Master As’ words echoed in Zeno’s head while he tried to continue with this scene.
The old man who lived like a bear said that he was a good actor not because he was genuinely good, but because he had lived too many lives with the emotions he needed.
He knew that was true.
He had experienced most things known to man. Love, betrayal, loneliness, death. But as time passed, as his walls rose higher and his eyes grew duller, it had become harder and harder to feel them. And naturally, to show them.
He was imitating emotion now more than feeling it. And despite his supposed talent and the awards, he knew deep inside that he still wasn’t a complete actor.
However, standing at the cliff’s edge, knees in the dirt, blood on his face, surrounded by eyes full of pity and disgust, he felt like he was in the shoes of Desperate #25 himself.
The seventh circle had narrowed. Soil eroded more and more with each breath. Just one more had to die. And all eyes were on him.
But he wasn’t going down quietly.
He wasn’t going down sane.
#25’s body jerked up, twitching like a puppet cut from its strings. His eyes were wild, his mouth twisted into a broken grin. He staggered forward like an animal, back hunched, limbs slightly dragging, breathing like he had just crawled from hell itself.
“You chose me because you’re disgusted by my past,” he said, voice trembling with weakness. “The ugliest past. The one who deserves to die, right?”
The other five remained still. The air crackled with tension.
His voice rose, hoarse with pain, raw with fury. “Have you ever experienced selling yourself to strangers just so your family could eat the next day?”
He took a step closer to the group.
“Have you ever cried on a stranger’s floor, wishing you were never born, just so you could disappear before they even unbuckle their pants?”
His face contorted, spitting out the next words like venom.
“No. Right? None of you. You’re all privileged, aren’t you?”
He pointed at the teacher, then the soldier, then the medic.
“You saved lives. You taught kids. You healed people. And you—” he turned to Sangwon, trembling now, “—you won. That’s why you’re here. That’s why I have to die.”
The wind howled, and the dirt scattered around them like ash. #25’s chest rose with heaving breaths. His eyes were open wide, but his lips quivered. He was cracking, and they were all witnessing it happen in real time.
“And it’s like that, isn’t it?” he whispered. “The ugly ones go first. The disposable ones. No redemption.”
His lips parted again, and to everyone’s surprise, his voice cracked.
“I didn’t want to be born this way,” he whispered.
The wind machines became even more intense, blowing wind on everyone, making the scene appear even more erratic than it already was.
And then, just like that, tears fell from his eyes.
’Damn these wind machines!’ Zeno thought. They were making his eyes hurt. As a result, tears streamed down his face silently, and no one said a word.
“Woah,” Apple whispered. “He’s crying.”
Sangwon stared at him, mouth slightly ajar. There was something unnerving in how real it looked.
Zeno’s body trembled again as he lowered his head, sobbing once before his voice came back up. These damn wind machines were making it hard to breathe, too!
“I won’t let you push me, you bastards,” he screamed.
The veins in his neck popped. His teeth bared. The animal had returned, but beneath it all, there was something human in the way his eyes looked.
“I know you’ve already made up your mind!”
His voice broke again, showing his devastation.
“I just wanted to live too…”
No one could speak, taking in the scene.
#25 stood on the edge of the cliff, arms limp at his sides, a shell of the man they had once called unhinged. There was no more fire in his voice. Just this strange calm, a candle whose on its last flame.
He looked at them, one by one.
“I know you won’t change your decision,” #25 said. His voice was hoarse, nearly swallowed by the wind, but his eyes—those bloodshot, glassy eyes—shone with a truth that shook the crew behind the cameras. “It’s okay.”
His shoulders sagged.
“Take care of my siblings, I guess.” His words were soft now. “I don’t want them to end up like me.”
And that was it. That one line. The one that tore through every wall they’d tried to put between themselves and the story. The one that cracked open the hearts of even the most jaded staff.
That line made Devon, who was the one who wrote that very scene, bite his lip so hard it bled.
And then—he fell.
Just the sound of the wind, and the sickening silence that came after his body disappeared off the cliff.
Sora, who had been watching since the very beginning, covered her mouth with her hand, shaking. Another extra gripped the hem of their costume so hard that the seams strained.
It was Devon who first whispered, “Cut.”
But no one moved.
The camera crew stayed still. The cast didn’t speak. Even Sangwon, for all his poise and ego, couldn’t look away. His character was supposed to be the one who led the fall. He was the orchestrator of #25’s death. He was the one who should’ve stood tall and should’ve made the audience hate #25.
But instead, it was Sangwon who felt small.
It wasn’t just that Zeno had nailed the scene—it was that Zeno had transformed the scene into something that didn’t belong to anyone but him.
He found it dangerous.
The audience, when they saw this, wouldn’t hate #25. They would mourn the death of his character.
And they would question the others.
Meanwhile, Zeno, who had been caught by the safety net at the makeshift cliff, closed his eyes, relieved that those damn machines wouldn’t hurt his eyes anymore.
However, with this artificial death came something he didn’t expect at all.
A vision?