The publisher, Mr. Caldwell, glanced up and motioned for him to come closer. After ending his call, he eyed Tavian up and down before letting out an annoyed "Tch."
"Here you are again, with your same old boring stories, huh? If this keeps up... you know what's coming. I can't guarantee your job anymore."
"Sir, I put everything into this one. I spent weeks refining it. Please... just give it one last chance," Tavian pleaded, his voice desperate.
"It's what you say every time," Mr. Caldwell scoffed. "And it's not up to me alone. The artists and other staff need to approve the script too."
"Please, sir... just one last time." For half an hour, Tavian begged, his hope slowly slipping away. Just as he was about to give up, Mr. Caldwell sighed.
"Fine. I'll take your script. But this is the last time. Put it here—the others need to agree too."
Tavian walks home, burdened by uncertainty. Every career setback brings the same sinking feeling, but today it is worse. What if his script gets canceled again? What if he returns to the life he left behind—begging, struggling, humiliated? The world feels dull, his efforts meaningless. Maybe a different career would've spared him this pain.
For years, he focused solely on crafting stories, ignoring his own life. Now, with time on his hands, he finally sees his surroundings—cluttered, empty, neglected. The realization hits hard: he's been surviving, not living. In this moment, he feels like a beggar—not for money, but for purpose, for meaning. His dream, once so close, now feels painfully distant.
Tavian changes into his usual clothes and lies down, feeling more alone than ever. With no friends or family to share his sorrow, isolation weighs heavily on him. His life feels meaningless—eleven wasted years. If he could, he'd beg his past self to choose another path rather than begging others to accept his work.
As he lies awake, drowning in despair, a screeching noise suddenly breaks the silence. He tries to ignore it, but it's relentless. Frustration builds as the sound refuses to fade. Finally, unable to take it any longer, he gets up, determined to find its source.
Tavian steps outside his room, the air unnervingly still. His home has three rooms, but he only uses one. The kitchen and dining area remain untouched. Then there's the third room—the one that has been locked since the beginning. He never questioned it, never needed the extra space.
But tonight, with the strange noise persisting, his eyes drift toward the door.
It stands there, forgotten yet unsettling. The noise isn't coming from there… or is it? A chill runs down his spine. Why has he never tried to open that door? He strains to listen.
The sound—faint but distinct—seems to come from inside. His heart pounds as he steps closer, pressing his ear to the cold wood. Something shifts within. He checks his watch—2:50 AM. Too late to call the landlord. He exhales, ready to leave.
Then—
Knock.