1: Monster Noob

The flickering glow of a television lit the dim interior of a cramped apartment. Paint chipped from the walls, and the fan overhead creaked with every rotation. A cheap couch sagged in the center of the room, cushions long surrendered to gravity. On the screen, a sharply dressed anchor leaned toward the camera with a smile that stretched with promise.

> "This just in from Silver Core Studios! The legendary film powerhouse behind Skyward Blade, Shadows of Neon, and The Fall of Titans is officially launching the most ambitious superhero project in cinematic history. But there's a twist—they're looking for new faces. Yes, you heard that right. Unknown talents, aspiring stars, anyone who dares to dream big. If you've ever imagined yourself flying across the silver screen or saving the world in slow motion—this might be your chance."

> "The auditions are open to the public today at the Silver Core headquarters in Central District. Doors open at 8 AM. Bring your confidence, your passion—and be ready to show the world what you've got!"

The screen cut to footage of the Silver Core building, a sleek, glass-covered giant that towered over the city like a monument to ambition. The company's silver-and-blue logo shimmered on a massive digital banner above the entrance, looping the audition announcement in bold, cinematic text.

Outside, the sidewalk overflowed with hopefuls.

Some had shown up at dawn, camping out in folding chairs. Others arrived dressed to kill—caped, masked, or suited, already in character. A few carried homemade props. One guy was loudly quoting lines from a script no one recognized. A nervous buzz filled the air, the kind that comes when thousands of dreams gather in one place, competing for a spotlight.

The building's front plaza was packed. Security guards in sharp uniforms worked to control the crowd, separating registered participants from spectators. Several news vans parked nearby, reporters interviewing hopefuls and speculating about the film's title. No one knew what the movie was actually about—Silver Core had kept the plot a secret—but rumors were flying. Some claimed it was a reboot of an old cult franchise. Others believed it was a completely new universe, with an ensemble cast of heroes never seen before.

Inside the lobby, it was organized chaos. Assistants with Bluetooth earpieces shouted into the air as they rushed between desks. The marble floor reflected the fluorescent lights above, and the air smelled of paper, perfume, and coffee. Contestants were handed a number and a sealed envelope. Inside? A random scene from the mystery film's script. They were to read, rehearse, and perform it in under fifteen minutes.

Clipboard-wielding staff ushered contestants toward the waiting area, where folding chairs and bottled water did little to ease the rising tension.

Every second ticked toward a make-or-break moment.

And amid the chaos, the city kept watching. Somewhere, among the noise, a newcomer with no connections, no agency, and no clue about what was about to happen, was getting ready to walk through those doors.

He didn't know it yet, but today wouldn't just change his career.

It would change everything.

The room was plain, sterile, and cold—its walls a neutral gray, lit by harsh overhead lights. A long table sat at the far end, behind which three casting staff members glanced up from their notes as the door creaked open.

In walked a boy—no, a young man, lean and plainly dressed. He was about 21, with unkempt hair and eyes that seemed to scan everything yet hold nothing. He didn't walk in like someone with dreams. He walked in like someone who got lost and didn't care to ask for directions.

He gave an awkward nod. "Uh... hey."

The woman in the middle, clipboard in hand, offered a professional smile. "Name?"

He scratched the back of his head. "I'm not... auditioning."

The three judges exchanged a glance. The woman raised an eyebrow. "Then... why are you here?"

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "I'm just here with my friend. He's the one auditioning. He asked me to come along for moral support or whatever. He's... in the bathroom right now."

There was a pause. The man on the left, tall and wearing a scarf indoors for some reason, tilted his head. "And he asked you to sit inside the audition room?"

"I thought this was the waiting area," the boy replied honestly. "A guy with a badge told me to come in."

The woman chuckled, amused by the oddity. "Well, you're already in here. Might as well make yourself comfortable while we wait for your friend."

She reached down into a cardboard box under the table and pulled out a thin stack of pages—standard white paper, a few creases, a staple in the corner. A script.

"Here. If you're going to sit here doing nothing, might as well read something. It's one of the test scenes. Helps pass the time."

He hesitated for a moment, then took it with a shrug. "Sure."

He dropped into one of the chairs on the side of the room and unfolded the script. A simple heading read: "INT. DARK ROOM – NIGHT".

He started reading aloud, softly to himself.

> "He walks in. The floorboards creak under each step. The air is thick—damp. Something is wrong. The silence... it's too quiet."

His voice trailed off.

Suddenly, something changed.

The air around him shifted.

The fluorescent buzz overhead vanished. The cold chair beneath him was gone. In its place—darkness. The subtle, musty scent of rotting wood. The sound of creaking floorboards that didn't belong to this room.

He blinked.

The gray room was gone.

In front of him stood a door—old, scratched, with peeling paint. The hallway behind him was dim and empty. The silence wasn't sterile anymore. It was alive. Heavy. Watching.

His breath caught in his throat.

His heart beat faster, like it was catching up to what his mind hadn't yet accepted.

Where the hell was he?

And why did it feel so... real?

The door creaked open with a sound that made his spine twitch.

He didn't remember moving, but now he was walking through it—his shoes crunching over broken glass. The smell of rust and damp wood was thick in the air. He looked down.

His hands weren't his.

They were older, rougher. Calloused. And they were trembling.

He looked up and saw another man across the room, shadowed by dim light—a man with his face. A brother.

The script's memory unspooled in his head like a film reel.

> "The man enters, unaware this is a trap. His brother, the one he trusted, is the one who sells him out."

The man across the room smiled. It was the smile of someone who had already made peace with betrayal.

"I didn't want to," the brother said, voice flat. "But they paid me enough to forget that we're family."

Before he could respond—before he, whoever he now was, could even react—hands grabbed him from behind. Cold steel slid across his arms, legs, chest. Rope burned his wrists.

Then came the blade.

It wasn't fast. That was the worst part. The pain wasn't the first thing. It was the disbelief. The betrayal. The aching scream that never made it out of his mouth.

He saw flashes—his character's past, his life, the memories of growing up with that same brother. Running through fields. Fighting over toys. Promising to protect each other.

Now he was watching his own blood drip onto the floor.

And then—

Silence.

A sharp breath.

Light returned.

He blinked.

He was back in the gray room. His shirt clung to his chest with sweat. His hands were shaking. He was on the floor, though he didn't remember falling. The script was crumpled beneath his fingers.

Three pairs of eyes stared down at him.

The judges were standing by the door, frozen. Their expressions had shifted—no longer amused, no longer indifferent.

They looked... uneasy.

The woman who had given him the script took a step forward. "Are you okay?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. His throat was dry. Raw.

"I... think so," he managed.

They didn't move. They kept staring like they weren't sure if they had just watched a performance or a possession.

And then—he saw her.

She had just entered through the side door, wearing a simple black blazer, clipboard in hand. She looked perfect, like she always did. Eyes sharp, posture elegant. Her name hit him like a jolt to the chest.

Lena Rivers.

She was here?

He scrambled to his feet too fast, brushing invisible dust off his pants. A nervous laugh escaped him.

Of course she was here. She worked for Silver Core now. Last he heard, she was mentoring talent—scouting, judging. Still acting, but less often. And looking as untouchable as ever.

He watched her speak with one of the staff, totally unaware of his existence.

A fantasy sparked instantly.

She notices him. She sees something in him—something real. They talk. They connect. Maybe after this whole thing is over, she invites him for coffee. She's impressed. He's different. Maybe... something begins.

He shook his head.

Stupid.

He was just the guy who came for moral support and somehow ended up bleeding on a fake floor from a fake memory.

But still, he watched her—hoping.

Just a glance.

Just one.

For a brief, aching moment, he stood there frozen—half in awe, half in disbelief—as Lena Rivers passed him without a glance.

Of course she didn't notice him. Why would she? He was a nobody. A placeholder. A guy who walked into the wrong room and nearly fainted on the floor from... whatever that was.

Maybe it was a panic attack. Or maybe he was losing it.

He reached for the script still clenched in his hand, its pages crumpled, slightly damp with sweat. He looked down at it, then back up at the judges. Their faces were unreadable—except for the woman in the middle. She had her arms crossed now, expression somewhere between stunned and intrigued.

Just as he was turning to leave, ready to forget the entire thing happened—

Clap.

It was slow. Singular.

Then another.

The tall man in the scarf started clapping. Slowly, deliberately, as if he needed a moment to convince himself of what he just witnessed.

The other two followed suit. Three people now clapping in sync, their eyes locked on him.

He blinked, unsure if this was some kind of joke. "What...?"

The woman smiled this time—not the polite, professional smile from earlier. Something else. "That," she said, "was incredible."

He furrowed his brows. "What was?"

"The performance," the man said, stepping forward. "The tension in your face. The trembling. The breath work. That final look before you collapsed—it was so raw."

"Did you train in method acting?" the woman asked, eyes glinting with curiosity. "Or are you from theatre?"

He opened his mouth, but no answer came. His mind was still reeling from the pain he swore he'd felt. That wasn't acting. That wasn't a decision he made or a character he studied.

That was something else.

"I—I didn't..." he started, struggling to explain.

"You weren't on the list, were you?" the man asked. "What's your name?"

He took a step back. "I'm not an actor. I told you—I just came with my friend. I wasn't supposed to—"

"But you did," the woman interrupted gently. "You did perform. And it was better than anything we've seen today."

"I wasn't—" He stopped again. What could he even say?

That he had been inside the story?

That he'd felt every inch of that betrayal? Every breath? Every cut?

He shook his head, panic rising. He couldn't explain it. And he didn't want to. He didn't even understand it himself.

"No, no. I—I gotta go."

He turned toward the door. The staff called after him.

"Wait—what's your number?"

"Leave your contact!"

But he was already slipping out.

Down the hallway. Past rows of other hopefuls sitting quietly with scripts in their hands. He ducked behind a pillar, dodged a security guard, and slipped out a side door marked EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY.

The alarm didn't go off. No one chased him.

Outside, the air hit his face hard. Cold and sharp, like reality waking him up. He leaned against the wall, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

What the hell just happened?

He looked down at the script still clutched in his hand. His fingers tightened around it. For a moment, the pain in his body was gone—but the memory of it lingered. The betrayal. The cut. The way his heart had pounded like it was going to burst out of someone else's chest.

None of it felt like acting.

And if that wasn't acting...

Then what was it?