Ethan Blackwood came from quiet before the long nights in Los Angeles, before the casting calls and the rejections, before the silence of empty inboxes and withering hope.
A small farming town nestled between long stretches of cornfields and hills. The kind of place where the same few trucks passed by every morning, and the diner's daily special never changed. Life was simple there—steady, expected. Generations of Blackwoods had tilled soil, mended fences, and lived lives that mirrored one another.
Ethan had always felt like a ghost inside that life. Present, but not truly there.
He was expected to inherit the family farm—work the land beside his father until he became him. But while other kids were driving tractors or joining 4-H, Ethan was reenacting scenes from movies he saw on scratched DVDs, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a flashlight for a spotlight.
He used to dream of bright lights and standing ovations. Not because he wanted fame, not even really because he wanted attention—but because he wanted to feel something real, something bigger than his world's routines and expectations.
The only person who ever understood that was Bennett Carter.
Bennett had his dream, though it was a quieter one. A bar. Not just any bar—a cozy, eclectic place filled with music, stories, and the smell of good whiskey. He talked about it all the time during late-night drives or walks home after school. The way other guys talked about girls or sports, Bennett talked about owning a space that felt like a second home for lost people.
So when the time came, they left together. One suitcase each. A couple of hundred dollars saved between them. One-way bus tickets to Los Angeles.
Ethan had never looked back.
Not because it didn't hurt.
His father stood in the driveway that morning, arms crossed, jaw tight. "You're throwing your life away, Ethan. You think the world's waiting for some kid from nowhere to show up and become a star? You're not going to make it."
Ethan had stared at the gravel as those words landed like stones in his chest.
But his mother stood quietly by the screen door, hands clenched in her apron. When Ethan walked past her, heart pounding, she reached out and took his hand for a brief moment. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"You will make it."
He looked at her, saw the tears she was holding back. That one line—six words—was the only blessing he got. And it was the only one he needed.
He hadn't spoken to her since. Not because he didn't want to. But because he was afraid that if he called too soon—before he had anything to show—those words would turn into a lie.
His father didn't call either.
The only person who stayed was Bennett.
When they arrived in Hollywood, they shared a one-bedroom apartment, scraping by however they could. Bennett quickly picked up modeling gigs here and there—his surfer-boy looks made him a natural in the LA scene, even if he was just another farm kid with a jawline and a tan. His face started popping up in small campaigns, catalog shoots, and local ads.
He also started bartending once he turned twenty-one. Late nights, good tips, steady cash. The kind of job that let him breathe.
Meanwhile, Ethan took anything—waiter, dishwasher, moving crew. The gigs were inconsistent, the pay unreliable, the rejection frequent. He began to feel the gap growing between them. The contrast in their fortunes.
Bennett never stopped being kind. Never stopped asking about Ethan's auditions, or offering to run lines. But somewhere along the way, Ethan began pulling back.
Not out of anger, but shame.
He started seeing Bennett as a rival he hadn't signed up for. Why did things seem to come so easily to him? Why was Bennett glowing in photoshoots while Ethan sat outside casting rooms, invisible?
It wasn't Bennett's fault. Ethan knew that.
But distance felt easier than explaining why he couldn't stand to be around someone who reminded him of everything he wasn't.
Most days, Ethan's life was... fine. Not happy, not particularly sad. Just ordinary. Quiet jobs. Cheap food. Occasional sparks of something better, always fleeting.
But deep down, the dream stayed. Glowing faintly.
He didn't need red carpets or screaming fans. He just needed to feel like he had become someone.
And now, for the first time in years, after that scene with Cole Vance, after Felix's call, after receiving that script—
The dream didn't feel so far away.
But the night before the audition was anything but peaceful.
In terms of sleep, Ethan barely had two hours, and even that felt like a hallucination. But emotionally? It was the longest night of his life. The script pages blurred into one another, his eyes aching from hours of scanning, reciting, and re-reading. His walls echoed with fragmented lines, half-whispered monologues, and repeated phrases that refused to stick.
He was nervous. That much was obvious.
But it wasn't just nerves. It was panic slowly tightening around his ribs.
He paced the tiny length of his apartment with the script in hand, mouthing each line like a prayer. The character—"Jamie," a quiet, introspective fixer with a guilty conscience—had some beautiful material. But it was dense. Emotional. The kind of role that requires layers.
And Ethan wasn't sure he had any layers left to give.
"You're butchering that line again," the System chimed in around 3 a.m., mid-rehearsal.
Ethan flinched. "You think I don't know that?"
"Then why are you still doing it wrong? There's a beat there. A pause. Try pretending you've heard of timing."
Ethan rubbed his temples. "You could help instead of just complaining."
"And rob you of the full immersive experience of spiraling before a big audition? Perish the thought."
He gritted his teeth. The System's sass was usually bearable, sometimes even entertaining. But tonight, it was like sandpaper on his already-frayed nerves.
"Just... shut up for a bit, would you?"
"Sure. I'll schedule my next snark for five minutes from now. Gives you time to deliver one more tepid line."
Ethan ignored it.
But the words began to echo in his head, louder than the lines he was trying to memorize. Not just the System's—but his doubts.
What if I fail again? What if they look at me and see nothing worth remembering?
His hands tightened around the script.
By sunrise, his stomach was twisted into knots. He hadn't eaten. He'd drunk too much coffee. His body buzzed, but his mind felt slow. He kept flipping through the script even as he pulled on a clean shirt and laced up his scuffed boots.
In the mirror, he didn't look confident. He looked... like someone trying not to look terrified.
The ride to the audition was quiet. Too quiet. No music. No thoughts, other than fragments of dialogue looping endlessly. His mouth moved even when he didn't realize it.
As he stood outside the audition building, script in hand, he took a long, slow breath.
He felt underprepared. That was the truth.
But maybe, just maybe, he could turn that into something.
If the audition room liked rawness... if the other actors weren't too polished... if he could find the emotion at just the right moment...
Maybe.
Maybe he could land this...