2: Calling to talk

Morning crept in quietly through the half-open window, casting pale light across the cluttered room.

A small fan buzzed lazily on the floor, barely stirring the warm air. The room was hardly more than a box—bed, table, a narrow wardrobe with one door permanently ajar, and a desk littered with cables, snack wrappers, and a cracked laptop that hadn't turned on in weeks. In the corner, a stack of unpaid bills waited like a quiet threat.

The boy—no, he—woke up with a sharp breath, as if surfacing from underwater. Eyes wide, heart racing. He blinked a few times before realizing where he was.

Home.

He sat up slowly, letting the faded bedsheet slide off his chest. His body still felt sore, even though he knew—knew—that yesterday couldn't have been real.

Could it?

He stood up and shuffled to the tiny bathroom attached to the room. The mirror above the sink was cracked in the corner, and the tap squealed in protest as he turned it on. Cold water splashed over his face. He let it run for a few seconds, as if hoping it would wash the memory away.

Then he looked up.

Staring back at him was a young man with messy black hair that refused to stay down, no matter how much he tried. His jawline was sharp, but softened by the lack of sleep and a faint shadow of stubble. His skin was tanned, a little rough, marked by faint acne scars on his left cheek. There was nothing extraordinary in his features—no glow, no cinematic angles. Just someone you'd walk past on the street without a second glance.

But his eyes... they didn't feel like his anymore. Not entirely. Something had changed. They looked deeper now. Haunted, maybe. Like they'd seen something they weren't supposed to.

He let out a small sigh and wiped his face with the towel hanging beside the sink.

"My name's Rihan. Twenty-one. Unemployed."

He said it quietly, as if introducing himself to the mirror—or maybe reminding himself who he still was.

"Graduated with a diploma in CST—Computer Science and Technology. Thought it'd be easy to get a job after college. It wasn't."

He walked back into the room, picking up a clean T-shirt from the chair and pulling it over his head. He glanced at the corner of the room where a stack of unopened job rejection emails were printed out and pinned on the wall. Not for motivation. Just so he didn't forget where he stood.

"I've been jobless for over a year now. My friends say I should lower my expectations. My relatives think I'm just lazy. Mom... she tries not to say anything, but I can see it in her eyes when I visit. Like she's waiting for me to become something. Anything."

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

"I wasn't supposed to go to that audition yesterday. I didn't even plan on stepping into that room. I just went along with Arif—for support. But then someone handed me a script. And I read it. And everything... changed."

He glanced toward his backpack lying on the floor. Peeking out from the side pocket was a folded script—the same one.

Still real. Still there.

He didn't know what any of it meant.

But for the first time in months, Rihan felt like something moved. Something broke open. Something he didn't understand yet.

And now, he couldn't go back to pretending nothing happened.

The scent of frying oil and cardamom-infused tea clung to the air as Rihan sat on a plastic stool at a narrow street stall, tucked between a general store and a closed-down barbershop. It was a familiar corner—quiet, cheap, and anonymous enough that no one asked questions.

In front of him sat a chipped white plate with two parathas, a small bowl of chickpea curry, and a steaming cup of milk tea. The stall owner, a balding man with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, moved between tables while shouting orders toward the kitchen window.

Rihan tore a piece of bread, dipped it in the curry, and took a bite.

His body was still on autopilot. Every chew, every sip of tea, felt mechanical—as if he was trying to drag himself back to normal.

He hadn't told Arif anything. Not yet. When his friend came out of the audition yesterday looking confused and complaining about the long wait, Rihan had just smiled and said he felt a bit dizzy, so he left early.

He didn't mention the applause. Or the pain. Or the script still hiding in his backpack.

His phone buzzed on the table.

Unknown number.

He stared at the screen.

The number was long. No name, no image—just numbers. Clean, silent, waiting.

He let it ring.

The screen went dark again.

He picked up the cup and sipped the tea slowly, trying to push away the chill that crept into his fingers.

Then—another buzz.

Same number.

This time he watched it ring without touching it. Fifteen seconds. Then it stopped.

He put the phone face down.

Maybe it was a telemarketer. Or a scammer. Or worse—maybe someone from the studio. Maybe someone saw something they weren't supposed to. Maybe he'd accidentally trespassed into something bigger.

He didn't like how quickly his thoughts were spiraling.

Relax.

He reached for another piece of paratha and dipped it again.

The stall's radio buzzed faintly in the background, playing an old romantic song. A delivery van passed by, and a kid chased a ball across the street.

Normal things. Grounded things.

He forced himself to eat.

But deep down, he knew this wasn't over.

Something had started yesterday.

And whatever it was, it had his number.

Inside a sleek glass conference room high above the city, four people sat around a circular table. The walls were lined with movie posters from Silver Core's past hits—action thrillers, sci-fi dramas, superhero franchises. But right now, no one was talking about the past.

All eyes were on the large screen mounted at the front of the room.

A muted CCTV video was playing. Black and white. Grainy. It showed a young man—lean, nervous, slightly disheveled—holding a script and standing in a bare audition room. At first, nothing seemed unusual.

Then... he started reading.

The transformation was immediate.

His posture shifted. His breathing changed. It was subtle, but undeniable. His shoulders tensed. His eyes dimmed. His voice—though unheard in the footage—carried weight even in silence.

He staggered, clutched his chest, dropped to the ground like he'd just been stabbed in the heart. And when he looked up, eyes wild and filled with betrayal, it sent a chill through the room—despite the sound being off.

The young man collapsed just before the screen went black.

The room was silent for a moment longer before the producer, a sharp-featured woman in her forties named Meera Varma, leaned back and said, "That wasn't acting."

Across from her, the writer—Anik Sen—rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His notebook lay open in front of him, scribbled with notes and diagrams. "I've written that scene five times. No one ever performed it like that. Not even the main cast we tried last month."

"I felt that in my bones," said Shahid, the finance director. "My body tensed just watching it."

The manager of casting, Dev Rathi, was already scrolling on his tablet. "I've checked. He's not registered under the audition roster. Not on the shortlist. No headshot. No email."

"No name?" Meera asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dev shook his head. "Nothing. He came in with someone else, apparently. A friend. We gave him the script just to kill time. Next thing we know, he's on the floor and the entire panel's too stunned to breathe."

Anik leaned forward. "This isn't just some fluke. Either he's a genius who's never acted before or..." he trailed off, then added, "...something else is going on."

Meera's eyes narrowed. "We need him."

"But we don't know who he is," Dev pointed out. "He left without leaving a contact. No address. No phone. We don't even have a clean face scan because the CCTV was in grayscale. And he looked different when he was reading—almost like someone else."

Shahid exhaled slowly. "You think we're chasing a ghost?"

"No," Meera said, standing up and walking to the window, gazing at the skyline. "We're chasing the only real actor I've seen in years."

There was a beat of silence.

"Put out a trace," she added. "Check with the receptionist. Check with the guy he came in with. Arif, right?"

Dev nodded.

"Good. Start with him. This kid—whoever he is—he's not slipping through our fingers."

Behind her, the paused frame of Rihan's haunted expression on the CCTV still lingered on the screen.

The office lights in the Silver Core casting department buzzed faintly as Dev Rathi stood over an assistant's desk, watching a paused CCTV frame on a screen. It showed the audition room entrance. A timestamp in the corner. Two young men entering together—one with a hoodie, the other with glasses and a backpack.

"There," Dev said, pointing. "Enhance that frame."

The assistant zoomed in. The young man with glasses was clearer now. He looked casual, easygoing, the kind of guy you'd find laughing too loud in the back row of a movie theatre.

Dev crossed his arms. "The one with the backpack. That's the friend. Get me a face match and cross-check it with yesterday's sign-in list."

Fifteen minutes later, they had a name.

Arif Talukdar.

A quick database query gave them his number, his social media profiles, even the college he graduated from.

Dev made the call himself.

It rang once, twice—then clicked.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Is this Arif Talukdar?"

"Yeah. Who's calling?"

"This is Dev Rathi from Silver Core Productions. You came in for the open audition yesterday, correct?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Uh, yeah. Why?"

"You came with someone, didn't you? Tall guy, messy hair. Wore a dark jacket."

"Rihan? Yeah. He just came to hang out. He wasn't auditioning or anything."

Dev smiled faintly. "We're aware. But we'd like to get in touch with him. Do you happen to have his phone number?"

"Sure... is everything okay?"

"More than okay. It's about the audition. He left too soon."

Arif gave them the number. Dev thanked him and hung up.

Without wasting a second, Dev typed the number into his phone and hit "Call."

---

Meanwhile, across the city...

Rihan took another bite of his paratha and sipped tea from the chipped cup. The second call had stopped. He didn't bother checking again.

The phone buzzed once more on the table, face down.

He narrowed his eyes but didn't reach for it.

Maybe he was being paranoid.

Or maybe part of him didn't want to know.

The call went to voicemail.

In the studio office, Dev stared at his phone screen, then looked at Meera.

"He didn't pick up."

Meera didn't flinch. "Call again. And keep calling until he does."

Dev nodded.

Back at the breakfast stall, Rihan slipped his phone into his pocket, unaware of how close everything had just come to changing again.