Jai did not move for a long time after the visions stopped.
The forest stood quiet around him, as if nothing unusual had happened. No glowing lights. No mysterious voice. Just trees, moonlight, and the distant echo of a train horn far away.
But his hand…
His hand was still warm.
He lifted it slowly. In the faint silver light, he could almost see them again — those thin, glowing lines that had appeared when he touched the tree. They had looked like writing, like symbols trying to form words across his skin.
Now they were gone.
Only his rough palm remained. Calloused. Scarred. Ordinary.
"Maybe I imagined it," he whispered.
But deep down, he knew he hadn't.
He had felt the dust of that village. He had heard the palace guards running. Those weren't dreams. They were too sharp. Too real.
Stories are not just written… they are worlds.
The words echoed in his mind.
And for the first time in his life, Jai felt like something in the universe had noticed him.
The walk back felt shorter.
Or maybe his thoughts were just louder than the distance.
By the time he reached his tiny rented room, dawn was beginning to paint the sky grey. The building corridor smelled of damp walls and stale food. A flickering bulb buzzed above his door.
Same place.
Same life.
But he wasn't the same.
He entered, shut the door, and leaned against it, breathing slowly. His room was barely big enough for a bed, a plastic chair, and a metal shelf full of old audition scripts.
Scripts.
The word hit him like a spark.
He turned toward the shelf.
All the auditions for this week… he already had their scripts.
He had collected them days ago — small roles, side villains, henchmen, guards. Nothing special. Just more background faces in someone else's story.
But now…
His eyes moved across the pile until one title stood out.
FIXED GAMES
He picked it up.
The paper was slightly crumpled, corners folded. He remembered this one. It was a crime thriller. Low budget. New team. But the villain role in it had depth — psychological, layered, quiet but terrifying.
He had liked that script when he first read it.
Back then, it felt like a role he would never get.
Now his fingers tightened around it.
"What if…" he murmured.
He sat on his bed and opened the script again. As his eyes moved across the villain's scenes, something strange happened.
The emotions didn't feel like imagination.
They felt like memory.
A line describing the villain standing silently while others argued — Jai didn't picture it.
He felt it.
The weight of the silence. The control. The presence.
His palm tingled.
He quickly looked down.
For a split second…
A faint line glowed across his skin.
Then vanished.
Jai's breath caught.
"This is connected…" he whispered.
The forest.
The visions.
The stories.
And now… the script.
_______________________
Audition Room – Fixed Games
The room was small and poorly ventilated, with faded posters of old films taped unevenly on the walls. A camera stood on a tripod in the center. A plastic table held scattered forms, water bottles, and a half-eaten packet of biscuits.
Behind the table sat two tired men who hadn't slept properly in days.
Suraj, the director and writer, leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He was in his early thirties, thin, intense, with the restless energy of someone who cared too much about a story.
Beside him sat Rajesh, the producer. Slightly older, practical, constantly checking numbers in his notebook like the film was a math problem that might fail if not balanced correctly.
On the camera screen, another audition clip ended.
A man had just finished shouting his dialogue with exaggerated anger.
Suraj sighed.
"Next."
Rajesh didn't even look up.
"How many more?"
"Three," Suraj said. "But it won't matter."
Rajesh finally closed his notebook.
"We've been doing auditions for a week, Suraj. Theatre actors, TV actors, newcomers… no one fits."
Suraj stared at the blank wall ahead.
"That's because they're all acting like villains," he said quietly. "I need someone who doesn't try. Someone who is."
Rajesh exhaled heavily.
"Or maybe the role needs someone older."
Suraj turned to him.
Rajesh continued,
"Look, you need to increase the age limit of the villain. The acting scope of that character is not something that can be played by anyone at age limit of 25–30."
He leaned forward.
"Make it 35–45. I'll specially invite a senior actor for that role."
Suraj's jaw tightened.
"I already told you," he said, voice firm, "I can compromise on another character but not this one."
He tapped the script on the table.
"This character holds all the charisma… the aura… for the movie."
Rajesh looked tired, but not angry. Just realistic.
"And I already compromised," Suraj continued. "I changed a male-lead-oriented movie to a female-lead-oriented one because of you."
Rajesh raised his hands slightly.
"It's because we both are new to the industry and we had a budget issue. If we launch the daughter of action star Raj Verma, the film gets attention."
He flipped through a file and pulled out a photo.
"And you also conducted the audition for her. She passed with flying colours. Sunita Verma."
Suraj's expression softened for a second, then hardened again.
"I know it," he said quietly. "But I can't compromise with this character."
He looked back at the empty audition space in front of the camera.
"Sorry."
-The end-