"The Talent Of Manipulation"

The glass door to the thrift shop gave way under my touch with a reluctant creak. It swung open just wide enough to let me step through.

The air inside was dense, too warm, too dry. Dust hung in it like fine powde filling every inch, and clinging to my throat, settling in the creases of my own shirt. Racks of clothes stood wrinkled and droopy, everything misshapen from years of handling. Shelves bowed under stacks of cracked VHS tapes, forgotten board games, and once-white sneakers yellowed by time. But in all this decay, the camera gleamed at me like a signal flare.

It rested near the end of an electronics table, surrounded by tangled cords and outdated remotes. A bulky Canon camcorder. Scuffed on the edges, one side of the strap frayed nearly to threads. But the lens was intact, and the power button still clicked with certainty when I pressed it.

"This one," I said aloud, not looking up.

The vendor at the register, a man with long gray stubble and nicotine-stained fingers, raised his gaze just enough to glance at what I held.

"Ten."

He didn't haggle. Didn't explain. Just returned to watching a fuzzy little TV set behind him that played a weather channel with only subtitles. I pulled out the cash and placed it on the counter in crisp bills, the last of what I allowed myself for the week.

When I stepped outside again, the air hit different.

The afternoon sun had warmed the pavement to the point it shimmered faintly, the heat itself was trying to escape.

As a began the clearly torn sidewalk was uneven under my shoes, every crack filled with tiny weeds reaching upward in desperation. My shadow stretched long behind me.

I walked with hands in my pockets, the camera swinging from my wrist. The shades on my face reflected the storefront windows I passed—pawn shops, payday lenders, corner bodegas advertising \$0.99 fountain drinks in bleached-out posters.

I didn't look like I belonged here anymore.

The white patterned shirt clung gently to my chest and shoulders navy, clean, fitted. A line of buttons ran firm down the center, each one polished and stiff black. My slacks were jet black, pressed and sharp at the creases. My hair, freshly styled, carried a slight shine under the sun, strands sweeping just low enough to graze the tops of my glasses.

This body had resisted. It had fought my change. But It couldnt break my soul. I'd spent the last thirty-nine days forcing it to remember what excellence felt like. Through protein-fueled exhaustion. Through pre-dawn cardio and heat rash and blisters blooming between my toes. Through hunger and soreness that wrapped around my ribcage like wires.

And now it walked smoother. Straighter. With a point stride.

The wind caught the edge of my shirt as I turned down the final block.

In my mind, I could already feel the actor within bubbling. Every word I'd practiced diligently, switch in tone perfected, every pause, every breath I'd rehearsed during my nighttime jogs through the industrial district. it was time for my debut

The easiest gateway for fame.

A week from now, the world would watch.

But today, the ground would.

---

The scene was fantastical

A hill that rose gently above the city's edge. Long blades of grass all painted in the same luminous green swayed slowly, their tips flicking against the wind in harmonically. Flowers of loud hibiscus color bloomed sporadically along the slope, their petalsspread just for this scene, like mouths mid-scream. The skyline loomed distant and small.

I knelt to set the camera. No tripod, no crew. Just folded towels and a slab of concrete from a nearby construction site. It took five minutes to stabilize it. Five more to frame the shot right. I adjusted the angle, stepping in and out of the view until the horizon cut behind me like a perfect line.

I pressed record and stepped back.

The moment before speaking stretched like pulled skin. Every part of me buzzed beneath the surface my tongue, my palms, the back of my skull. But I waited, letting it sit. Letting the silence fill the space. The wind brushed through my sleeves, the grass hissed behind me, and the camera's red light blinked steadily.

I looked into the lens. Flipping on a gentle smile.

"I'm grateful."

"Thank you for this chance to stand here. To speak. It means more than you think."

I stepped forward and bowed—low, with purpose. My head dipped, my eyes still locked into the lens. The breeze licked the back of my neck.

"Thank you."

I rose again.

"Three weeks ago, I watched a man throw his wedding ring into a fountain because a stranger told him his wife was cheating. She wasn't. But I knew exactly which words would make him believe it."

I pulled out a small notebook, flipping through.

"The barista at the coffee shop on Fifth Street touches her necklace every time she lies. The businessman who sits alone at the park bench every Tuesday practices leaving his wife under his breath—same conversation, every week."

I closed the notebook and stepped closer.

"Put me in a room with your other contestants for five minutes, I already know how this ends."

"This… is my beginning,THIS CHANCE, this purpose was given to meand Ill do whatever it takes."

"An Inevitability."

I let that hang.

"

I stepped closer to the lens. Close enough for the outline of my jaw to come into focus.

Deep breath. My chest expanded again.

" For this I will win. My perfect Victory."

The moment held—held until my pulse slowed, until the pounding in my ears became a dull hum. Then I drew a breath again, softer now, and let my hands drop.

Just the glint of something powerful behind the eyes.

Then I ended the recording.

It would need a bit of editing, ive gotta go to the Library.

---

Packing up the makeshift stand was slow work. My hands were steady. I didn't rush. There was no need. I had already done what needed to be done.

The sun had dipped slightly in the sky, just enough to cast long shadows down the hill. I gathered the towels and the brick, slid the camera into the small drawstring bag I'd brought, and turned back toward the city.

It was quieter now.

The usual sirens and distant yelling actually felt, well distant, muted by the hush of elevation. I took my time walking down, balls of my feet pressing into the soft ground. The hibiscus flowers still nodded in place as if listening.

I didn't speak aloud.

Everything that needed saying had already been said. Etched into the memory card. Burned into the grass beneath my feet. Threaded into the wind.

This was no ordinary submission tape.

It was a declaration.

I would not fade in this world.

They would remember me.

Because after this, there would be no one else worth watching.

———

Author note- dont cap on my speech to much those mfs are hard to write :((