Zeno stared at the blank piece of paper.
He couldn't write anything. His pen hovered just above the surface, but no words came.
He had been tasked with everything—writing, directing, overseeing the smallest details, and possibly acting in it too.
Normally, he thrived under pressure, his mind stocked with ideas that flowed faster than he could contain them. He was unstoppable, really.
Usually, when a page sat blank in front of him, it didn't take long before it filled with words. He wasn't being boastful. It was just the truth!
Why, at this very moment, when everything depended on him, was his mind completely void, though?
He shook his head, the sound of his sigh echoing faintly across the auditorium.
It was late. Everyone in the villa had long gone to sleep. In this big, empty auditorium, he should have been able to think. Still, nothing came.
He exhaled slowly, dropping the pen onto the chair.
