Chapter 8: Mist Before the Storm

Davis returned to the present, watching as Max pulled a few photos from an envelope. Along with the photos was Kao’s diary. Max wanted Davis to confirm the content of both. He spread the photos on the table. They showed Ming and Kao together as a couple. Both smiling. Once, every photo reflected the warmth of their relationship. Now, they were different. Every smile was a frozen memory that cut deep.

“So these photos are real?”

Davis frowned, trying to make sense of Max’s question.

“You mean… you suspect Ming only imagined being in a relationship with Kao?” Davis clarified.

Max nodded.

“These days, there are all kinds of fans. Some believe they’re actually dating their idols.”

Davis sighed.

“Unfortunately… it’s real. They really were in a relationship, just like I told you.”

Max leaned back in his chair.

“You could’ve denied it. Told the media they weren’t intimate. Ming was just obsessed.”

Davis bristled slightly.

“I can't ignore the truth,” he said firmly. “If I did, I’d be no different than a monster. A ruthless businessman.”

Max sat upright again. He had a different perspective, but didn’t voice it. Something told him Ming had been used—drawn into a frame of structured manipulation.

“Are you suggesting I exploited the situation?” Davis confronted him.

Yes—so you wouldn’t have to pay contract termination fees, Max thought. But aloud, he simply said, “Just clarifying the nature of your relationship.”

A little lie could save a lot.

Davis leaned back, trying to stay patient. He knew the entertainment industry was full of illusions. No relationship ever felt real. Even when they did, everything was blurred—caught between fantasy and reality.

From the start, Davis had respected Kao’s choice in a partner, so he never denied it. He just hadn’t foreseen their relationship would end in tragedy.

He had hoped Kao wouldn’t be abandoned.

Now he sat in silence, unable to express his feelings to Max. He felt betrayed—but by what? Maybe by his own hope. Foolish.

“Let’s move on to another question.”

Max’s voice snapped Davis out of his frustration.

“You must’ve observed their relationship. When did it start to fall apart—and how did it affect Jos?”

Davis took a deep breath. This part would take time.

“It’s a complicated story,” he said.

“We’re ready to hear it,” Max replied sincerely.

Davis glanced at the one-way mirror.

He took a short breath first. Talking about Jos, Kao, and Ming only made him feel guiltier.

“Jos and Kao’s relationship began with a project,” Davis explained. “They first met in a casting room.”

The casting room was no bigger than an empty classroom, yet it felt spacious and professional. Its walls were plain white, lit warmly by fluorescent lights. A tripod-mounted camera faced a long bench, and in the corner stood a small table stacked with scripts and unlabeled water bottles. The air smelled of coffee and overly strong perfume—a scent unique to a place where actors’ nerves and ambition collided.

Among the newcomers waiting for their turn, Kao sat on a plastic chair, wearing a dark leather jacket and fitted black pants. His face was half-covered by a mask, but his eyes—sharp, calm, and hypnotic—were fixed on the script in his hands. Other actors paced nervously around the room, but Kao remained still, like a shadow that had forgotten to move.

The door opened—not loudly, not dramatically. Yet something about the way it moved, and who stepped through it, shifted the air.

Jos entered. Tall and striking, he wore a charcoal-colored coat. No script, no belongings—just himself.

His gaze could freeze anyone who happened to look at him. Jos wasn’t a rookie; the director had already cast him as the lead. He was there to find a co-actor to pair with for a drama aimed at the overseas market.

People fell silent. Even the camera operator glanced toward the door. But Jos ignored them all. His eyes scanned the room and found an empty seat. He sat down, waiting for the casting to begin.

The director looked up slowly. Their eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. He knew they had to start soon. No one spoke first—just a subtle exchange in their eyes.

Time passed. Several actors had already auditioned. Kao was still waiting.

“Number thirteen, please step forward,” the casting assistant called out from behind her clipboard.

Kao—number thirteen. He stood, tucked the script into his back pocket, and walked to the center of the room, facing the camera. Jos followed silently. The director, seated with arms crossed, nodded at them.

“You’ll read together. Take scene three. In this one… you’re in a private space. There’s tension, attraction, and old wounds. You know you like each other, but neither of you dares to act first. Start seated apart, then move closer. Don’t force romance—we’re looking for sincerity.”

Kao and Jos exchanged a glance. No smile. No verbal agreement. Just a silent look that said: let’s begin.

Kao sat first at the edge of the sofa, leaning slightly forward. Jos took the other side, relaxed in posture, but his gaze pierced into Kao, as if reading what wasn’t written in the script.

“Why did you come back?” Kao began, his voice soft, nearly a whisper. But the tension carried across the room. Everyone watching felt it.

Jos turned slowly, not answering right away. He lowered his gaze, then looked at Kao with a different kind of stare—gentle, yet threatening.

“I couldn’t leave… even though I should’ve,” he said. “You know that.”

Kao looked away, his face changing, as if struggling to hold something back. His fists clenched on his thighs, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he opened up more.

“I’m tired of always hoping,” Kao’s voice almost broke. “If you came just to leave again, don’t sit here.”

Jos didn’t respond. He simply moved, slowly, closing the distance. One breath at a time, the space between them narrowed.

“I didn’t come to leave,” Jos whispered. “If you’ll let me… I’ll stay.”

Silence.

Everyone held their breath. Even the softest rustle of paper would have sounded too loud.

Kao looked deep into Jos’s eyes. Then, without a word, tilted his face slightly, closing the gap. Their foreheads nearly touched. It wasn’t a kiss. Just intimacy suspended in the air—stronger than any physical act.

“Cut.”

The director spoke, his voice soft—almost awed. “That… was compelling. So alive.”

Jos slowly pulled back, giving space, and Kao inhaled deeply as if realizing they’d just stepped out of a script-created world.

The assistant took notes quickly. A staff member leaned toward the director and whispered, “They’re perfect together.”

At the center of the room, Kao and Jos exchanged another glance—this time with a faint smile at the corner of their lips. Not because they were close. But because they both knew: something had just happened. Off-script.

After the casting, Kao returned to the office and met with Davis.

Davis ended his story and looked at Max. The interrogation room felt smaller now—gray-black walls and a warm spotlight cast over the table. Davis realized his mistake.

“What happened after that?” Max prompted him.

“Let me speak from the heart,” Davis said, seeking mercy. He hadn’t yet expressed his grief over losing Kao—his nephew and one of the company’s most talented actors.

“Go ahead,” Max replied. Humanity still mattered to him.

“I feel guilty for pushing Kao to take that audition. If he hadn’t gone… maybe their relationship wouldn’t have ended like this.”

Max said nothing, waiting for Davis to regain composure.

“Kao actually didn’t like the idea of starring in a Yaoi drama. But the company saw huge potential in the rising genre. I’d heard Jos had been chosen as the lead, and if Kao could match his performance, his name would skyrocket. In the end, Kao gave in—and got the role. It turned out he and Jos had chemistry that extended off-screen.”

On the third day of filming, the set was an old house remodeled to resemble the lead character’s home. Spotlights hung low, casting a warm, soft—but tense—ambience.

Kao stood behind the monitor, biting his lower lip—an old nervous habit—though his face remained calm. Across the room, Jos sat alone, rereading the script. He wore a gray T-shirt and dark jeans, leaning slightly forward. The evening light from the window carved soft shadows across his face, defining his jaw, sketching his distant eyes.

Kao watched him quietly. He knew he should focus on the scene. But since that reading—since Jos’s gaze broke the barrier between character and reality—something inside him had changed.

His feelings didn’t explode. Instead, they grew in silence—like morning mist, unnoticed until your body was soaked in it.

“Kao, Jos. Get ready. Scene twenty-one. Intimacy restrained. Remember—emotion at the tip of the tongue, not the body,” came the director’s voice from behind the camera.

Kao took a deep breath. He stood, walked to his mark. Jos looked at him briefly and smiled—just a little. Not for anyone else. Only they knew what it meant.

“Take 3, scene twenty-one. Action!” called the assistant director.

Kao sat at the edge of the bed, facing the window. Jos entered softly, his steps nearly silent. He stopped behind Kao and said gently, “You never really saw me.”

Kao turned slowly. Their eyes met.

“I saw you,” Kao replied. “Every day. But you always wore a mask.”

Jos sat beside him. Their hands almost touched—but never did. The camera zoomed in slowly, capturing the tiny space between their fingers—a whole world yet to be explored.

“I’ll take off my mask… if you’re ready to see me,” Jos whispered.

Kao looked down. His reply was nearly inaudible.

“I’ve been ready for a long time.”

And there—only one breath of distance remained.

“Cut!”

The director sat upright.

“That was incredible. So natural. You two are… insane! No need to redo it.”

Polite applause broke out among the crew. Jos and Kao stepped back, smiling slightly. But the silence between them remained.

Kao walked to the break room to get a drink, but his eyes never left Jos, who was still seated. This time, Jos was surrounded by two assistants and a manager.

Kao truly saw him. And for the first time, he was afraid. Not of the feelings growing inside him. But afraid he might be the only one feeling them. Kao confessed this to Davis.

“And how did you respond to that?” Max probed the silence Davis had built around himself.

Davis gave a thin smile—one filled with pain.

“I told him to hold back. Those feelings weren’t right. They were both men. The world would never accept it. I didn’t want Kao’s career ruined if people found out that side of him.”

Max narrowed his eyes.

“Can’t the world change? Fans might support them.”

Davis sighed.

“If support comes, it’s a blessing. But… that’s all just what’s shown on-screen. There are so many reasons why it’s better for actors not to pursue real relationships. Jealous fans, jealous partners—it could all cause major losses. Just look at… Ming…”

His voice caught.

“Ming… was it jealousy? Did she see Kao changing?”

Davis nodded slowly.

“Yes… I think that’s why.”