When the heavy velvet curtain of the Silver Screen Theater closed for the last time, the thunderous applause was just as Aris expected: magnificent, yet fleeting. He stood perfectly still in the center of the stage, directly under the fading spotlights. As the clapping died down, the silence he dreaded so much reclaimed the hall. For Aris, the performance was over, but the real war was just beginning.
He walked toward the backstage with slow, heavy steps. The narrow corridors smelled of aged wood, dampness, and greasepaint. Entering his dressing room, he locked the door quietly. The only light came from the dim bulbs surrounding the vanity mirror. When he looked into the glass, he didn't see Aris; he saw Prince Alaric, the character he had just portrayed. His face was covered in thick layers of white paint, and the black lines drawn around his eyes gave him a depth that felt alien.
He slumped into the chair. His fingers trembled as they reached for the cold jars of cream on the table. In that moment, the two familiar voices in his mind began to fight.
"You should stay here," whispered the voice of fear. "Eldoria loves you. On this small stage, you are a giant. No one can hurt you here."
Immediately after, another voice—quieter but much sharper—answered: "You are nothing but a ghost here, Aris. Every night you say the same words, you cry the same way. No one knows who you truly are. While the giant screens of Lumina wait for you, will you choose to grow old in this dusty room?"
Aris pressed a cleaning cloth against his cheek. As his own pale skin emerged from beneath the white paint, his restlessness grew. He knew how to be someone else perfectly, but he had no idea who he was as Aris. On stage, he was used to shouting and making grand gestures. But what would he do in front of those massive cameras? Cinema didn't want the "shouting" of the theater; it demanded a "whisper."
Just then, there were three slow knocks on his door. Aris flinched. A stranger walked in, a man wearing a sleek gray coat the likes of which had never been seen in Eldoria. When he entered, the air in the room seemed to change, as if the cold breath of the vast, modern world outside had leaked in.
The man placed a silver business card on the table. It had nothing on it but an address and a time.
"You are powerful on stage, kid," the man said, his voice as sharp as a blade. "But you must learn to lower your voice. In Lumina, the camera reads your soul, not your mask. If you aren't at that train station tomorrow morning, you'll spend the rest of your life acting for this mirror."
Without waiting for an answer, the stranger left. Aris looked at the silver card, then at his half-erased makeup in the mirror. One part of him wanted to cling to the safe, applause-filled theater; the other part burned with the dream of the unknown, the risk of failure, and that giant city of lights.
That night, for the first time, Aris didn't stay awake rehearsing a character's lines. He stayed awake contemplating the choice of his own life.