Chapter 1: The Spotlight
The first thing you need to know about auditoriums is that they smell like nerves and old wood. The second thing you need to know is that they're brutally honest; every cough, every bored sigh echoes like judgment from the gods.
Tonight, all those gods had their eyes on Elias Morgan.
He stepped through the side door, not with dramatic flourish but with quiet confidence—the kind that makes people notice without knowing why. A sea of faces turned toward him, some curious, some skeptical, others clearly wishing they were home watching people pretend to be in love on Netflix. Elias didn't blame them. Love was easier to binge-watch than to understand.
In one hand, he carried a slim leather folio, corners worn soft from years of use. He set it on the podium, adjusted the microphone, and finally looked up. No smile yet, not until he earned it.
He first paused, scanning the room; his voice dipped lower into the mic as he spoke.
"Love"
The word lingered in the air like cigarette smoke. Sweet. Poisonous.
"We use it like it's a magic spell. Say it enough times and—poof!—someone stays. Someone forgives. Someone becomes the person you thought they were. Or a red flag turns green."
A ripple of laughter from the crowd. He smirked.
"Imagine, a simple four-letter word strong enough to break the strongest of us."
A few chuckles. A cough. He twists the cap off his bottled water and takes a slow sip, letting the silence coil around the room before speaking again.
"Most of us learned love from fairy tales. Blame Disney. Blame novels. Hell, blame me; I've written a few myself," he said, gesturing at himself. Another laugh. He lets it settle, then leans forward, voice low and deliberate.
"But here's the truth: Love is misunderstood. That's not my opinion, that's history. Wars have been fought in its name. Poems butchered for it. People killed for it. And if that's not enough, we even carved it into stone and painted it on ceilings, hoping to pin it down. Yet after all that..." He scans the room, catching eyes, letting the pause sting. "...we still don't know what the hell it is."
This time, the audience didn't laugh. A low murmur rippled instead—uneasy, curious. Exactly where he wanted them.
He bent closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the room lean in.
"So tonight, I'm not here to give you neat definitions or fairy tales. Forget sunsets on self-help covers. Forget the idea of soulmates waiting like prizes. What I'll give you is messier, sharper."
A beat. Then, almost gently.
"Three kinds of love. Three paths. To heaven… or to hell, depending on how you walk them."
A hush rolled over the auditorium. Someone's pen clicked nervously. Someone else held their breath.
Elias smiled—sharp but weary.
"This is a story about an artist who didn't understand love but had to because his future depended on it. Along the way, he met people who swore they knew what love was. People who burned for it. Died for it. Lied for it. Even destroyed themselves for it."
Chairs creaked as bodies leaned forward. The hook was in.
Elias adjusted his glasses, tapped the folio once like striking a match, and opened it. The pages inside rustled faintly, alive in his hands.
"Now, before we begin, a warning: If you came here looking for a fairy tale or a happy ending, the exit is right there." He gestures at the door. "But if you stay, well, don't say I didn't warn you."
The room held its breath. Somewhere in the back, a chair creaked. No one moved.
"Let me show you," he said. "This begins with a boy. An artist. A deadline. And a word he couldn't feel."
Elias's gaze dropped to the first line on the page. His voice shifted again, no longer lecturer, no longer professor, but storyteller.
"Adrian Vale," he said. "His story begins with rain."