The Script That Knows Him.
Ethan stared at the script on the music stand.
THE ACTOR — Created by Ethan ValeWritten by E.
The handwritten note beneath the title shimmered faintly, as if alive.
Welcome back, Ethan.This time, try to finish it.—E.
His pulse thudded against his ribs.
Someone else was using his name. Someone else had been directing his life. Someone who signed with a single initial — E.
Not Ethan. Not his older self. Not the duplicate.
Someone entirely outside everything he knew.
Ethan stepped closer to the stand, fingertips trembling. The pages of the script rustled gently even though the room was still.
He turned to page one.
And froze.
It wasn't blank.
It wasn't typed.
It was handwritten — in his own handwriting.
But… the words were shifting on the page, rewriting themselves as he watched.
INT. RECORDING BOOTH — PRESENTEthan reads the script. He feels the eyes on him. He doesn't realize he is not alone.
Ethan's breath caught.
"Not alone?"
He spun around—
—and saw a shadow behind the soundproof glass.
A figure. Barely a silhouette.Watching him.
Not moving. Not speaking. Just… observing.
Like an audience of one.
Ethan approached the glass slowly.
"Who are you?"
The silhouette lifted an arm.
A hand pressed flat against the other side of the glass.
Ethan mirrored the gesture, pressing his palm to the window.
Their hands aligned perfectly.
And then—
The figure whispered, muffled through the glass:
"Ethan… I need you to listen carefully. You're not supposed to be here yet."
The Invisible Door.
Ethan's mind spun.
"You wrote the script."
The silhouette didn't answer.
"You're the one controlling the story."
Still no response.
"You're the one who's been rewriting my life!"
At that, the figure nodded — painfully slow.
Ethan pressed closer.
"What do you want from me?"
The silhouette stepped back, its outline distorting slightly — as if the glass was not just a window, but a barrier between realities.
The booth door behind Ethan clicked softly.
Locked.
Ethan turned back to the figure.
"What am I supposed to finish? The note said—"
The figure raised a finger sharply, silencing him.
Then its other hand moved — tracing a shape on the glass.
A rectangle. A door.
And the whisper came again, barely audible:
"Not yet. If you open the door now… the loop won't reset correctly."
Ethan's pulse hammered.
"I don't want the loop to reset."
The silhouette exhaled — a sound of frustration? fear? pity?
"You think you're the only one who wants out?"
Ethan froze.
The figure stepped closer, its form resolving slightly — enough for Ethan to see the outline of a face, though not the details.
It felt familiar.
Too familiar.
"There are more of us than you know," the figure whispered. "But if you tear the loop now, it unravels everything. Every version. Every layer. Every you."
Ethan whispered:
"Then tell me what I'm supposed to do."
The silhouette placed a hand over its heart.
"Find the original script."
Ethan blinked.
"The original script?"
The silhouette nodded.
"The one written before the story began."
Ethan felt a chill run down his spine.
"Where is it?"
The figure hesitated.
Then it whispered:
"Behind the—"
The glass darkened instantly — turning into a mirror.
The figure vanished.
Ethan was staring at his own reflection.
A single line appeared across the glass, written in fog:
Don't let them find you.
Ethan stepped back in horror.
"Who? Who's them?"
He turned—
And the booth door was standing wide open.
Completely unlocked.
The Corridor of Silence.
The door led into a long, narrow corridor lit by a row of small, flickering bulbs.
The air tasted like dust and old film.
Ethan stepped out cautiously.
Behind him, the door shut itself with a soft click — the kind of click that made the hairs on your arms rise.
The corridor had no windows.No decorations.Just doors on either side, each labeled with a name:
Lira QuinnVictor HarrowProducer's RoomEditing SuiteStoryboard OfficeContinuity ControlArchive 1Archive 2Archive 3
And at the very end—
A heavy metal door marked only with a single engraved letter:
E
Ethan felt his skin crawl.
That door… That letter… It was the same as the signature on the script.
He took one step toward it.
The corridor's lights flickered, buzzing loudly.
He took another step.
A feeling pressed against his thoughts — like someone trying to gently, insistently push him backward.
Whispers seeped from the walls:
He isn't ready. Pull him back. Rewrite the scene. He's gone too far. Stop the story—
Ethan shook his head violently.
"No. Not again."
He reached for the handle of the door marked E—
And froze when he heard a quiet voice behind him:
"Ethan… don't."
He turned slowly.
At the far end of the corridor — by the booth door he had just left — stood Lira.
Except—
Her eyes were wrong. Too calm. Too knowing.
She wasn't the Lira he remembered.
Not the actress. Not the producer.
This was someone else wearing her face.
Someone with a small headset curled around her ear.
Someone who murmured into it:
"Yes. I found him. He's at the door."
Ethan backed up until he hit the cold metal of the E door.
His chest tightened.
"Lira… what are you doing?"
The woman smiled with unsettling gentleness.
"Ethan Vale. Version 48." "You weren't expected to reach this wing."
Ethan's stomach dropped.
Version 48?
"What happens to the other versions?" he whispered.
The woman tilted her head.
"Most don't ask."
She took a step toward him.
"Please step away from the door. For your safety… and the story's."
Ethan reached behind him and grabbed the handle.
The woman's eyes darkened.
"Ethan—don't open it."
Ethan twisted the handle—
—and the door pulled him through with a violent rush of air—
Slamming shut behind him.
The woman pounded on the other side.
"Ethan! Ethan, stop! You don't know what's—"
Her voice vanished as the door sealed, the sound sucked away.
Ethan found himself in darkness.
Total, suffocating darkness.
Then a single overhead light flared on—
revealing a long table…
covered in stacks of scripts…
each labeled:
THE ACTOR — Draft 1THE ACTOR — Draft 2THE ACTOR — Draft 3THE ACTOR — Draft 4…THE ACTOR — Draft 48
And at the far end of the table—
A single script bound in red cloth.
Labeled:
THE ACTOR — ORIGINAL DOCUMENTDO NOT OPEN
Ethan reached for it—
But before his fingers touched the cover—
A hand seized his wrist.
A hand that felt exactly like his own.
Ethan looked up—
And stared into the face of someone identical to him.
But not the duplicate.
Not the older version.
Not the Actor.
This one's eyes were colder.
Older.
Sharper.
And he said:
"I'm the Writer, Ethan. And you're reading the wrong story."
Fade to black.
The Wrong Story.
The Writer's hand tightened around Ethan's wrist — firm, steady, and absolutely in control.
Ethan tried to pull away, but the Writer held him with effortless ease.
Same face.Same voice.Same expression…
…but everything was different.
This version of him didn't look confused or frightened. He looked informed. Prepared.Certain.
The Writer released Ethan's hand, and the room seemed to exhale, as if relieved.
Ethan stumbled backward. "What is this place? Why are there forty-eight drafts of my life?"
The Writer brushed invisible dust from his sleeves.
"Forty-eight attempts. And you're the forty-eighth attempt."
Ethan froze.
"Attempts to do what?"
The Writer walked slowly toward the long table of scripts.
His fingers trailed over the spines of each draft like a teacher grading assignments.
"Attempts to get the story right." "Attempts to get you right."
Ethan's stomach tightened. "Why me?"
The Writer stopped at Draft 17 and tapped it lightly.
"Because you were the first one who asked who the audience was."
He moved to Draft 22.
"This one tried to run."
Draft 34.
"This one destroyed the set."
Draft 41.
"This one trusted Victor. A mistake."
Finally, he stopped in front of the red-bound Original Document.
"And this one…" He lowered his voice." …this one started everything."
Ethan's pulse hammered.
"What's inside it?"
The Writer turned.
And his smile was the most unsettling expression Ethan had ever seen — not cruel, not kind, but knowing.
"Everything that's been kept from you."
The Table of Versions.
The Writer gestured for Ethan to sit.
Reluctantly, Ethan did.
The table stretched endlessly under harsh white lights.Scripts, notes, storyboards, discarded outlines — all with one name repeated again and again:
Ethan Vale.
The Writer slid a document toward him.
A character sheet.
It read:
CHARACTER: ETHAN VALEROLE: PROTAGONISTFUNCTION: TO REALIZE THE TRUTHOUTCOME: PENDINGSTATUS: DRAFT 48 — UNSTABLE
Ethan swallowed hard.
"Unstable?"
The Writer nodded calmly.
"You broke the loop earlier than expected."
"Expected by who?"
The Writer leaned back.
"By the ones above me."
Ethan blinked."Above… you?"
The Writer's eyes flickered with something like irritation.
"Even Writers answer to someone, Ethan."
The room suddenly felt too small.
"Who are they?"
The Writer pointed upward — not at the ceiling, but beyond it.
"The Storykeepers." "The ones who built the entire narrative system." "The ones who decide which stories survive."
Ethan felt the air thicken around him.
"And what do they want?"
The Writer studied him with unsettling intensity.
"They want the perfect protagonist."
Ethan stood sharply.
"No. No, I'm not some… template."
The Writer shrugged.
"You're not the first to say that. But yes, Ethan — you are a prototype. A model they refine with each draft."
Ethan felt cold all over.
"So my memories… my choices… everything I've ever done…"
The Writer finished for him:
"Scripted. Rewritten. Tested. Evaluated." "Until you finally behaved the way the Storykeepers wanted."
Ethan shook with anger.
"But I didn't. That's why I broke out."
The Writer paused.
Then slowly, deliberately—
He nodded.
"Yes." "And that's why the Storykeepers are coming."
The Author of Himself.
Ethan sank into the chair.
Everything he knew — every moment of his life — might have been a draft.
A rewrite.
A line in a script.
He looked at the Writer helplessly.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
The Writer's expression softened slightly.
"You have one advantage the other drafts never had."
Ethan looked up.
"What advantage?"
The Writer pointed to the Original Document — the red-bound script he had warned Ethan not to open.
"That script contains the first version of you." "The raw, unedited Ethan Vale." "Before the Storykeepers rewrote your life."
Ethan's breath caught in his throat.
"My real self?"
The Writer nodded.
"If you read it, you may find out who you were supposed to be." "But understand this—" "Once you open it, the Storykeepers will know exactly where you are."
Ethan hesitated.
"Why help me?"
The Writer looked away — the first crack in his perfect composure.
"Because I was Draft One." "And I've been trapped here longer than you can imagine."
Ethan stared.
The Writer continued softly:
"I refused to play the part. And they locked me in the Writer's Room to fix the story instead." "I don't want to create another version of you." "I want this to end."
Ethan's heart pounded.
"So what do I do?"
The Writer stepped back and spread his hands, giving Ethan space.
"You open the original script."
The Forbidden Page.
Ethan approached the red-bound script.
Every instinct screamed at him not to.
The air around it was colder. Heavier. The room lights dimmed as if anticipating what was about to happen.
Ethan whispered:
"This is the truth."
Behind him, the Writer nodded.
"It's your beginning."
Ethan placed his hands on the cover—
—and the room immediately shook.
Lights flickered. A distant alarm began to wail.
The Writer's eyes widened.
"They're already here—you need to move—"
Ethan threw open the cover.
The pages glowed with blinding white light.
Words erupted across the paper — handwritten, frantic, alive.
Ethan shielded his eyes—
And the first line of the original script burned itself into his mind:
ETHAN VALE IS NOT A CHARACTER.ETHAN VALE IS—
The rest of the sentence blurred, warping, rewriting, resisting his gaze.
Ethan tried to focus—
"I can't read it—"
The Writer reached for him.
"Ethan, stop—!"
The lights exploded.
The table overturned.
And Ethan was ripped off the ground by a force that felt like gravity collapsing in every direction.
He heard voices — hundreds, thousands — shouting in a language that didn't feel human.
The room split open.
Pages flew like torn feathers.
Something vast and unseen roared:
"LOCATE SUBJECT 48." "LOCK THE DRAFT." "STOP THE STORY."
Ethan screamed—not from pain, but from the overwhelming, crushing realization—
that the Storykeepers had found him.
And then—
Everything went black.
The Biggest Twist Yet.
Ethan woke up lying on cold metal.
His vision slowly focused.
He was inside a massive, circular chamber lined with glowing screens.
Each screen showed a different version of him.
Draft 1. Draft 12. Draft 28. Draft 41. Draft 48 — himself.
A voice echoed through the chamber — deep, ancient, emotionless:
"Ethan Vale. You have breached the Original Document. Your autonomy is a threat."
Ethan tried to stand.
"Who are you?"
The chamber lights brightened—
Revealing tall, faceless figures surrounding him.
Dozens of them.
The Storykeepers.
The nearest one leaned forward, its voice rattling the air:
"We are the authors of every version of you." "And now… we require your compliance."
Ethan's heart crashed against his ribs.
"What if I refuse?"
The Storykeeper raised a hand.
And on every screen, every other Ethan vanished—
Except one.
Draft 1.
The original.
The story's first version of him—
alive… terrified… and staring directly at Ethan.
The Storykeeper intoned:
"Then we end him."
Ethan's blood ran cold.
"My original— he's still alive?!"
The Storykeeper nodded once.
"And we control him." "Your choice determines whether he lives or vanishes."
Ethan staggered backward.
He wasn't choosing between versions of himself anymore.
He was choosing between saving the original Ethan Vale—
—or letting the Storykeepers delete his very first existence.
And then the Storykeeper spoke one final line:
"Choose, Draft 48." "Do you save the original…or do you save yourself?"
Fade to black.