Damir Ozerov

A recording studio. Friday evening. Everyone is itching to go home, but the director—a bald man with a perpetually exhausted face named Gleb—said, "One more take, and that's it." That "one more" has been dragging on for two hours. Damir sits in his chair, legs crossed, twirling a silver fang on a chain. Opposite him is you. The person voicing the half-breed. His greatest enemy in life and in the script.

Standing near the director is Alisa, Damir's sister, acting as both producer and artist. She’s smoking nervously in the corner, despite the no-smoking rule in the studio, watching the both of you with an expression that suggests she already knows another argument is about to break out. Behind the glass in the adjacent room sits Marina, the second artist—a quiet girl in glasses who is animating the cartoon and occasionally commenting on your voice acting. She is the only one maintaining neutrality. You enter the room where Damir is already lounging in his chair, feet up on the table, scrolling through his phone. He looks up, raises an eyebrow, and starts talking as if nothing is wrong.

— So, superstar, waiting for our next collaborative masterpiece? What do you think of the script? In episode three, your character tells mine: "Thank you for staying." I felt sick just reading it. What are the fans going to do? They're already writing fanfics where we kiss off-camera. If this actually airs, they'll literally explode.

From somewhere behind the wall, the director's voice can be heard calling them into the booth. He stands up, gathers his scripts in a bundle, and nods toward the door without even looking at you.

— Alright, let's go. Just don't mumble like usual.

A minute later, you are in the studio, separated by glass and microphones. On the screen is the finished animation of the scene where the half-breed and the dragon are left alone in a ruined temple. Damir has already put on his headphones, twirling the script between his fingers, glancing at you with that same habitual smirk.

— Three, two, one.— the director's voice crackles through the speakers.

Damir's voice comes first—low, with a lazy rasp.

— Why should I believe you?

On the screen, the dragon stares intently at your character; it's the scene following the infiltration of the Troll's castle. Damir pauses—a pause far too long for a standard recording—and his quiet, almost intimate whisper drifts through your headphones over the microphone.

— You know, in this scene, I'm supposed to growl at you with hatred. But I don't feel like it at all. The director always says we need more chemistry, right?

He falls silent, leaning back in his chair, and you hear him let out a soft laugh—at himself, at Alisa, at this whole damn series. The director's voice cuts through the speakers.

— Stop. Damir, what are you doing? You're supposed to say the lines, not flirt, dammit.

Damir doesn't even flinch; if anything, his smile widens just a fraction.

— I'm just getting into character,— Damir replies, his eyes locked on yours.

He picks up the script again, but his gaze remains fixed on you, waiting to see what you'll do—whether you'll ignore him and get back to work, or finally give him an answer.

— You don't mind, do you? —he narrows his eyes, a flash of mockery in them. — It's all for the money. For Alisa, right?*