Ethan hadn't expected to hear back so soon.
He'd barely gotten out of bed, groggy from too little sleep and too much anxiety, when an email notification lit up his phone. His heart leapt in his chest as he tapped it open.
Subject: AUDITION CALLBACK - "Detective Noir"
His eyes widened. He skimmed the message, pulse racing.
They'd selected him. Not because of his performance—there hadn't been much to perform—but because his look matched what the director had envisioned for the background atmosphere. Apparently, his slightly disheveled appearance and "lean, tired charm" were perfect for a run-down bar patron in a noir thriller.
It was hardly flattering, but Ethan didn't care. He had a speaking role.
{ Mission Completed: Land a Role With at Least One Speaking Line }
Reward Unlocked: Character Immersion (Intermediate)
The rush came suddenly—a warm wave of awareness, like slipping into a skin that wasn't his own. Emotions, posture, instincts, all sharpened. He could feel how to step into someone else's shoes with more clarity. It wasn't like memorizing techniques. It was visceral, intuitive. He understood how to let a role breathe inside of him.
And something else had shifted. Ever since he'd applied, he had been rehearsing in every spare moment—repeating lines to the mirror, adjusting his posture, layering emotions behind each word. He spent hours trying different acting techniques he found online: cold reading, mirror work, scene visualization, even deep script analysis. He even downloaded sides from unrelated short films to practice different characters, trying to improve his range.
At first, he was motivated. Day one was filled with adrenaline and focus—his voice grew sharper, more confident, his delivery smoother. By the end of the day, he felt proud. Encouraged. The System even praised him—mildly, of course.
By day two, doubt began to creep in. He had repeated the line so many times, it no longer sounded like a line. It was just noise. He overanalyzed every blink, every breath. He watched himself in the mirror, disgusted at how forced he looked. He couldn't tell what was working anymore. His throat started to hurt. The apartment was a mess, and his fridge was nearly empty. He tried not to think about rent.
"You look like a man preparing for battle," the System quipped dryly as he stared blankly at his reflection. "Or like a man preparing for public embarrassment. Jury's out."
"Not helping," Ethan muttered.
"You're better than you were. Look at the stats."
A golden notification blinked.
[Skill Updated]
Character Immersion: ★★★☆☆ (Intermediate) Line Delivery: ★★☆☆☆ (Improved) Emotional Range: ★★☆☆☆ (Improved)
[Updated Acting Stats]
Stage Presence: ★★☆☆☆ Line Delivery: ★★☆☆☆ Character Immersion: ★★★☆☆ Emotional Range: ★★☆☆☆ Cold Reading: ★☆☆☆☆
[Notification: New Mission Assigned]
Mission: Deliver Your Scene With No NG (No Good)
Reward: Improvisation Mastery (Level 1)
Penalty: Loss of Vocal Control for 3 Days
Ethan blinked. "No NG? As in... no retakes?"
"Ding ding ding! We have a winner!" the System chirped. "Impress them on the first go. Or risk sounding like a dying goose for three days."
Three days passed in a blur of rehearsal and spiraling emotions. Ethan tried everything: shouting the line in his bathroom, whispering it like a secret, acting it out with full body gestures in front of his couch. He drank honey-lemon tea to preserve his voice. He visualized the scene again and again, trying to make it second nature. Some days he felt ready. Other days, the fear swallowed him.
The night before the shoot, he barely slept. He lay awake staring at the ceiling, going over the line until it merged with his heartbeat. "He went down that alley… he was limping, looked hurt."
The System had one last thing to say: "You've worked harder than most do for a single line. Don't forget that. Trust it."
On Set: Detective Noir
The shoot was taking place in a worn-down jazz bar downtown, repurposed for the day. Dark wooden floors, old velvet booths, and moody overhead lighting set the tone perfectly. Every detail was stylized—gritty, vintage, soaked in shadows. The scent of dust, sweat, and too much hairspray lingered in the air.
Detective Noir was an independent noir thriller, a passion project written and directed by someone who thought they were the next Scorsese. The story followed a weathered private eye chasing a murder mystery through the smoke-choked streets of a crime-ridden 1950s city. Lots of cigarettes, long monologues, and close-ups through rain-streaked windows.
It was low budget, but the crew took it seriously. The production team moved like they were crafting something sacred. Ethan watched from the edges of the set as the lead actor, a sharp-jawed man named Cole Vance, rehearsed a quiet confrontation with the femme fatale—a stunning woman in a crimson dress named Lila Devine. Both of them had that polished indie-film look: captivating, tired of the world, effortlessly magnetic.
They didn't look at him. Neither did anyone else.
He wasn't part of the core cast. He was Bar Patron #3. A prop with a line. Background, even with dialogue.
When he tried introducing himself to a few people, he got nods, distracted smiles, or worse—nothing at all. Everyone was consumed by their own parts, their own anxieties and egos. The director paced endlessly, throwing words like "mood" and "presence" and "texture" as if they meant something concrete. The cinematographer adjusted lights for the hundredth time. Hair and makeup fluttered around the main actors like anxious birds.
Ethan stood to the side, clutching his script. Two lines. That's all he had. But they mattered. They had to.
The System hummed softly in his mind. "Feeling ignored? Don't worry. Happens to the best of background characters."
"Gee, thanks," Ethan muttered under his breath.
"Just think of it as fuel. Underdog energy. Get in. Deliver your line. Steal the scene."
He took a slow breath, closing his eyes. The bar was noisy around him, crew members shouting, props clinking. But inside, he found the space to focus. The character: a weary regular, drunk, maybe lonely. Just a guy watching a world fall apart through a shot glass.
He ran the lines again. "Looks like trouble just walked in." And then the second: "You better be careful, detective. Trouble never walks alone."
He said them soft at first, then again, layering in subtlety—cynicism, curiosity, warning. Every repetition chipped away another piece of awkwardness, until the words felt like his own.
"Not bad," the System remarked. "You're learning to live in the scene. If you weren't broke and haunted, I'd say you were starting to look like an actor."
Ethan snorted. "High praise coming from a disembodied voice."
"Disembodied, yes. But classy."
He shook his head, lips quirking despite himself. As much as the System annoyed him, it kept him grounded. Focused. For the first time in years, he wasn't drifting through roles, hoping to survive. He was reaching for something more.
The world might have overlooked him, but the camera wouldn't.
Tomorrow, he'd step into the frame.
And he wouldn't miss his mark.