The lights died with a sound like breaking glass.
Elias Quinn's last living memory was the creak of the ladder beneath his feet, the weight of the ancient stage light in his hands, and the sudden, violent snap of corroded metal. He remembered falling—not the impact, but the strange serenity of those final seconds, watching the empty seats of the Royal Theater spin past him like a carousel of shadows.
Then nothing.
Now, consciousness returned like a curtain rising on a play he'd never auditioned for.
Rain.
The sound hammered against his skull with metallic persistence. But rain in the Royal Theater was impossible—the building had a roof, didn't it? Elias tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt weighted with lead. His mouth tasted of copper and ash.
Where am I?
The question echoed strangely in his mind, as if someone else had asked it. Or perhaps... something else.
[INTERESTING. THE PERFORMER STIRS.]
Elias's eyes snapped open.
Above him stretched not the familiar gilded ceiling of the Royal Theater, but a sky the color of dried blood. Clouds twisted and writhed like living things, illuminated by an aurora that pulsed with unnatural rhythms. The rain that fell wasn't water—it was darker, thicker, and where it touched his skin, it left trails of faint luminescence.
He sat up slowly, his body protesting with every movement. The motion sent fabric rustling around him—rich, heavy material that definitely wasn't his usual jeans and sweater. Looking down, Elias discovered he was wearing an elaborate costume: a crimson robe that seemed to shift and shimmer in the strange light, embroidered with symbols that hurt to look at directly.
This isn't real. This can't be real.
[REALITY IS NEGOTIABLE. PERFORMANCE IS ETERNAL.]
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a whisper that bypassed his ears and spoke directly to his mind. Elias scrambled to his feet, spinning around to find the source.
"Who's there?" His voice cracked like a teenager's. "Show yourself!"
Silence. Then, soft as a sigh:
[THE AUDIENCE SEES ALL. THE AUDIENCE JUDGES ALL.]
"Audience?" Elias laughed, but it sounded hollow in the vast emptiness surrounding him. "What audience?"
For the first time, he took in his surroundings properly. He stood in what had once been a city square, but the buildings that ringed it were broken things—twisted skeletons of steel and glass that reached toward the bleeding sky like grasping fingers. Street lamps flickered with that same ethereal light, casting dancing shadows that seemed to move independently of their sources.
And everywhere, covering every surface, were mirrors.
Fragments of reflective glass jutted from walls, sprouted from the ground like metallic flowers, hung suspended in the air on invisible strings. They showed not his reflection, but glimpses of... elsewhere. Other places. Other times. Other hims.
In one mirror, he saw himself as a child, cowering in a closet while his parents fought downstairs. In another, he was older, standing over a grave with tears streaming down his face. A third showed him in this same crimson robe, but his eyes were different—ancient, terrible, divine.
[EXPECTATION LEVEL: MODERATE. NARRATIVE COHERENCE: STABILIZING. GENRE CLASSIFICATION: PENDING.]
The words appeared in his vision like subtitles, glowing golden text that faded as quickly as it came. Elias blinked hard, shook his head, but the phenomenon repeated.
[WELCOME TO THE STAGE, PERFORMER. YOUR AUDITION BEGINS NOW.]
"Audition?" Elias's voice rose to a shout. "Audition for what? I'm a director, not an actor! I don't perform!"
Laughter echoed from the mirrors—not malicious, but delighted, like a child discovering a new toy.
[EVERYONE PERFORMS. THE ONLY CHOICE IS THE ROLE.]
A new sensation crept up Elias's spine: the prickle of being watched. Not just watched—scrutinized, evaluated, judged. He could feel invisible eyes upon him, thousands of them, perhaps millions, all waiting to see what he would do next.
"This is insane," he whispered, but even as he said it, he found himself straightening, adjusting his posture. Stage presence was instinctive after twenty years in theater—even if this wasn't a stage he recognized.
[INSANITY IS MERELY ANOTHER GENRE. EXPECTATION LEVEL: RISING.]
The golden text flickered again, and this time it lingered long enough for him to read a number: 72/100.
"Seventy-two what?" he asked the empty air.
[AUDIENCE ENGAGEMENT. CURRENT RATING: INTRIGUING BUT PREDICTABLE. PERFORMANCE NOTES: SUBJECT DISPLAYS APPROPRIATE CONFUSION. RECOMMEND ESCALATION.]
As if summoned by the words, something moved in the shadows between the broken buildings. Elias heard it before he saw it—a sound like silk dragging across broken glass, accompanied by what might have been humming. A child's lullaby, but wrong somehow, discordant and mournful.
The thing that emerged from the darkness had once been human.
It wore the tattered remains of a wedding dress, the white fabric now stained with what looked like old blood. Its face was a cracked porcelain mask, frozen in a beatific smile that revealed nothing of what lay beneath. Most disturbing of all, it moved like a marionette, limbs jerky and unnatural, as if manipulated by strings only it could see.
[MIRROR WORLD ENTITY DETECTED. DESIGNATION: BROKEN BRIDE. THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE. PERFORMANCE OPPORTUNITY: EXCELLENT.]
The creature's head snapped toward Elias with a sound like breaking china. Behind the mask, something that might have been eyes gleamed with hungry intelligence.
"Well," it said in a voice like grinding glass, "aren't you a pretty little thing? Come to dance at my wedding, have you? The groom is late, you know. So very late."
Every instinct screamed at Elias to run, but his legs felt rooted to the spot. The Audience—whatever it was—wanted him to run. He could feel their anticipation like electricity in the air.
[EXPECTATION LEVEL: CLIMBING. CURRENT RATING: 78/100. PERFORMANCE NOTES: SUBJECT DEMONSTRATES APPROPRIATE FEAR RESPONSE. AWAITING NARRATIVE CATALYST.]
Instead of fleeing, Elias found himself taking a step forward.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "But I'm not dressed for a wedding. Perhaps another time?"
The creature's head tilted, a gesture that was almost... confused.
"Not dressed for a wedding?" it repeated, then looked down at his crimson robe. "Oh, but you are! Red is the color of love, isn't it? Love and blood and broken promises?"
[UNEXPECTED RESPONSE. EXPECTATION LEVEL: SPIKING. CURRENT RATING: 84/100. PERFORMANCE NOTES: SUBJECT SUBVERTS STANDARD VICTIM ARCHETYPE. FASCINATING.]
The golden text pulsed brighter, and with it came a new sensation: power. It flowed through Elias like warm honey, intoxicating and dangerous. He could feel the Audience's approval, their hunger for something beyond the ordinary.
"Red is the color of curtains," he said, his voice gaining strength. "And every performance must have an ending."
The Broken Bride's smile faltered for the first time.
"Ending?" she whispered. "But I've been waiting so long for the beginning..."
Elias spread his arms wide, the crimson robe billowing around him like wings. When he spoke, his voice carried the authority of someone who had spent decades commanding stages.
"Then let's begin," he said. "But this is my theater now."
[GENRE CLASSIFICATION: UPDATING. THREAT ASSESSMENT: REVISION REQUIRED. EXPECTATION LEVEL: CRITICAL. CURRENT RATING: 92/100.]
The mirrors around them began to sing.