The Stage Before the Stage

The envelope was black.

Real. Not digital.

Pressed under her door in the early morning, sealed with a wax mark she didn't recognize—a minimalist phoenix curled in a circle of flame.

Lina opened it with shaking fingers.

Inside: a folded letter and a silver card.

Lina Vale,

You are invited to join the Ashlight Method Intensive—an elite, private training experience for rising stars in acting, image management, and emotional translation.

Attendance is by invitation only. Duration: two weeks. Location: confidential.

Your presence has been requested by a sponsor.

Transportation arranged. Reply required within 12 hours.

Beneath it, the silver card glinted with her name already engraved.

She barely noticed the breakfast Sora was burning in the kitchen.

"You're pale," Sora said. "Is it the creepy casting couch type of invite or the 'secret society of performance cultists' vibe?"

"Somewhere between both."

Sora peeked over her shoulder. "Ashlight? Oh—damn. That's… legit. Like top-tier, emotionally brutal, famous-for-crying-on-camera level legit."

"I don't act."

Sora raised a brow. "You live like someone who's always acting."

Kael called that afternoon.

No video. Just voice.

"You got it," he said.

"You knew?"

"I recommended you."

"You should've warned me."

"I didn't want to influence your choice."

Lina paced her kitchen.

"There's no information online. No press."

"Exactly," Kael said. "It's not for exposure. It's for breaking you down and rebuilding you."

"Great."

"You'll be fine."

He paused.

"They only take people with real depth."

Lina swallowed hard. "That… almost sounded like a compliment."

"I'm slipping."

By sundown, she was in a sleek car headed to an airstrip she didn't know existed. Alone.

The location was coded into the GPS, but the driver spoke no words. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—it was insulated. Like being carried by a secret.

The bootcamp was far outside the city.

An old estate turned into a performance haven. Marble and glass. Minimalist halls and blackout rooms. No cameras allowed. No phones during sessions.

No identities shared unless offered.

She signed a waiver that mentioned "emotional risk."

Then was handed a schedule.

Day 1: Identity Breakdown.

Mentor: "The Director."

She expected a stiff coach.

Instead, a tall man with loose hair and eyes like winter stepped onto the center stage of the darkened theater and simply said—

"Who are you when no one's watching?"

Lina blinked.

He pointed at her.

"You. Speak."

"I—" She faltered. "I'm Lina Vale."

"No. That's what the world sees. Try again."

She clenched her jaw. "I'm someone who's tired of pretending."

The room stilled.

He nodded once. "Better. Again."

By the end of the day, Lina's throat was raw from screaming truths she didn't know she carried.

They made her walk across a darkened floor blindfolded. Speak lines she had to create while remembering real pain. React to betrayal reenactments.

It felt like pulling out her own nerves and displaying them to strangers.

But strangely… it didn't hurt as much as it should have.

Because she'd already survived the real thing.

Later that night, she found the common room.

There were only six trainees. One of them turned as she walked in.

Tall. Confident. Dressed in layered streetwear and eyes that flicked to her with something like amusement.

"Well, if it isn't the girl trending for her deadly smile," he said.

She froze.

"…Adrian?"

He smirked. "Didn't think you'd come."

"You didn't invite me."

"No. But I knew you'd follow the spark."

He stood, walked past her slowly.

"But don't forget, Vale—some lights burn."