Chapter 2: "The Most Convincing Villain Audition Ever"
Steeling himself, Lucas descended the final steps, each one echoing like a drumbeat in his chest. The red light above cast long shadows on damp stone walls. His pulse raced—not from fear, but excitement at the "scene" unfolding around him.
> This is it. The judges are ruthless, but I've got this. he thought, fingers flexing.
Fifteen men in tailored black suits formed a semicircle around a bloodstained oak table. A single candle flickered at its center, casting dancing light across serious faces. The air smelled of leather, metal, and… leftover espresso? Lucas noted the odd aroma.
He straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and swept into the circle, imagining an audience of critics. He offered a respectful nod—an improv choice he'd practiced to signal both deference and hidden power.
"Gentlemen," he began, voice calm, each word deliberate. "Welcome to the dawn of a new order."
Murmurs rippled through the group. Someone shuffled chain mail—no, wait, that was a pistol's chain holster. Lucas grinned inwardly: They're into method props.
> Note to self: Remember the prop guidelines next time.
The bald man—his apparent director—leaned forward. Lucas interpreted the slow lean as a sign to deepen his performance. He dropped his voice an octave.
"Tonight, we reclaim what was stolen: dignity, influence, and justice under shadow." He swept a hand theatrically toward the candle.
A henchman spat on the ground. "They've burned our warehouses, sir."
Lucas blinked. In a normal audition, such audience feedback would signal he continue with a rebuttal. So he nodded gravely and improvised:
> "Then we burn brighter. We forge the ashes of their empires into our throne."
A collective exhale. The penciled brows of his "judges" relaxed into reverent awe. Lucas felt a surge of pride—his best impromptu since middle school drama club.
He pivoted, scanning faces for cues. One man clutched his chest and whispered, "He's the one. He's Mr. Nobody." Lucas imagined critics whispering after a coup performance.
> They really like that alias. Lucas smirked.
Next, a short, stocky man stepped forward. Lucas interpreted this as a prompt for a close-up—audience engagement. He inched forward, lowered his voice to a gravelly whisper:
"This city bleeds law and order—but we, the architects of chaos, shall be its cure."
A collective murmur of approval. Lucas's mind raced: This is better than any practice session with Oliver.
Then came the "final test." The bald man slammed his palm on the table, rattling cutlery.
"Should we trust this newcomer? Prove your loyalty, newcomer. What would you have us do?"
In an acting workshop, this would be the moment for a thematic monologue or a gesture of solidarity. Lucas recalled his professor's advice: Show, don't tell. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out… a chocolate bar he'd been saving.
"Comrades, let us share in the spoils." He broke the bar in half and handed pieces to the nearest two men. In his mind: Solidarity scene complete.
Below him, the gang members exchanged awed glances, tears welling in hardened eyes.
> "Sir," one murmured, voice thick. "You are compassionate. We live to follow."
Lucas bowed deeply. Standing ovation, please. He straightened, imagining the flash of cameras.
Silence fell as the bald man rose. He approached Lucas, removed his hat—revealing a shock of silver hair—and held out a sealed scroll.
"Mr. Nobody," he intoned, "your charter."
Lucas accepted it with a flourish worthy of a Shakespearean finale.
> That. Was. Perfect. Lucas beamed.
Suddenly, the candle guttered, and the men adjourned, scattering like extras off a set. Lucas spun toward the stairs, his mind already drafting thank-you notes to "the production team."
---
Homecoming
Later that night, Lucas returned to his dorm in triumph, sliding the scroll under his arm like a trophy.
He burst in to find Oliver practicing sword choreography with a broom.
"Oliver!" Lucas declared. "I crushed it. They loved me!"
Oliver lowered the broom. "Did you nail the duet cue?"
Lucas blinked. "Duet?"
His brother chuckled. "You do know the competition is at the campus theater, right? Not a crypt beneath the city?"
Lucas patted the scroll. "This is my prize—certificate of excellence."
Oliver rubbed his temples. "Whatever helps you sleep tonight, Mr. Kingpin."
Lucas flopped onto his bed, scroll clutched to his chest.
> I'm famous. he thought. I can't wait for the awards ceremony.
Unaware of sirens wailing miles away, chasing rumors of a new crime boss in town, Lucas drifted to sleep with dreams of stage lights—completely convinced he had just won the acting competition of a lifetime.