The audition room was a boxy, overlit space that smelled faintly of stale coffee and printer ink. It was quieter than Ethan expected—no bustling crowd of hopefuls, just a neat sign-in sheet, a worn couch, and a single assistant with a clipboard and unreadable expression.
His name was called sooner than he'd prepared for.
"Ethan Blackwood, please."
He followed the assistant through a narrow hallway and into a smaller room—brighter, cooler. A table stood at the far end where three people waited: a woman in a navy blazer flipping through headshots, a middle-aged man with a kind smile (probably Vincent Lasker), and someone operating a camera.
"Let's start with a cold read," the woman said. "We'll run Scene 14. Take a breath. No pressure."
Ethan took the single sheet handed to him. Scene 14. He recognized it—the confrontation between Jamie and his brother, a deeply personal conversation buried beneath passive-aggressive jabs.
He barely had ten seconds to scan the lines.
But when the camera started rolling, something shifted.
Ethan let the voice come naturally, unsure if it was instinct or desperation. He gave Jamie a weariness—not too dramatic, just tired in the soul. He let the silences hang. The pauses between words became part of the character.
"Alright," said Vincent, "Now, just a few questions."
Ethan nodded, exhaling.
"What kind of music do you think Jamie listens to?"
That wasn't in the script.
He blinked, then answered, "Old cassette tapes. 70s rock. Not for the nostalgia, but because it sounds like something that should've died with him but didn't."
The panel exchanged brief glances.
"What's his greatest fear?" the woman asked.
"Becoming his father," Ethan said immediately. It surprised even him.
"And if he never fixes anything in the film?" Vincent asked. "What happens to him?"
"He lives," Ethan replied. "But never clean. Like he's always got blood under his nails, even when he's trying to hold someone's hand."
Silence.
Then: "Thank you, Ethan. Please wait outside. We'll be doing callbacks shortly."
He sat on the couch again, heartbeat erratic. The System was quiet—for once.
"Not bad," it finally said. "That might've even passed as acting. Who knew you had metaphors in you?"
Ethan rolled his eyes. "Are you... not insulting me?"
"I said 'might've.' Let's not get emotional."
Around him, more actors had arrived. Some sat casually, legs stretched out like they owned the room. Others were flipping through highlighted scripts or murmuring lines beneath their breath. The air buzzed with silent tension.
To Ethan's left, a guy with perfect posture and a designer duffle leaned over to another actor. "I was recurring on Covenant High. Played the older brother. We wrapped last month."
"Oh yeah?" the other said. "I almost got cast in The Marked Ones sequel. Final two, but they went with someone more 'marketable.' Whatever that means."
Ethan sat quiet. He had nothing to contribute. No credits. No stories.
Just nerves.
Then the assistant returned.
"Ethan Blackwood, Jared Lin, Mateo Cruz, Chris Dawn, and Shane Elson. Final callback. This way, please."
Ethan stood slowly. The other actors—all clean, confident, collected—moved like they'd been here before. Like they'd already imagined winning.
They were ushered into a different room—larger, with a rolling camera rig and faint markings on the floor for blocking. Four chairs. One desk. Studio lights overhead. A quiet hum from above added to the sterile pressure.
"Alright," said Vincent, clapping his hands together, "This is the final callback. All five of you will perform the same scene. Scene 21. We want to see interpretation, emotion, and consistency. You'll go one at a time. In character. Full voice."
Ethan swallowed hard. Scene 21.
It was the emotional core of Jamie's arc—the moment he admits what he did, what he failed to stop. A two-minute monologue, layered with guilt, defensiveness, vulnerability. He had practiced it, but never in front of anyone.
The first actor stepped up. Jared Lin—Ethan remembered hearing his name. He was smooth, crisp, rehearsed to near-perfection. But something about it felt... performed.
The second, Chris, went hard. Voice raised, fists clenched. Dramatic. Almost too much. The camera didn't flinch, but Ethan saw Vincent frown ever so slightly.
The third, Mateo, gave a whispery, restrained version. His face did most of the work. Internalized guilt. A slow burn.
Then came Ethan.
He stepped forward. Hands slightly shaking.
The camera lens stared back like a silent judge.
He began.
His voice was tight at first. But then the rhythm came—not perfect, not seamless, but honest. His eyes stayed fixed, not on the camera, but somewhere just past it, as if he were confessing to a ghost. His voice cracked once—but it fit. It worked.
He let the pauses land, let the silence breathe.
By the end of the monologue, he could feel his pulse in his throat.
And then it was over.
The final actor, Shane, brought a different energy—charming, boyish, almost too clean. It was good. But it didn't feel like Jamie.
When it ended, the five of them stood in a line. The casting team spoke in hushed tones.
Some actors whispered among themselves.
"That was intense," someone said.
"Think they'll pick more than one?"
"I heard they might rework the role depending on what they see here."
Ethan stayed silent. His mind was a storm.
"We'll contact your agents within the next 48 hours," the assistant said. "Thank you, everyone."
Some actors smiled politely. Some sighed. One offered a quiet "Good luck" before heading out.
Ethan walked out into the late morning sun, nerves still fluttering.
The System pinged.
{ Mission Status: Pending }
"Well," the System said, dragging the word, "that was either impressive... or a beautiful disaster. I guess we'll find out soon."
Ethan didn't respond. His chest was too full of dread and hope.
And somewhere inside all of that—
A tiny spark of belief.