Maya sat alone at her small desk, the glow from her lamp casting a soft light across her sketchbook. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that let her think clearly. Outside, the wind rustled the trees gently, but inside her mind, the storm from earlier at Verano still lingered.

She flipped back to the first page of her notebook and looked at the rough sketches she had made over the past few days—none of them felt right yet. She tapped her pencil against the page and closed her eyes, remembering every word the director had said.

His voice had been sharp, almost cold. “I don’t care what method...