Before filming the scene, which included The Photographer introducing himself with a proper name, Averie and Director Groux had an argument.

"You are stubborn, Monsieur Auclair," the director had said, frustrated and dissatisfied. "Why won't you defer to me on this? I am the director."

"You are, yes," Averie replied begrudgingly. "But the role is mine; I have a say in it."

"What you are suggesting is more than a say."

"It's one tiny detail."

"Then, let it go!"

"You let it go!"

In the end, the assistant directors had to intervene.

"What's the matter?" the first AD inquired.

"He doesn't want my character to have a name," Averie barked. "He doesn't want it mentioned. How would the others refer to The Photographer, then? Isn't it odd? Does it make any sense? Will De Roschillians talk to someone whose name they don't know?"

"It's artistry. It doesn't require reasoning."

Averie let out a pained cry.

Their argument continued for about a quarter of an hour, when the first assistant director came up with a brilliant idea.

"What if we keep the name from the audience but not from the characters themselves?"

In that moment, the man concluded that never in the rest of his career would he be able to forget the passionate hugs he received from the pair of eccentric men that day.

And while watching the fruits of their labour on the big screen, he knew it was the right decision.

"I am not fond of that name," Marianne said. "It doesn't suit you."

Her gaze drifted off to her side, where the thin man sat.

"Charles…" She looked pleased with herself. "Yes, it has a nice ring to it."

She nodded.

"I'll call you Charles instead."

She looked dead serious as she said it.

"You are Charles from now on."

Her voice turned to a whisper.

"Is that okay, Charles?"

Confused, The Photographer nodded his head. "Yes…"

"Good."

She stood up.

"Well, then, we'll meet again."

With a brusque motion, she turned around and made her way towards the back of the mansion.

"Later," Les's monologue continued, "when he would return, I inquired…"

A close-up of The Photographer showed him amazed and dazed. Assembled and whirring, his camera entered the frame, seamlessly assuming its position between his eye and the retreating Marianne.

"…about his name."

Just like before, the man felt nauseous.

He rotated the lens.

The next second, precisely as the woman looked to her side, a click was heard.

"Contrary to my expectations, he did not avoid it."

He didn't look at the printed picture that rolled out of the camera.

He kept his gaze on the retreating figure of his new female friend as he slid the picture into his pocket.

He was afraid to look at it, afraid to vomit on an estate so charming.

"He answered solemnly—with a bit more vigor, with richer emotions."

The ever-glazed eyes of the man looked alive for the first time.

"'Charles,' he said. 'I am Charles.'"

The next quarter of a minute was solely dedicated to The Photographer, his world stuck in a limbo.

The sounds became distant, but he stayed rooted to his seat, his eyes turning increasingly more vivid by the second.

They looked like gemstones dunked in a bucket of water.

The distant sounds turned to silence, and the silence gave way to white noise. It created an illusion. It was as if The Photographer was watching TV static.

The buzzing ended before it could grow to be mind-numbing, and the illusion broke.

The scene seamlessly transitioned, as the close-up zoomed out to reveal a reception hall.

"Is something the matter?"

A thoughtful voice reached out to Charles, who was zoning out.

He looked away from the man sitting opposite him and shook his head before taking a sip of the coffee, which was served in a gold-rimmed teacup.

His eyes darted from furniture to fabric and plastered ceiling to carpeted floor.

Everything in the room exuded an air of dignity. Even the wool of the sofa he sat on was something to marvel at.

He had never seen so many antlered heads hanging from the walls. There were tens of them, maybe even a hundred.

They felt alive enough that his hand shook as he wondered if they were staring at him, if they could see him.

Amid the symmetry, on a couch stitched from a variety of leathers he had hunted himself, sat the only son of Anselme de Roschillian.

"Jacquet de Roschillian was in his thirties."

He wore a black suit over a bourbon vest.

"Jacquet loved two things."

His dark black hair covered half of his forehead and looked as if it were wet.

"The first thing he loved was himself, which was no secret. The second thing he loved was the excitement of game hunting."

His unbothered gaze feigned nonchalance, which his square jaw seemed to deny.

"It was an apt conclusion, an idle consensus—achieved not by the virtue of knowledge but by the impression he gave off."

The man had the distinctive air of danger.

"He always wore a worn-out gold ring. After each successful hunt, he would take it off, heat it, and brand the animal between the eyes."

And the hanging heads were proof of that. Between their eyes was a small, almost-invisible mark—an inverted R.

"So, you read our summons?" Jacquet suddenly asked.

His voice sounded odd, as if he had to drag it out of a frozen lake with force.

Charles lowered his cup. "Yes, sir."

Tapping his prominent cheekbone in thought, Jacquet watched the man before lighting a cigar. He took a puff and waved the rest in the air, as if offering a whiff to the heads lining his walls.

"And you are a photographer?"

"Yes, sir."

The man took another puff, kept it in his body for a second longer before releasing, and studied the shabby Charles.

"Which one's your favourite?"

Charles seemed confused. "…I'm sorry?"

Jacquet's cigar moved in a circular motion, pointing at the heads around the room.

"Antlers."

With his thumb, he scratched at his cheek, the burning end of the cigar hazardously close to his eye.

"There is always one that stands out. I've seen it reflected in the eyes of my guests."

He pointed at Charles's spectacles.

"But it's hard to see behind those gaudy glasses."

He let out another puff.

"So…"

He snuffed the cigar, his eyes ferocious.

"Which is your favorite?"

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