OUT OF THE SPOTLIGHT
The corridor behind the stage was narrow and chaotic, lit by yellowish lights that flickered irregularly. Cables hung from the walls, poorly labeled boxes occupied entire corners, and the murmur of voices blended with the scraping of wood and metal.
Kael moved forward without hurry.
His new body responded well. Too well for something new—he noticed it immediately. There was no excessive stiffness or marked clumsiness, only a slight lack of precision in fine balance. Nothing serious. It seemed he had no physical issues.
'Something good after so much chaos.'
He stopped beside a table where part of the wardrobe had been left. He took off the dark coat he had worn on stage and folded it with mechanical care, though not obsessively. The gesture came naturally.
"Hey," a male voice said beside him. "Not bad out there."
Kael turned his head.
It was a technician, early thirties, black T-shirt, hands stained with stage dust. There was no mockery in his tone, nor exaggerated admiration. Simple curiosity.
"Thanks."
The technician watched him a second longer than normal before nodding.
"Didn't look improvised. That's rare for extras."
"It was luck," Kael replied calmly. "I just followed the rhythm."
The man frowned slightly, as if the answer didn't fully match what he had expected.
"Uh-huh… sure."
Kael didn't linger. He grabbed a nearby props box and began helping organize it, as if it were part of his natural routine. While doing so, he listened.
"Aren't you the props assistant?" a woman asked from the other end of the corridor, carrying some fabrics.
Kael looked up.
"Yes. I am."
"And since when do you work as an extra?"
Kael set the box down before answering.
"Since today."
The woman raised her eyebrows for just an instant.
"Interesting."
She said nothing more, but kept glancing at him as she walked away.
Kael continued moving among the staff. He didn't interrogate. He didn't press. He spoke just enough and listened more. He let incomplete answers do the work.
"The guy who didn't show up," he commented to an older stagehand [1]. "Is he often absent?"
"That kid is always late," the man replied. "Today he didn't even appear. Lucky you were nearby. I thought you weren't coming today—you said yesterday you were looking for work since you finished your university degree."
'Degree.'
The word triggered something.
Not an emotion. A memory.
Kein Adler.
24 years old.
Bachelor's degree in psychology.
Variable availability.
Apartment one kilometer away.
Kael kept walking as the information settled into his mind, fitting together without friction.
"Do you always move like that?" another technician asked, younger this time. "I mean… calm."
Kael looked at him directly.
"Like what?"
The kid hesitated for a second.
"I don't know. Like you know exactly where you're going."
Kael held his gaze just a fraction longer than necessary.
"I guess I got used to it."
The technician nodded slowly, still faintly frowning.
"Yeah… sure."
Kael noticed the pattern.
The answers were normal. The problem wasn't what he said, but how he said it. The rhythm. The pauses. The absence of unnecessary justifications.
He realized everyone behaved oddly after responding to him.
While organizing the props, he moved a bit closer to the groups and sharpened his hearing.
"Mmm… Kein's acting weird today… or is it just me?" the stagehand murmured to the woman.
"Yeah, he's different. He's usually more cheerful and expressive. Now he's got this 'what are you looking at?' face."
"Maybe he's still stuck in the performance. That stabbing gave me chills."
"Could be. I'd be like that too after showing that much emotion."
After listening, Kael understood everything and logged the fact mentally.
'Do I need to adjust?'
When he exited the theater through the side door, the night air greeted him with a mild temperature. The city was modest, functional, without excess stimuli. Old streetlamps, uneven roads, distant noise.
"Sniiiff…"
He took a deep breath outside the theater and started walking.
During the walk, he tested small variations: he relaxed his shoulders, lengthened his stride slightly, let his gaze wander from time to time. Not to seem distracted, but human.
He tried to recognize the habits of his body.
New fragments surfaced.
Small apartment.
One bedroom.
Narrow kitchen.
Walking distance from the theater.
Simple rental contract.
Preference for silence.
None of it caused conflict.
When he arrived, he pulled the keys from the correct pocket without thinking. Entered. Locked the door.
The interior was sober. Functional. Too orderly for an average twenty-four-year-old, but not enough to raise suspicion. He needed to analyze everything; not knowing this body was dangerous.
He took off his shoes.
Went to the bathroom and washed his hands. Cold water ran over his skin. He observed his reflection in the mirror.
Young face.
Alert eyes.
Too alert.
'I'll have to tone that down.'
He turned off the bathroom light and headed to the bedroom. He sat on the bed, not lying down yet.
He didn't analyze the stage. Not the prism. Not the explosion.
That could wait.
For now, he needed rest… spending days analyzing a fortress to steal from and then dying—or being reborn, even for him—was devastatingly exhausting.
Everything else could wait.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The man had not moved from his seat.
Most of the audience had already left. The applause was over. The house lights were coming on one by one, revealing empty seats and leftovers of food and drinks everywhere.
He was still there.
Not because he was impressed.
Because he was intrigued.
'It wasn't a bad performance,' he thought.
But it wasn't good either.
That was what made it dangerous.
The young man hadn't exaggerated gestures. He hadn't forced the drama. That suggested instinct or prior experience. However, he lacked consistent projection. His body control was good in movement, but irregular in posture. At times, his center of gravity was misaligned for the scene.
Technically, there were errors.
Errors of someone untrained… or someone who never needed formal training.
When the "murder" happened, the timing was almost perfect. Almost.
A quarter of a second too long before the scream and the fall. Not to mention the gunshot, which came one—maybe two—seconds late.
Minor details, but obvious to someone who knew how to look.
He realized it was caused by the extra's performance. The victim had forgotten, for a moment, that they were acting. It was a slight error, but perceptible.
And yet…
The tension had been real.
Not theatrical.
Real.
The man stood up when he saw the young man leave through the side door of the stage. He followed him without hurry, careful not to draw attention. But the corridor was crowded, and when he reached the outside, he had already lost him.
He frowned.
"Excuse me," he said to a staff member. "Do you know who the guy who played the assassin was? The extra."
"Oh, Kein?" the man replied. "Kein Adler. He works here with props."
That was enough.
The man took out a small notebook from his coat. He wrote the name in clear handwriting. Added the theater. Approximate age. A question mark next to "training."
He closed the notebook.
Smiled.
He wasn't sure yet what he had seen.
But he did know one thing for certain:
That boy wasn't pretending entirely.
And that, on a stage, was rare.
'I smell an opportunity.'