The silence after the clapping was not silence at all. Elias could hear his own pulse drumming in his ears, feel the rasp of air against his throat, and beneath it all, the steady vibration of the Stage. The mannequins sat frozen, palms raised, as if waiting for him to continue the act.
He kept his knife up, every muscle taut.
The man with the Sigil tilted his head, the glass shard dancing in his fingers. His eyes reflected the dim shafts of light, unblinking. "You feel it, don't you? The script tugging at you. Every word you say is chosen before you breathe it."
Elias spat smoke from the corner of his mouth. "I don't recite."
The man smiled. "And yet you already have."
Above, the silhouette on the gallery shifted, fingers tapping against the iron railing in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound sank into Elias's chest, matching his heartbeat until he nearly staggered. He forced himself to take one careful step backward, then another, though the mannequins' empty eyes followed him as if their necks could swivel unseen.
The scarred man moved closer, his coat dragging across the dust. His Sigil burned faintly, as though ink under the skin still smoldered. "This hall was once a place of waiting. Trains came and went. People believed in schedules, in timetables, in control." He lifted his shard of glass like a conductor's baton. "Now it is only a waiting room for the Stage. And you are late."
The hum surged. Elias felt his throat tighten, as though invisible hands were gripping it. His knife wavered. A line rose unbidden in his mind, words that were not his own: I came here searching.
The thought burned like fire, demanding release. His jaw locked against it. He had sworn never to let them write for him, never to become another puppet bleeding out his lines on cue. His silence was resistance, and yet the weight grew heavier with every second.
From the benches, a mannequin's hand twitched. Then another's. Fingers drummed softly on wood, echoing the rhythm from the gallery above. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Elias whispered through clenched teeth: "I don't belong here."
The words weren't the ones pressing at his mind, but they burst out anyway. His voice echoed across the hall, thin, defiant. The mannequins stilled. The tapping ceased. For a heartbeat, the pressure lifted.
Then the scarred man laughed. "Good. Improvisation. The Stage loves improvisation almost as much as tragedy."
He stepped back and spread his arms wide. The glass in his hand caught the light again, flashing like a cue. From the far end of the hall, footsteps began. Not heavy, not hurried, but measured and precise.
Elias turned. Figures emerged from the shadows near the rails. Not mannequins this time. People, or at least they wore the shapes of people. Their movements were too sharp, their joints bending with sudden jolts, like marionettes tugged by strings.
One wore a conductor's uniform, cap tilted, but its face was smeared with paint instead of features. Another was draped in a passenger's coat, its skin cracked porcelain. They shuffled forward, stopping at intervals as if obeying stage directions written long ago.
Elias's grip tightened on the knife. "Actors," he muttered.
The scarred man bowed with a flourish. "The cast has arrived. The scene begins."
The hum rose again, no longer a background vibration but a living sound, thick and suffocating. Elias felt it tug at his lungs, at his tongue, pulling words to the surface. Introduce yourself, the voice inside urged.
His jaw ached from the effort of resisting. If he spoke, he would be giving ground. But if he didn't, the Stage might force him harder.
The mannequin-people stopped three paces from him. Their painted faces tilted in unison, waiting.
The scarred man's smile sharpened. "Go on. The audience is listening."
The cast stood in a half-circle before him, heads tilted, bodies twitching like puppets with tangled strings. The conductor in his cracked uniform raised one hand, stiff as a flagpole, and pointed toward Elias. The painted passengers swayed once, then froze again.
The air thickened. Elias felt his tongue itch with words not his own. My name is Elias.
The line pushed up, pressing against his teeth. He clamped his mouth shut and exhaled hard through his nose. Sweat slid down his spine. If he let even one line through, the Stage would grip tighter.
The scarred man clapped his hands once. "The audience grows restless," he said. His eyes glinted with cruel amusement. "A protagonist who will not speak? Then let him bleed instead."
The conductor jerked forward. Its steps echoed across the tiles, each one too precise, too rehearsed. Elias raised his knife. The mannequin's arm swung wide, heavy as iron, and slammed against a bench, splintering it to dust.
Elias sidestepped, knife flashing. The blade bit deep into porcelain skin, scattering shards like broken crockery. But the creature did not falter. It turned its painted face toward him, a grin smeared where lips should be, and pressed forward.
Behind it, the others began to move. The shuffle of shoes and boots grew louder, a rising tide.
Elias cursed. "Always the cheap tricks."
He lunged at the conductor, driving his knife upward under its chin. The steel screeched against porcelain, cracking it open. Black dust poured out instead of blood, choking the air with bitter ash. The figure shuddered, then collapsed in pieces.
The audience roared. Not the mannequins, something higher, unseen, clapping and cheering in the rafters. Elias staggered back, knife slick with black grit.
The scarred man laughed, spreading his arms. "The crowd approves! The scene lives!"
Two more figures lunged. Elias rolled aside, boots slipping on shards, and came up near the benches. He grabbed the broken brass bell that hung by a thread of rope and swung it hard. The bell struck one puppet's skull with a hollow clang. The head dented inward, then snapped around with a sharp crack, spinning too far on its neck.
The hum surged again. The broken head turned full circle, then the puppet staggered upright, still advancing.
Elias gritted his teeth. "Persistent bastards."
He needed more than steel. The thought burned behind his ribs, where his own scar lived hidden: the Ninth Sigil. His curse. His brand. He had sworn not to use it unless he had no choice. The price was always too high.
But the Stage wanted spectacle, and spectacle was survival.
The mannequin-crowd advanced, arms outstretched. Their shoes scraped in unison, a parody of choreography. The scarred man raised his shard of glass like a conductor's baton, leading their steps.
"Speak your line," he crooned. "Or drown in silence."
The pressure behind Elias's eyes grew unbearable. Words clawed at his throat, demanding release. He staggered back against a broken pillar, chest heaving.
Then he gave in, not with words, but with the scar.
Elias tore open his coat and pressed his palm against the glowing mark carved into his chest. It pulsed once, brutal heat, then bled light into the hall. Crimson arcs crawled across the floor like veins of fire.
The mannequins froze mid-step. Their painted faces twisted, jaws creaking as if they wanted to scream but could not. The hum fractured, splitting into shards of sound that rattled through the walls.
Elias raised his head. Smoke curled from his lips. His voice came out low, jagged. "My name... is my own."
The scarred man staggered as if struck. His grin faltered, eyes narrowing at the glow spilling from Elias's chest. "You fool," he hissed. "You think the Stage allows rebellion? You've only given it more to feast on."
The puppets shattered in unison, their bodies collapsing into heaps of dust and splinters. The applause in the rafters thundered louder, drowning out thought.
Elias pulled his coat shut, breath ragged, and forced the Sigil's light back under his skin. The mark burned, leaving him weaker, trembling, but alive.
He turned his knife toward the scarred man. "Your scene's over."
The man's smile returned, faint, trembling, yet unbroken. He stepped backward into the shadow of the rails, the glass shard slipping from his fingers. "You've spoken," he said. "The Stage has your voice now. It will call you again."
His form dissolved into the dark, as though he had never stood there at all.
The mannequins slumped back into stillness. The applause faded. Silence returned.
Elias leaned against the pillar, chest burning, lungs raw. He lit another cigarette with shaking hands and muttered into the smoke: "One scene down. A thousand more to go."
Elias stumbled out of the Hall of Rail like a man surfacing from deep water. The sky above Berlin was a pale, washed-out gray, neither day nor night, the kind of light that erased shadows. He pulled his coat tighter and lit another cigarette, though his hands still trembled. The first drag steadied him, but the burn of the Sigil across his chest lingered like a coal pressed into skin.
He hated the mark. Hated the heat it left behind. Power, yes, but power that came with teeth.
The streets outside were not empty. Berlin never was, not anymore. Figures moved through the ruins like ghosts: scavengers or deserters, soldiers without uniforms, children with eyes too old for their faces. They glanced at him but didn't linger. People could sense when someone had stepped too close to the Envers. The Stage left a residue, a kind of invisible ash that clung to skin and breath. Elias carried it now, and they could smell it.
He passed a wall scrawled with charcoal letters: NOTHING BUT THE SCRIPT. Below, in smaller writing: NO ONE ESCAPES.
Elias exhaled smoke at the words. "We'll see."
He walked without destination, only the urge to keep moving. His boots struck broken cobblestones, weaving between burned-out cars and skeletal trams rusting on their tracks. The city had become a graveyard with veins of iron and glass.
At a corner, a woman sat on a crate, her hair bound in a dirty scarf. She sold bottles filled with liquid the color of rust. People stopped, coins changed hands, and each drinker winced as if swallowing fire. Elias didn't stop. He remembered what that brew was: boiled-down chemicals from wrecked factories, laced with blood ash. They said it kept the hum at bay, dulled the whispers.
It never lasted. Nothing ever did.
He turned down a narrower street, quieter, and let himself breathe. The fight still clung to him, a phantom weight. He could hear again the hollow clap of mannequin hands, the roar of unseen applause. His Sigil pulsed faintly, reminding him that every time he invoked it, the Stage took something in return. Tonight it had taken a piece of his strength. Next time, it might dig deeper.
A sound snapped him from thought: footsteps. Not behind, but ahead. Elias slowed, hand brushing the knife at his side.
From the mist between two ruined buildings, a figure emerged. A boy, maybe twelve, maybe younger, though his face carried that same too-old weariness. His clothes were ragged but patched carefully, boots tied with mismatched laces. He carried a bundle of papers under one arm.
The boy stopped a few paces away and stared at Elias. His eyes were a pale, washed-out blue, more frost than life.
"You came out," the boy said. His voice was flat, rehearsed.
Elias squinted. "And you're still standing here. Bold."
The boy extended one of the papers. It was a flyer, creased and dirty, but the ink was clear: AUDITIONS EXTENDED. NEW CAST REQUIRED. Beneath the words was a crude sketch of a mask, blackened eye sockets and a slit smile.
Elias took the paper without touching the boy's hand. It felt damp, as if pulled from the ground.
"Where'd you get this?" he asked.
The boy shrugged. "They're everywhere. The Stage puts them up. Or people do. Doesn't matter. Everyone sees them eventually."
Elias folded the flyer and slipped it into his coat. "You handing these out for someone?"
The boy shook his head. "No. I just know who's been chosen. And you've been chosen."
The hum returned, faint but insistent, brushing Elias's skull like a fingernail against glass. He exhaled through clenched teeth, flicked ash to the ground, and studied the boy.
"Careful," Elias said. "Telling the wrong man that might get you hurt."
The boy didn't flinch. "I'm already hurt. Everyone is. That's why the Stage finds us."
Elias looked at him a long moment, then shoved past. "Keep your sermons, kid. I've got enough ghosts already."
He walked on, though he felt the boy's gaze follow him down the street. Only when the sound of footsteps faded did Elias let himself breathe again. In the distance, the chimes of a ruined church rang faintly, though no bell had swung in years. The sound carried on the wind like an echo from another script.
Elias muttered into his smoke. "Berlin's rotten through. And I'm the one still pretending it matters."
The Sigil beneath his coat pulsed again, as if in agreement.
The streets narrowed the deeper Elias walked, until the buildings leaned together like old conspirators, whispering with cracked windows and broken gutters. He hated these alleys. They funneled you, cut the sky away, left you walking in a throat that might close at any second. But shortcuts kept you alive longer than open squares, and tonight he wanted shadows.
The hum returned, fainter than in the Hall, but there all the same: a pressure behind the ears, a tension along the teeth. He ground the cigarette down to its filter, flicked it away, and reached for another. The ritual soothed him: the flick, the flare, the first drag. Familiar smoke against an unfamiliar world.
That was when he noticed the writing.
On the wall to his right, scrawled in soot and chalk, a sentence repeated three times: THE AUDIENCE IS WATCHING. Each line slanted differently, as if written by three different hands. One neat, one hurried, one jagged with desperation. Beneath them, a crude sigil had been carved into the brick, not his, not any he recognized. A circle broken by seven cuts.
Elias muttered, "Always the graffiti prophets," and turned away. But the street was not empty.
Figures waited at the far end, half in shadow. At first he thought them scavengers: ragged coats, boots patched with wire, faces hidden. Then he saw the masks. Not porcelain like the mannequins, but crude leather, stitched and blackened, each one cut with a single slit for the mouth.
Three of them. Silent. Still. Watching.
Elias slowed, knife sliding free with a soft rasp. "If you're going to mug me," he said flatly, "get it over with. I'm not in the mood for theater."
The middle figure stepped forward. His voice was muffled by leather, but the words came clear enough. "We are not the Stage. We are the Chorus."
Elias spat smoke. "Doesn't make you less ugly."
The figure ignored the jab. "We follow what others cannot hear. The hidden script. The pieces not performed. And we see you, Elias. You carry a role none of us dared."
At the sound of his name, Elias's grip tightened on the knife. "You've been watching me?"
"Not us," the Chorus-man said. He tapped his mask with two fingers. "Through us. Always through us."
The hum surged. Elias felt the Sigil in his chest burn faintly, like an ember stirred. The masked figures tilted their heads in unison, listening to something he could not hear.
The Chorus-man spoke again. "You think your defiance is yours. It is not. It was written that you would resist. It was written that you would draw blood, light the scar, claim your voice."
Elias's jaw locked. He hated this kind of talk, prophecy dressed as inevitability. "Nothing writes me," he said.
The Chorus laughed. Not loud, not cruel, but together, three throats rattling the same rhythm. It echoed like a broken hymn through the alley.
"Say that again when the Ninth Sigil consumes you," the leader murmured.
The words hit Elias harder than he expected. His chest tightened. Few knew of his mark. Fewer dared name it aloud.
He stepped forward, knife raised. "Say that name again and I carve it out of your throat."
The Chorus didn't move. Their laughter cut off in an instant. Silence wrapped the alley. Then the leader extended his hand, palm up. Resting on the skin was a fragment of porcelain, small and jagged, with traces of black dust clinging to it.
"The actors you broke will rise again," the masked man said. "This shard is proof. They never end, Elias. Because the Stage never ends."
He dropped the fragment onto the stones. It rang faintly, as if glass striking metal.
Before Elias could respond, all three figures stepped backward. The shadows swelled and took them, and the alley was empty. Only the shard remained.
Elias stared at it, smoke curling from his lips. The hum gnawed at him harder, dragging memory of clapping hands, of unseen applause. He crouched and picked up the fragment. It was cold, unnaturally so, as if it had never belonged to the world outside.
His Sigil pulsed once under his coat.
Far away, a bell rang again, louder this time, though no tower remained to house it. The sound stretched over Berlin like a summons.
Elias closed his fist around the shard. The porcelain edge cut his palm, thin and sharp. He whispered into the empty street: "Another cue."