The set was quieter than expected when Ethan stepped into his mark for the first rehearsal. The boom mic hovered above like a bird of prey. The camera, still adjusting focus, loomed in his peripheral vision. The director stood beside the monitor, arms crossed, watching like a hawk.
Ethan could feel the weight of every eye, even those pretending not to look.
His hands trembled slightly as he clutched the empty glass he'd been given as a prop. His cue was simple. Cole Vance, playing the trench-coated detective, would enter the smoky bar, scan the room, and approach him for information. Ethan had two lines. That was it. He had drilled them into his soul for three straight days.
And yet, when rehearsal began, they came out as stiff as cardboard.
"He went down that alley... he was limping, looked hurt," Ethan said, eyes locked on some invisible point on the floor. His voice was flat, robotic, like a man reciting terms and conditions. His posture was rigid. Unnatural. He sounded less like a man who'd just witnessed a crime and more like a tired office worker reporting a missed delivery.
There was a beat of awkward silence.
Cole Vance raised an eyebrow. A few of the crew exchanged glances. One PA awkwardly cleared his throat.
And then, from across the set, came the unmistakable sound of a quiet scoff.
"He'll never make it in this industry with those skills," Lila Devine muttered under her breath. She didn't even try to hide it.
Ethan's ears burned. His stomach dropped. The words echoed louder in his head than they had been spoken. He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at anyone.
"Ouch," the System whispered in his mind. "Even I felt that. Want me to mute the peanut gallery?"
"No," Ethan whispered back, jaw tight. He inhaled slowly, exhaled shakily. His palms were damp.
Lila Devine didn't need to say much to send a chill through the air. She was luminous even in minimal makeup, her crimson silk dress hugging her like a second skin. Every movement she made looked like it belonged on a film reel. She had that magnetism, that quiet power. Everyone knew her name—even those who pretended not to care.
Already a darling of the indie film circuit, Lila had attended Cannes and Sundance. She'd been nominated for smaller awards, given interviews where she quoted obscure filmmakers and discussed "craft" like it was religion. Detective Noir was rumored to be her final indie project before she broke into mainstream Hollywood. She was the film's biggest name—and its biggest paycheck. The rest of the cast, even Cole, hovered under her shadow.
To her, Ethan wasn't even on the radar. Just a body with a line. And after his performance, even that was generous.
They reset the scene.
Second rehearsal.
"He went down that alley... he was limping, looked hurt," he said again. This time he remembered to look up, to meet the detective's gaze, but the line still lacked urgency. He sounded unsure of himself, the words rushing out too fast, like he wanted to get them over with.
No one said anything, but he could feel the judgment like a fog.
"It's called acting, not apologizing," the System remarked. "Give it breath. Give it truth. You know this guy. Be him."
Ethan closed his eyes for a second. He remembered the visualization. The imagined adrenaline. The terror of witnessing a crime. He clung to it like a lifeline.
Third rehearsal.
Cole stepped in again. The detective barked his line, the cue.
Ethan straightened his back. Let the beat settle. Then he looked Cole dead in the eyes and said, more grounded this time:
"He went down that alley... he was limping, looked hurt."
There was a hint of fear now. A slight quiver in his voice, but not from nerves. It belonged to the character. His shoulders slumped just enough. His eyes flicked nervously to the alley. It wasn't perfect, but it was realer.
The director gave a short nod. "Alright. Let's go for a take."
Ethan's pulse spiked. This is it.
The clapperboard snapped. "Scene 17C, take one."
The camera rolled.
The detective entered. Ethan gripped the glass with purpose. He heard the line. The cue.
His voice emerged naturally, shaped by three days of struggle and three rounds of finding his footing:
"He went down that alley... he was limping, looked hurt."
It wasn't showstopping. It wasn't award-worthy. But it was believable. Grounded. True enough to pass.
The director let the silence stretch, then called out, "Cut."
No one said anything. Not even Lila.
And most importantly—
{ Mission Complete: No NG Take }
Reward: Improvisation Mastery (Level 1) Unlocked
Ethan's knees nearly buckled in relief.
"Look at you, golden boy," the System said with a smirk in its tone. "Didn't even choke. Color me impressed."
He stepped off his mark, the adrenaline still coursing through his limbs. The bar lights glowed like spotlights in his peripheral vision. Lila glanced at him once, her gaze unreadable. Not warm. Not cold. Just... assessing.
Ethan didn't smile. Not yet. But as he walked back to the corner where he'd been waiting, he allowed himself a breath—full, deep, and solid. He hadn't been perfect.
But he'd been good enough.
And for the first time, that felt like something worth believing in.