The Director of Silence

The man they called a genius woke at 5:00 a.m. sharp.

Not to sunlight. Not to birdsong. But to silence—curated, still, absolute.

Dominic Vale didn’t allow chaos in his world. His alarm was silent, a pulse on his wrist from a custom device. No buzzing. No beeping. Just control, as always.

His penthouse overlooked the darker part of the city skyline—grey steel, black glass, shadows casting longer than they should. The apartment was all sharp edges and clean lines. Every piece of furniture had been selected for utility, not comfort. Monochrome. Immaculate. The kind of place where nothing lived too long unless Dominic allowed it.

He moved like clockwork: black sweatpants, bare chest, feet silent on polished stone floors as he poured black coffee into a hand-thrown ceramic mug. His body was lean, sculpted, not from vanity but from discipline. Every inch of him was built like a weapon honed over time—broad shoulders, muscled forearms, a strong jaw shadowed with stubble he never quite cared to shave clean.

But it was his eyes that unnerved people.

Steel grey. Too focused. Like he wasn’t looking at you, but through you—into the most vulnerable thing you were trying to hide.

Dominic Vale was thirty-two years old and already a myth.

They said he never repeated a play. Never directed the same actor twice. Never stayed past curtain call. Every production he touched turned into something violent, beautiful, unforgettable. He didn’t believe in traditional scripts—he wrote his own. Didn’t take creative notes—he burned them. Didn’t audition people—he watched them without their knowledge.

And he never, ever explained himself.

To most, Dominic was unreachable.

To the ones who’d worked under him, he was unbearable.

And to a rare few, he was unforgettable—in ways that lingered like bruises under the skin.

“Sir, they’ve called again,” came a voice over his intercom. Lillian, his manager. Loyal. Meticulous. Desperate for him to play by the rules just once.

Dominic didn’t answer right away. He stood in front of the enormous window, sipping his coffee as rain began to tap lightly against the glass. Below, the city crawled to life. But it could burn to the ground, and he wouldn’t flinch.

“They want you to meet the producers at Langley House. They’ve sent a car.”

“No.”

“Dominic—”

“I said no.” Calm. Crisp. “They don’t call me. I call them.”

A pause.

“You haven’t picked a cast yet. Rehearsals begin in three weeks.”

“I’ll know when I see her.”

“Her?”

His lip curled ever so slightly. “The lead. I wrote her for someone I haven’t met yet.”

There was silence on the other end.

And Dominic smiled faintly. It wasn’t joy. It was the pleasure of knowing he still terrified everyone.

Dominic didn’t do relationships. He didn’t do love.

His lovers came and went like echoes—beautiful women who mistook intensity for care, darkness for mystery. But Dominic never offered promises. He gave them nights, not mornings. Bodies, not hearts.

His bedroom was proof: black silk sheets, no photographs, no scent of anyone else. When they left, they left without trace.

Not even perfume lingered.

He had rules. One-night only. No questions. No second calls. Pleasure, if it served purpose. Otherwise, nothing.

Dominic didn’t believe in attachments. They made people weak. Predictable. And he didn’t allow himself to be either.

In his studio, across the hallway from his bedroom, the walls were filled with notes—scene fragments, images, ideas scribbled with chaotic beauty. The center wall held one word in large, messy ink:

“Obey.”

Below it was a sketch of a faceless woman in a tattered dress, her mouth open mid-scream, head tilted back as if in ecstasy—or pain.

He’d been dreaming of her lately.

Not her body.

Her surrender.

He would find her. Soon.

And when he did, she wouldn’t act the role.

She’d become it.

The echo of heavy footsteps bounced off the cold concrete walls of Langley House, the sprawling production studio nestled in the heart of the city’s art district. Dominic Vale’s presence was like a storm rolling in—unseen at first, but impossible to ignore once it hit.

He stormed into the casting room, eyes blazing with a fury that could ignite the very air around him. Around the long table sat his casting director, assistant, and a handful of exhausted staff, their faces tight with anxiety.

“No. No. No!” Dominic snapped, slamming a folder down so hard it rattled across the polished surface. “None of them are the lead. I don’t want actresses. I want the embodiment of the role. The girl who will burn the stage down with nothing but her breath.”

His voice was a whip cracking across the room.

The casting director swallowed, daring a timid response. “We’ve seen dozens, Dominic. There’s no one who fits your vision.”

Dominic’s eyes narrowed, cold and hard as obsidian. “Then we keep looking. I will not settle for ‘good enough.’ This is not a community play. This is the biggest theatrical drama the world has ever seen. And my lead—my lead—will be flawless.”

He stalked the room, the weight of his presence pressing down on everyone. “I don’t care how many auditions it takes. Every girl who steps in that room will either be the one or they’re wasting my time—and mine is not a luxury.”

His assistant shifted nervously. “Sir, Naiya Kapoor called again. They want to finalize the cast.”

Dominic’s laugh was low, bitter. “Naiya Kapoor can wait. I’m not producing a play for the masses—I’m creating a legend. And legends don’t cast girls who play it safe.”

He spun sharply on his heel, pacing toward the enormous windows overlooking the city. Rain slicked streets glistened below, mirroring the storm brewing inside him.

“There is a girl. I don’t know who she is yet. But I will find her.”

The room remained silent, the storm outside mingling with the storm inside Langley House.

Dominic Vale didn’t believe in second chances, but he did believe in perfect beginnings.
And he was just getting started.