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."