He looked up from the notebook. The room was now a perfect negative of itself. The golden light had turned a deep, bruised purple, the colour of a twilight storm. And standing in the corner, half in shadow, was Julian Firth. He looked as he had on that day—lean, intense, wearing the character's grey flannel suit. But his head was tilted at that wrong angle. And he was holding a light meter.
He looked through the viewfinder one last time. Julian was falling in slow motion. Roy saw the geometry of it. The negative space where the mats would be. The golden ratio of sacrifice.