He woke to the smell of dust and perfume. A strange mix—like the ghosts of a thousand performances choking each other out. His head throbbed. His wrists hurt. His back ached in that very specific way that suggested he hadn't signed up for this bullshit.
The ceiling above him was carved wood, ornate and rotting in equal measure, with patterns that shimmered when the candlelight flickered. And—God help him—it looked Victorian. The kind of place you'd visit in a museum and say, "How quaint," before leaving to get coffee. Not the kind of place you woke up in.
Elias Verren sat up slowly, every joint creaking like an old hinge. "Okay," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Either I'm in hell, or I'm in a theatre." A pause. "...Both seem likely."
He looked down at himself—fine silk, ruffles, ridiculous lace cuffs, and a velvet waistcoat so blue it could punch someone in the face with elegance. He groaned. "No, no, no. I'm not doing this. I'm not—" He stood, promptly tripped on his own coattails, and fell face-first into a cloud of stage dust.
The echo of his fall carried too long.When he looked up, the seats beyond the stage were filled. Not by people, but by shapes—shadows in evening wear, porcelain masks glinting under candlelight. They sat utterly still, hands folded, heads tilted just enough to be wrong.
"Oh, hell no," Elias whispered. Then, louder, "What kind of discount ghost opera is this?"
No answer came. The silence had weight—thick and oily. He swallowed and brushed off his coat, trying to gather whatever dignity was left. His reflection shimmered faintly in the polished floorboards. Same sharp jaw, same dark hair (messy as ever), same piercing eyes—though now they looked… glassier. Like someone had lacquered them.
Don't panic, he told himself. You've been through worse.Which was a lie. He'd died—maybe?—in the modern world, working late, coffee in one hand, exhaustion in the other. He remembered a crash, maybe glass, maybe light, and then—this.
A different world.A different body.A script waiting for him to read.
Somewhere above, ropes creaked. Elias froze. A marionette dangled from the rafters, its head lolling gently. "...Cute décor," he muttered, voice shaking only a little. "Very cheery. Five stars."
Then the puppet moved.
Strings hissed like silk through bone as it jerked upright, and a low hum rolled through the air—the sound of a bow drawn across a cello string, too deep and too alive. The candle flames trembled, and for a moment, Elias saw something behind the stage curtains—a tall silhouette, thin as a thread, watching him.
"Good evening, performer," it whispered, a voice soft enough to slice through his spine. "Your audience awaits."
Elias blinked. "Audience? I— I don't even have a script!"
The masked shapes leaned forward in perfect unison. The whisper in his head turned words into melody.He wasn't standing anymore. He was posing, hand over his heart, mouth already moving without his permission.
"Oh, f—" He tried to stop it, but the words poured out, sharp and sweet, in some old dialect that made his tongue ache. He was speaking poetry. He was performing.
And the worst part? He was good at it. Too good. Every gesture felt practiced, rehearsed, familiar. He could feel a rhythm under his ribs, like an old song he didn't remember learning. His body bowed, twirled, smiled. The crowd clapped in polite, mechanical rhythm.
Inside, Elias screamed. Out loud, he laughed—a hollow, delightful, utterly false sound.
When it finally stopped, the silence returned. He staggered backward, panting, hands shaking. "No," he said, voice cracking. "No, this is not happening. I am not your little—your little showpiece! I'm a writer, not— whatever this is!"
A faint, cold laugh echoed through the rafters.
"Then write," said the voice. "But remember, the Stage edits all stories."
The curtain dropped before he could swear again.When it rose, he was standing somewhere else entirely—the same theatre, but different. Golder. Older. Time had folded in on itself like a badly written second act. He stared at his reflection in a cracked dressing mirror; the man staring back smiled on his behalf.
His thoughts raced, tripping over one another in terror and disbelief and the smallest, most infuriating flicker of awe. "...Okay," he whispered to the reflection. "You're not losing it, Elias. You've just been transmigrated into—what? A haunted theatre? A cursed play?" His voice cracked. "Do I at least get a love interest?"
The reflection's smile didn't fade.
Something in the corner creaked. He turned, heart pounding, and saw a marionette slumped in a chair—its strings limp, its face carved into a grin that looked… familiar.
He stepped closer. The puppet's painted eyes were the same shade of blue as his coat.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Behind him, a bell chimed. Curtain call.
He looked up, and through the rafters, he swore he saw them again—the strings, thin as silver veins, reaching down like a promise he'd never agreed to.
The voice returned, gentle, coaxing: "Encore?"
Elias grinned despite the dread clawing through him. "Yeah, sure," he said, voice shaking with both fear and bravado. "Let's give them a show."
And when the lights blazed and the music began, he danced. Not because he wanted to—but because, for the first time in his new life, he wanted to see who was pulling the strings.