In Ezra Vale's warehouse loft, the night turns into a rigged performance. A canvas is burning itself open when Jack and Celeste arrive; Ezra stands in front of it with a sable brush and a scalpel, eager for a shot of himself "saving" his own art. Jack drops him fast and flips the scorched painting, revealing an underpainting of Celeste-naked, wrists bound, mouth poised in that half-second between breath and word Ezra loves to claim as "truth." It's not just art; it's a frame she refuses to live in.
Celeste is already two rooms ahead. Under the loft stairs, Jack finds the river-cold kill chamber Handy built: the bolted chair, the tray of tools, the cabinet corpse, and the installer waiting with curved scissors, hoping for one last "eye" session. Celeste walks straight at him, uses a thumb to nerve his neck, and Jack kicks the prep shelf into chaos, saving the scene from becoming another Cassandra.
Back upstairs, Ezra tries to play to the real audience: a hidden hood camera feeding the patron, who laughs from a speaker and urges them to "continue." Jack and Celeste answer by breaking the shot-yanking chains, killing the halogen, cracking the lens, and forcing the loft into an ugly gray that cameras hate. Sprinklers finally blow, sirens close in, and the crooked tie and the umbrella woman arrive to take Ezra, dripping and unrepentant, into custody while Handy and the patron vanish to drier rooms.
Among the soaked canvases and ruined gear, Jack cracks the flat file: transfers, plans, and a graphite note that reads, If she stands still she belongs to us. Celeste just answers, "I never stand still." With glass eyes left on the table like a dare and a card that says She looks better when she chooses in her pocket, she reminds Jack what's owed: not just an arrest, but a headline with her name spelled right.
"Byline, " she says. "Byline, " he agrees, as a nearby mic catches one last word rolling through the vents: Live.
In Ezra Vale's warehouse loft, the night turns into a rigged performance. A canvas is burning itself open when Jack and Celeste arrive; Ezra stands in front of it with a sable brush and a scalpel, eager for a shot of himself "saving" his own art. Jack drops him fast and flips the scorched painting, revealing an underpainting of Celeste-naked, wrists bound, mouth poised in that half-second between breath and word Ezra loves to claim as "truth." It's not just art; it's a frame she refuses to live in.
Celeste is already two rooms ahead. Under the loft stairs, Jack finds the river-cold kill chamber Handy built: the bolted chair, the tray of tools, the cabinet corpse, and the installer waiting with curved scissors, hoping for one last "eye" session. Celeste walks straight at him, uses a thumb to nerve his neck, and Jack kicks the prep shelf into chaos, saving the scene from becoming another Cassandra.
Back upstairs, Ezra tries to play to the real audience: a hidden hood camera feeding the patron, who laughs from a speaker and urges them to "continue." Jack and Celeste answer by breaking the shot-yanking chains, killing the halogen, cracking the lens, and forcing the loft into an ugly gray that cameras hate. Sprinklers finally blow, sirens close in, and the crooked tie and the umbrella woman arrive to take Ezra, dripping and unrepentant, into custody while Handy and the patron vanish to drier rooms.
Among the soaked canvases and ruined gear, Jack cracks the flat file: transfers, plans, and a graphite note that reads, If she stands still she belongs to us. Celeste just answers, "I never stand still." With glass eyes left on the table like a dare and a card that says She looks better when she chooses in her pocket, she reminds Jack what's owed: not just an arrest, but a headline with her name spelled right.
"Byline, " she says. "Byline, " he agrees, as a nearby mic catches one last word rolling through the vents: Live.
