backseat, Mr. On behind the wheel, and Mr. Jaa in the passenger seat, ever watchful as Freen's personal bodyguard. Their travels often turned into moments of camaraderie, with conversations ranging from politics to sports. Though they came from different generations and walks of life, Mr. Jaa and Mr. On had developed a mutual respect that gradually evolved into a genuine friendship.
Outside of work, they'd sometimes meet for a quiet drink or catch a local football game, laughing like old friends with no titles between them. Their bond had become more than professional—it was a quiet brotherhood forged in shared purpose, loyalty, and countless miles of roads traveled together. In many ways, Mr. On had become like family.
Now, thinking of him was like pressing on a bruise Mr. Jaa couldn't ignore. The guilt gnawed at him—he hadn't been there when the old man needed him most. He should have seen the signs, noticed something was off. Mr. On had been a good man, a loyal companion. Who could have done such a thing to someone so kind? The question haunted Mr. Jaa, even more so because he had no answer.
EXT. SECLUDED CITY ALLEY – MOMENTS LATER
The car stopped in a quiet area.
Freen stepped out and told Mr. Jaa to stay in the vehicle.
He didn't.
He couldn't.
He followed at a distance.
Freen stood against the wall, dressed simply—white long sleeves, black trousers, sneakers, black cap.
From the shadows, Mr. Jaa watched as a young man approached.
Black cap, face mask, denim jacket, ripped white Converse.
He passed by casually... until he doubled back.
Mr. Jaa stiffened.
The man's eyes met his.
Sharp. Intentional.
He reached for something behind his back—
Mr. Jaa stepped into the open, preparing for the worst.
Then—
"NO!!"
Freen's voice sliced through the night, echoing down the alley.