The rehearsal hall thrummed with sound—chairs scraping, pages flipping, voices overlapping in half-formed confidence. It wasn't polished chaos, but the kind that breathed.
Zen stepped inside and slowed.
Something about today sat differently in his chest.
Not calm.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
The kind that sharpened the senses instead of dulling them.
Alex appeared at his side, eyeing him with open amusement. "You look like you're about to either impress everyone or trip spectacularly."
Zen brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Both outcomes are memorable."
"Only one is intentional."
Zen grinned despite himself.
Called Forward
"Zen Hart."
The director's voice cut through the room.
Zen jolted, then lifted a hand too quickly. "Here—yes—present."
A ripple of laughter passed through the hall.
Ms. Rowan regarded him with sharp interest. "You're Elias. Supporting lead. Take your position."
Zen nodded, throat tightening just enough to be noticeable.
He stepped onto the stage.
The boards beneath his shoes felt solid. Unforgiving.
The script rested in his hands, familiar yet suddenly heavier.
He drew a measured breath.
The Shift
When the light found him, the room faded.
Not disappeared—just softened.
Zen spoke.
Not perfectly.
Not loudly.
But with presence.
Each line landed where it should, carried by intention rather than force. His nerves didn't vanish; they settled into something usable.
Ms. Rowan's pen stilled.
When he finished, she didn't speak right away.
"Again," she said finally. "This time, don't protect yourself."
Zen frowned slightly.
Then tried again.
He loosened his grip on control, let uncertainty bleed into the words.
The silence afterward stretched.
Ms. Rowan's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close.
"There it is," she said. "Don't lose that."
Zen stood frozen, pulse loud in his ears.
Alex, watching from the back, gave an exaggerated thumbs-up and mouthed something inappropriate.
Zen ignored him.
Mostly.
Something steadier settled inside him.
Not pride.
Confirmation.
After the Lights
Rehearsal ended in fragments—notes given, schedules announced, people drifting away.
Zen lingered, gathering stray pages near the curtain.
His fingers brushed the heavy fabric.
Air moved through the open side door, cool against his skin.
He paused.
A sensation crossed him—brief, distinct.
Not a thought.
Not an image.
Awareness.
As if something had passed close enough to be felt.
Zen exhaled, shaking it off. "Long day," he muttered.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped into the afternoon sun.
Elsewhere, in a hospital conference room, Wynn Arden halted mid-discussion without knowing why.
And in a quiet mansion, Liya drew a sharp breath, fingers pressing briefly to her spine.
Three lives continued forward.
Unaware that the distance between them had just narrowed.