About a decade and some change ago, me and a couple of friends were eating at a bustling Fred 62’s in Los Feliz. As we were talking smack about whatever had gone down earlier that night, a premium cable superstar walked in and drained the collective air out of the room just by being there.

He slid onto a stool at the counter and started chatting casually with the waiter. Every patron’s eyes were on him or carefully pretending not to be. The room’s volume dipped, and for the first time, I realized how much being famous must feel like being a zoo animal. He might as well have been a bespectacled tiger in a pinstripe suit ordering a Coors Light, the way everyone regarded him.

This was LA, so people were too cool to approach. It was also pre-selfie culture, back when shoving a phone in someone’s face was considered bad form. But if we could feel the shift, he absolutely could too. Did he like that attention? Was he ignoring it, maybe hoping to live a normal moment? Or was he so used to it that he barely thought about it at all?

That memory came back to me while watching Alex Russell’s Lurker, an unsettling indie thriller about fandom, fame, obsession and transactional relationships. The movie understands that the power of celebrity lies in both the star and the way people react to them, with proximity binding them all together like a type of currency.

On the surface, it’s a lean thriller (in the vein of Nightcrawler) about ambition and exploitation. But beneath all of that, the film taps into the queasy recognition of behavior we’ve all seen, especially if you live anywhere near Los Angeles or New York.

The first half of Lurker is definitely the most potent. Matthew (Théodore Pellerin), a gawky retail worker, manages to catch the eye of Oliver (Archie Madekwe), a rising pop star, and worms himself into his world. Watching Matthew operate is excruciating because he’s uber desperate and painfully transparent in his need to be accepted by Oliver. He’s willing to do the literal dirty work for proximity, cleaning Oliver’s house and even quitting his job so he can be available to hang out at a moment’s notice.

Every gesture screams LET ME IN. (I wanted to crawl under my seat at least 4 times in the first act alone.) And when Oliver extends the barest nod of acceptance, Matthew lights up like he’s just been handed a million dollars and the keys to the city. That’s one of the movie’s most terrifying moves: showing us how intoxicating it can feel to be chosen by the chosen one.

At the screening I attended, stars Théodore Pellerin and Zack Fox joined writer-director Alex Russell for a Q&A moderated by Beef creator Lee Sung Jin. You can watch the full conversation below.  They’d lived it, wondering about the ethics of befriending a fan, second-guessing whether someone genuinely liked them or just wanted the connection or the spotlight by proxy. Fame’s a game with a lot of unspoken rules.

Oliver’s entourage knows the game. They’ve stuck around long enough to survive his rise by understanding the rules. When Matthew arrives, they smell that something’s off, but he’s the latest chosen one. And Oliver wields his allure like a blade, dangling just enough intimacy to keep Matthew hooked. The fame here is double-edged. The exploited star exploits others because it’s part of the game.

That’s what makes Lurker more than a slimy social thriller. It’s a study of the transactions that fuel fame: the way artists and fans and entourages feed on each other and how validation becomes a commodity. Matthew may be the parasite, but Oliver is not innocent. He knows exactly how much power lies in a look or a well-placed hand on the shoulder. 

The movie goes bigger and bloodier in its final stretch, but it’s the grounded first half that brings the most discomfort: the recognition of Matthew’s desperation and Oliver’s manipulation and how easily we can all become complicit in these games. Imagine if your favorite actor or musician walked into your job and hit it off with you, and invited you to watch them work? People write hundred-page fanfics about this very fantasy. But in real life, it might feel a little more claustrophobic and awkward than a dream come true.

At Fred 62’s that night, it felt like the whole diner was holding its breath around a single man at the counter. Lurker stretches that breath into a scream, suggesting that once you attach yourself to someone else’s spotlight, you may never breathe the same air again. And maybe that’s the point.