Closure.
For most, closure meant peace. An end. A conclusion to a chapter.
It was the word people whispered when they wanted to let go—when they wanted to move on without really addressing the cracks beneath the surface. It was the name they gave the illusion of healing without consequence.
For Zeno, who has lived over twenty lives, closure was not this quiet surrender.
Closure meant justice. It was people getting what they deserved—no more, no less.
That was what real closure looked like.
He stood at the edge of the set, arms folded, watching like a hawk as the extras ran through the growing heat.
Zeno kept his gaze on him, watching how he lost his cool.
"What the fuck are all of you doing?"
The extras froze in place, most of them not expecting such crude words to come out from someone like Victor.
Victor clicked his tongue and discarded his canned coffee to the ground, expecting someone else to pick it up.
