Noa Aizawa adjusted her collar and looked up at the giant neon sign.
It did not say "Red Velvet Studio – New York Division."
It said:
**"RED VELVET STUDIOS – LAS VEGAS. EST. 1999. REAL ART, REAL SKIN."**
Ren Kurosawa stood beside her, wheeling his suitcase like a tourist lost in a strip club. "This isn't Manhattan."
"This isn't even the right time zone," Noa replied, clutching the email invitation again. "Look. It says NY. 'RVS-NY'."
Ren squinted. "You think maybe the 'NY' stands for… 'Not Yours'?"
Before she could threaten him with her carry-on bag, the double doors opened. And out stepped a man in leather pants, sunglasses indoors, and a gold medallion shaped like a peach emoji.
"Welcome," he purred, accent somewhere between Russian villain and Vegas magician. "You must be the interns."
"We're the crew?" Ren asked.
"Oh yes," said the man. "You will be very involved… in every shot."
Something about the way he said "shot" made Noa's neck itch.
---
The office wasn't an office. It was a velvet-themed lounge filled with pink lighting, candles, and what she sincerely hoped was not a stripper pole.
They were handed water bottles labeled **"Hydration is Foreplay"** and a stack of paperwork. On page five, in Comic Sans, was the clause:
**"Participants agree to act in artistic content involving partial or implied nudity."**
Noa stared. "This is a prank. We're on a reality show, right?"
Ren flipped to page seven. "What does 'optional full-body oil scenes' mean?"
Before they could storm out, the man in leather pants returned.
"I'm Tony Lubov. Director. Artist. Visionary. This is Red Velvet Studios. You are not just interns. You are muses."
"We're... what?" Noa blinked.
Ren raised a hand. "Sorry, we came here to do *crew* work. Sound, lighting, editing—"
Tony waved. "Of course! But we are an experimental studio. Sometimes… the crew becomes the cast."
"And what if we say no?" Noa folded her arms.
Tony smiled with all his teeth. "Then you may pay back the full flight, hotel, and non-refundable wardrobe deposit. Roughly $3,400. Per person."
---
Three hours later, Noa was in a robe made of sheer mesh, sipping lukewarm tea with a label that read **"Chill Your Nips."** Ren sat across from her in a silk kimono three sizes too small.
"This is how it ends," he muttered. "We die here. Softcore and broke."
Noa rubbed her temple. "This is not porn."
"It's porn with fonts," Ren replied.
She gave him a look.
"You're mad," he added.
"Of course I'm mad. I thought we were about to work behind the scenes. Instead, I'm auditioning to be a background moaner."
"Could be worse," Ren said. "They could've asked us to audition together."
A voice called from down the hall: "AIZAWA AND KUROSAWA—COUPLE SHOT TEST, STAGE THREE!"
They froze.
---
Stage Three was a pastel bedroom set with an actual camera crew, boom mic, and a woman with bubblegum-pink hair wearing a strap-on mic and absolutely nothing else except stilettos.
"Hi sweethearts," she said. "I'm Cherry Moon. I'll be coaching you."
"Coaching what?" Noa asked.
"Chemistry," Cherry said with a wink. "Now. Lie on the bed. Side by side. Clothes optional."
Noa sat on the edge like it was a crime scene.
Ren lay down stiff as a mannequin. "What do we do?"
"Breathing," Cherry said. "Eye contact. Tension. Let's see if you two are believable."
They stared at each other.
Noa's heart thumped. Not because of nerves. Because Ren was looking at her like he was reading her diary.
"Say something sexy," Cherry instructed.
Ren hesitated. "You smell like… shampoo and regret."
Noa snorted. "You look like you got lost in a pajama aisle and never left."
"Perfect!" Cherry clapped. "We've got tension, banter, sexual denial. This is gold!"
They both sat up.
"Hold on," Noa said. "We're not actors."
"But you could be," Cherry purred. "There's something here."
Ren glanced at Noa. Then at the camera. "This isn't real, right?"
Noa swallowed. "I don't know anymore."
---
Later that night, they sat on their twin hotel beds in silence. Between them: a room service tray, two sets of robes, and a printout that read:
**"Your first scene begins tomorrow. Wardrobe: open back, optional bottoms."**
Ren looked over. "You okay?"
Noa stared at the ceiling. "I came here to learn about film."
Ren chuckled. "We are. Just… the inside of it."
She laughed despite herself.
Then turned serious. "What if we really have to do this?"
Ren leaned back. "Then we make rules. We don't do anything we don't agree to. And we survive."
Noa nodded slowly. "And if we end up… liking it?"
He paused. "Then we're f*cked."
She smirked. "Not yet."
They both laughed, nervously, under the flickering Vegas light.
Outside, the sign glowed red:
**REAL ART. REAL SKIN. REAL MISTAKES.**
Tomorrow, the camera would roll.
And they wouldn't know where the acting stopped—and the danger began.