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"God," she breathed, looking at him with something like awe mixed with terror. "Who taught you to talk like that? Who taught you to be so sure?"
"Dead poets," he said, stepping back and giving her the space she needed, though his eyes never left hers. "And the certainty that you're worth any wait."
She stood there, trembling, her lips still swollen from his kiss, her heart hammering against her ribs. The conflict didn't resolve—it simply paused, held at bay by his patience, by the impossible maturity of this boy who refused to act like one.
"Go to bed," she said finally, her voice barely audible. "Please. Before I forget why I'm supposed to say no."
He nodded, understanding in every line of his body. "Goodnight, Nicole."
"Goodnight, Marvin," she whispered.
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing on the stone, leaving her alone in the moonlight with the taste of him still on her lips and the weight of her confusion crushing her chest.
She watched him go, her hand pressed to her mouth, wondering if she was the villain in this story or simply a woman who had finally, disastrously, fallen in love.
Then she slipped inside her room and locked the door, leaning against it as she slid to the floor, counting the years until morning.
---
The very next day he finished his schedule efficiently. He left a lasting, powerful impression on the Spanish crew, proving that his Oscar win was not a fluke, but the result of relentless discipline.
Afterward, he said his goodbyes to Alejandro, and his Aunt with a firm hug and a few quiet words of thanks for the great work.
Then came the harder part.
Nicole was still struggling with everything that had happened the night before. She stood in her caravans alone, arms wrapped around herself, her eyes uncertain. Marvin approached her gently, cupping her face with both hands and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips — light, tender, and full of quiet reassurance. No heat, no demand. Just a promise that he was still there, that last night hadn't broken anything between them.
"You're okay," he whispered against her mouth. "We're okay."
Nicole gave a small, shaky nod, her eyes glistening as she smooch him back just as softly.
With Lindsay it was even harder. The youngest of them had tears already spilling down her cheeks when he reached her. Marvin pulled her into a tight, protective hug, lifting her slightly off the ground as she buried her face in his neck. He kissed the top of her head, then her forehead, then finally a gentle, sweet peck on her trembling lips — soft and comforting, tasting the salt of her tears.
"Don't cry, little lady," he murmured, brushing her hair back. "We'll be back before you know it. And I'll call you every single day until then."
Lindsay nodded against his chest, sniffling but managing a small, watery smile as she hugged him tighter.
With those final, heartfelt goodbyes said, Marvin boarded the private jet and flew back to Los Angeles — the weight of the accomplishments still warm in his chest, the memories of two girls he'd touched, kissed, and comforted lingering like the sweetest kind of ache.
The rest was brief. In L.A., Marvin barely had a day to sleep in his own bed and review Scarlet Capital's quarterly reports and Casting, Crew for *Let the Right One In* before he hopped onto another plane, this time heading east to New York. He was joining the crew of *Hide and Seek* to begin filming yet another project.
---
The soundstage in upstate New York felt cold. The air hung thick with the tension of an impending showdown between actor and director.
They blocked out the lighting for *Hide and Seek*. The psychological thriller required a delicate, oppressive atmosphere. The crew moved quietly, securing cables and adjusting silk diffusers.
Director John Polson stood near the camera rig, arms crossed. Next to him stood Robert De Niro. The actor wore the rumpled, casual clothing of David Callaway, the grieving father at the center of the film. Together, they observed Marvin preparing for the upcoming scene.
Marvin wore a distressed, slightly oversized sweater, chosen deliberately to make his frame appear smaller. His face looked pale from the makeup department's efforts. They meticulously applied dark circles under his eyes to mimic severe insomnia. It presented a look of exhaustion mirroring the traumatized character of Emily— another gender swapped by him as a male character named Markle—whom he prepared to portray.
John rubbed his chin, his eyes lingering on the young actor beneath the harsh lights. He studied Marvin in silence, a thoughtful frown slowly forming as an idea turned over in his head.
After a long moment, he looked toward Robert.
"What do you think, David?" John asked.
The name slipped out without a second thought.
It wasn't a mistake. Over the years, John had developed the habit of calling actors by their characters' names while they were shooting. It helped keep everyone immersed between takes and made slipping back into a scene that much easier. He certainly didn't need to do it with a veteran like Robert, but old habits had a way of surviving even the most experienced casts.
Robert De Niro paid little attention to Marvin's dual role as the screenwriter or the film's principal investor. Once he stepped onto a set, none of that mattered. The veteran actor cared about one thing—the truth of the frame.
He kept his eyes on Marvin for another moment before turning to the director.
"The kid's still too tall," De Niro muttered. "And he's got too much confidence."
He gave a small shake of his head.
"I can still see it."
He gestured toward Marvin with two fingers.
"He's standing there like he already knows everything's gonna work out. Too comfortable. Too aware of himself."
De Niro narrowed his eyes. "This kid just found his mother dead in a bathtub." He let the sentence hang. "I shouldn't be seeing confidence. I should be seeing shock... confusion... somebody whose world's just been blown apart."
Another glance at Marvin. "Instead, he looks like he's about to save the movie."
He shrugged. "He's too in control."
De Niro looked back at the director. "You gotta strip that away. Make him smaller. Less certain."
He nodded once toward his assistant.
"Right now... he's still walking into the frame like the hero."
"And that's not who this kid is. And his default demeanor remains too sunny. Too present. He carries this air of absolute confidence around him. It bleeds through the makeup. He doesn't quite capture the vulnerable, pitiful essence of the character. He looks too heroic. Too in control."
John nodded slowly in agreement, but Robert's criticism lingered in the air, uncomfortable and sharp. De Niro shot a sideways glance at the director. He knew Polson felt hesitant to voice the blunt truth himself.
Polson operated as a relatively young director handling a massive budget. He felt terrified of questioning the prodigy who just won an Oscar and simultaneously signed his paychecks.
De Niro didn't care about politics. In movies, he often played the roles of stoic fathers, calculating mobsters, or broken artists, but in reality, he stood as a notoriously demanding, grumpy perfectionist. He struggled through the trenches of Hollywood for decades before finding his footing. His status on a set remained absolute. He could say whatever he wanted, and he didn't have to save face for anyone.
Marvin heard the critique from across the set. His enhanced hearing picked up the whispered conversation perfectly.
He didn't flinch. He didn't offer the defensive argument of a typical actor. He simply smiled, a relaxed, easy expression only proving De Niro's point about his underlying confidence.
"Don't judge the final product too quickly, Mr. David," Marvin called out smoothly, walking toward them after his makeup was finished. "Give me five minutes to find the frequency."
With that, Marvin turned away from the camera and moved toward an old, upright piano sitting in the shadowed corner of the room. It served as a functional prop, part of the set dressing for the Callaway's upstate house. He lifted the wooden cover, slid onto the bench, and placed his fingers gently on the ivory keys.
Robert raised a thick eyebrow, leaning closer to John. "What is he doing?"
"I don't know," John replied, watching in confusion.
Marvin closed his eyes. He let the heavy weight of his soul surface. He stripped away the polished, charismatic aura he always wore. He reached into the dark, hollow well of the demon memories—the centuries of isolation, the hunger, the calculated apathy—and channeled it directly into his hands.
Suddenly, the piano exploded to life.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The opening chords crashed through the soundstage like thunder. There was nothing gentle about the composition. Every note struck with brutal force, the bass booming, the treble shrieking, until the music became a roaring tide of fury that swallowed the room whole. Crew members froze instinctively, every grip and lighting technician drawn toward the storm unfolding at the piano.
He played a complex, dissonant composition, striking the keys with a demanding, aggressive energy. The music pulsed with raw emotion—screaming, roaring, carrying a heavy, suffocating darkness.
As the dissonant notes reverberated beneath the soundstage's towering ceiling, Marvin's presence began to change.
It wasn't merely his posture or expression. It was as if the space around him had shifted.
The exhaustion carefully painted onto his face by the makeup department suddenly ceased to look like makeup at all. It settled into his body, sinking deep into his bones. His shoulders folded inward beneath an invisible burden. His spine curved. Even seated at the piano, he seemed to shrink, his frame growing frail enough that a strong wind might have carried him away.
Then the change reached his aura.
Only moments earlier, he had possessed the effortless magnetism that drew every eye in the room. The vibrant, magnetic vitality defining his persona—a vitality so potent it felt nearly impossible to fake away—It wasn't something people consciously noticed; they simply found themselves looking at him. Standing near Marvin felt warm, vibrant, almost intoxicating.
That sensation disappeared. No—it reversed.
The light seemed to drain toward him instead of away from him. The air grew heavier, denser, as though someone had quietly stolen the room's warmth. Conversations died without anyone realizing why. Smiles faded. Every instinct whispered that something was terribly wrong.
The same supernatural presence that normally inspired fascination now inspired quiet dread. Instead of inviting attention, it smothered it, wrapping the room in a suffocating melancholy that settled over every heart.
The Incubus aura inverted, pulling the light out of the room rather than reflecting it.
In its place, a raw, tortured, profoundly broken boy emerged.
No one saw a gifted young actor anymore.
No one saw a rising Hollywood prodigy.
They saw a broken boy.
A child crushed beneath a weight far too great for his narrow shoulders, desperately holding himself together because falling apart was no longer an option.
Even the crew unconsciously lowered their voices. Some looked away. Others couldn't.
The piano continued to roar, and with every violent chord, the invisible pressure deepened, as though Marvin's shattered soul had spilled into the music itself, forcing everyone present to bear witness.
"This…"
De Niro blinked in genuine surprise. He took a step forward, his eyes locked on the boy at the piano. This marked the first time he saw Marvin harness his internal emotional state in such a complete, physical way. The energetic, confident genius disappeared. Before them sat the broken, vulnerable, terrifying child of the script—Markle Callaway. The character of Markle materialized in the room.
John, equally shocked, pulled his glasses off his face and wiped the lenses with the edge of his shirt, his hand trembling slightly. He put them back on, staring at the piano. "Oh my God… oh my God…"
The intensity of the performance left both men completely speechless.
Markle struck the final chord. He let the discordant sound ring out, fading slowly into the silence of the soundstage.
"It feels like the movie already has a soundtrack," Robert said, his voice quiet, snapping out of his daze. He turned to John, shaking his head.
"You should leave the scoring to the kid. If he delivers a track on the level of what he did for *The Sixth Sense*, I'll feel happy."
John nodded vigorously, still staring at Marvin. "I'd feel satisfied with anything close to that."
"A musical prodigy who already won an Oscar for composing, and now he acts like this," Robert muttered, a rare smile of professional respect touching his lips. "You demand a lot from the rest of us, kid."
As the last note hung in the cold air, Markle paused. He didn't drop the posture. He looked over his shoulder at the two men. His eyes looked wide, vacant, and haunted.
****
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