A Caged Bird's Rebellion!

In the dressing room, the "Makeup Artist" was altering an actor's face, literally molding their flesh like clay.

Outside the tent, in the stables, the "Coach Driver" was feeding horses in the dark.

William clenched his fists, debating whether to eliminate someone, but held back.

The playwright was his priority.

The one writing fate itself.

He continued deeper into the tent.

Ahead, the corridor grew darker.

Scattered prop crates lined the walls, and a single ray of light escaped from a partially opened door.

Then, he heard a voice.

A clear, sharp female voice, filled with anger.

"You're not satisfied with this story?! This is the saddest tragedy I can write! Damn it! I won't write anymore!"

William's eyes narrowed.

That must be the playwright.

From inside the dimly lit room, the voice continued:

"If you can't write a proper script, you won't be eating tonight!"