Chapter 9 : Final Take: Rewrite Required

The cave should've ended after twenty feet.

Instead, it opened up into a soundstage.

Yes. A soundstage.

Fluorescent lights. A catwalk rig. A backdrop painted like a cathedral. And dead center, under a spotlight that buzzed faintly with static:

A coffin.

No—the coffin.

Mahogany, gold-trimmed, absurdly theatrical. Same model I'd woken up in. The fake relic from my fake funeral.

But this one had a plaque.

FINAL TAKE: REWRITE REQUIRED.

"Glyph," I whispered, stepping onto the set, "I think I found the prologue to my death."

[Correction: You found the director's cut.]

Dust floated in beams of artificial light, like stage fog on pause. Every part of this was wrong. The stone walls of the canyon had been carved into square corners, the lighting rig still flickered with traces of old enchantments, and a script—yes, a literal script—was nailed to a podium by the coffin's head.

I approached.

The script cover read: "Ep. 1: A Death Worth Watching." Below that, someone had scrawled in ink:

"Rewrite rejected. Subject retained for loop."

My hands started to shake.

"Glyph… what loop?"

[Reading metadata… Cross-referencing ritual timestamps… Oh.]

"Oh?"

[This isn't a grave. It's a reset point. Someone's re-recorded your death. More than once.]

"Like a reshoot?"

[Like a reshoot where the actor doesn't know he's being filmed.]

I cracked open the script. It wasn't even subtle.

INT. CITY ROOFTOP – NIGHT

JEREMY BLAKE (30s), washed-up actor, bleeding from temple, staggers backwards toward ledge.

OFF-SCREEN VOICE

"You're not the lead. You're not even memorable."

JEREMY

"Then why did you cast me?!"

SOUND: THUNDER. A footstep. A push.

JEREMY falls. His scream echoes.

HARD CUT TO: BLACK.

TITLE CARD: "THE METHOD."

I read it twice, three times. My face was in the margins. So was my real name.

"Glyph, this is from Earth. This was my life."

[Not quite. This was your rewrite. Someone staged your death like a scene. Then repackaged it as a backstory.]

I ran my fingers over the ink.

The words shimmered. Like they remembered being true.

My pulse pounded in my throat.

"You said earlier—my death didn't end clean."

[It didn't. Because it wasn't allowed to. This wasn't just a murder. It was a production. And someone edited the final cut.]

I turned to the coffin. Its lid was slightly ajar.

Of course it was.

Because I hadn't escaped it.

I'd looped.

Inside the coffin was a monitor. Embedded into the wood. Flickering, ancient, barely running. The screen glowed with a single image:

Me.

Falling.

Pixelated. Frozen mid-scream.

[Playback corrupted: Restart from checkpoint?]

"Glyph. If I press that, what happens?"

[Either it reboots your entire soul… or it plays a very cursed home movie.]

"50/50?"

[More like 70/30. With a side of trauma.]

I touched the screen.

It hissed. Fizzed. Played.

Footage began. Shaky. Handheld. But not from Earth.

It showed me—Jeremy—in Audric's body, stumbling through the cult compound. Saying things I didn't remember saying. Smiling like I was being directed.

Then: jump cut.

Me, waking in Solvane Manor. Camera panned slowly across my face. A whisper in the background:

"He's syncing well. Keep the overlay stable."

Another jump cut.

The Queen's dinner.

Except this time, she looked at the camera. Not at me.

"Are we done yet?" she asked. "I'm tired of improv."

The screen flickered again.

Final shot: a man in shadow. Sitting behind a desk. Fingers steepled.

"Subject Blake has been stabilized. Terminate extras. Begin Act Two."

The screen went black.

[Okay, this isn't isekai. This is a reality show with body theft.]

I backed away from the monitor.

"No. No no no—this is too much."

[Your entire afterlife is a goddamn pilot episode.]

I threw the script.

It hit the podium and burst into flame.

Not a metaphor. Literal magical ignition.

The air filled with smoke that smelled like old theaters and final takes. The lights above blinked. The coffin snapped shut.

Glyph screamed into my skull.

[RUN.]

I bolted out of the soundstage.

The cave entrance had changed.

It no longer led to the canyon.

Now it opened into a backstage corridor.

Brick walls. Rusted signage.

A green room door labeled: "J. Pierce – Do Not Disturb"

"I didn't pick that name."

[No. But someone licensed it.]

The hallway bent around itself. Spiral architecture. Dream-logic curves. Doors with labels like:

"Ep. 3: The Martyr Twist"

"Alt Timeline: Queen Romance Route"

"Focus Group Cut – Jeremy Dies Early"

I stumbled past them, heart racing.

"This isn't real."

[It is. It's your life, directed by someone else.]

The last door said: "Live Taping – Now in Progress"

I pushed it open.

Inside was an auditorium.

Not medieval.

Modern. Spotlights. Velvet chairs. And a stage where a version of me stood in priest robes, declaring a prophecy in perfect High Celestine.

A sign above blinked: "Recording – Episode 9: The Last Lie"

"That's not me."

[That's a copy.]

The audience clapped on cue. Every single one of them wore a mask. White. Blank. And smiling.

I turned to run—only to freeze.

A woman stood in the aisle.

Familiar suit. Red lipstick. Barcode on her wrist.

My old agent.

"You were always too honest for this part," she said. "But we made it work."

I choked.

"You killed me."

"We rewrote you," she corrected. "We owned your image. You signed the waiver."

"I never—"

She held up a tablet.

My signature. My face.

"Likeness licensing agreement – Full immersion, no residuals."

I remembered the audition.

The sci-fi pilot. The weird contract. The producer with the gold teeth.

"Glyph. I didn't just die. I signed myself into hell."

[With a pen and a headshot.]

The agent reached out.

"Come on, Jeremy. It's time for your next take."

"No."

"Be a professional."

"I quit."

She smiled. "Too late."

The theater shuddered.

Reality snapped.

I came to in the canyon.

Same cave.

But the stage was gone.

Just me.

Alone.

My hands were shaking.

My mouth tasted like ash.

"Glyph," I whispered. "Am I even me anymore?"

[You're the only part they couldn't control.]

I looked up at the stars.

They were out of sync.

Lagging, like a bad render.

Because this world wasn't real.

It was a set.

A pocket reality.

And I was just the actor dumb enough to treat it like home.

END OF CHAPTER 9