Everyone was here.
Still, not one of them had a clue what was going on.
Conversations hushed, glances exchanged, and the only consistent detail was the growing unease.
Zeno leaned back against one of the white walls, eyes scanning the room again. Thirty people. Maybe more, if he missed one or two in the crowd. But after a quiet count, he landed on thirty exactly.
Fifteen men. Fifteen women. Every single one of them is either a known actor or someone with screen experience, no matter how small.
He let out a slow breath. “Goodness,” he muttered, only audible to himself. “Did I just walk into a competition?”
Before his thoughts could go any deeper, the lights dimmed.
Everyone turned sharply.
Then, the wood-paneled wall in front of them creaked. A clean split formed across the center, and then it pulled apart with a smooth, controlled motion.
Gasps echoed around the room.
Behind the wall wasn’t just another room.
It was an auditorium.
A whole auditorium.
Rows upon rows of velvet-red chairs, a grand stage lined with lights, high ceilings with a golden crest shining in the center.
How could something like this be hidden behind such a small-looking space?
“Whoa,” Risa whispered.
None of them had noticed a room like this in the villa.
Zeno’s eyes snapped to the stage. Two figures stood there, their backs turned to them.
But even without seeing their faces, the silhouettes were unmistakable.
One was a little broader, wearing a sleek, signature bomber jacket. The other, a leaner, in a long coat.
“No way… that’s…”
“Gene PD? And Bacon PD?”
“We’re meeting them this early?”
“Even their backs are so powerful-looking.”
Both producers kept their backs to them when a voice suddenly rang out.
“Welcome, actors,” a smooth announcer’s voice declared, “to the best show of your lives.”
A hush fell over the room.
“This is no ordinary show. No regular drama, no fixed leads or guaranteed endings.”
“Here, only one truth remains—your skill is your only script. Your performance is your only path.”
Zeno narrowed his eyes.
The announcer continued. “You were chosen not just for your faces or your fanbase. But because we believe… that when pushed to your limits, your truest selves as actors will emerge.”
And then the title appeared behind Gene and Bacon PD—bright gold text against a plain white screen.
Act on Top.
Beneath it, in a stylized font: AoT.
Zeno frowned.
Well, that name sounded familiar. Like a show involving titans? Zeno brushed it off. It wasn’t like the abbreviation was trademarked.
The lights dimmed further, until the only glow in the entire auditorium came from the giant screen above the stage. A soft swell of orchestral music began to play. Then came the light of an old reel.
First, it was black and white. A woman weeping under a streetlamp. A man yelling after a departing train. The echo of lines spoken decades ago.
Then it faded to a colorized montage—the rise of golden-age Hollywood, French New Wave cinema, the quiet intensity of Japanese dramas, Indian epics, and Korean melodramas.
The screen was filled with performances that left nations breathless. Faces everyone knew. Tears that had been shed over and over again through the years. All of it was woven together with a voice-over that echoed from a different era.
“Acting—the imitation of life, without its bitterness. A lie, artfully told, to reveal the truth.”
The screen cut to the Renaissance. Stage plays and flourishing art.
“It began as a shadow. As play. As a man pretending to be a king. A woman pretending to be a widow. We learned to weep before we learned to speak. To pretend before we learned to fight. And now… It’s everywhere. It lives in our phones. On our screens. At our fingertips. The actor has become the mythmaker. The modern-day bard. The truth-bearer in a world that would rather look away.”
The video slowed clips of living rooms, families crowded around televisions, phones under blankets, cinema theaters erupting in laughter and falling into silence. Then it ended, and the screen faded to black.
Silence.
Then a line in white text appeared.
That is what you are. Storytellers.
The screen blinked off, and the lights came up, and the two figures finally turned to face the crowd.
Gasps rose from different corners.
Gene PD smirked, raising his hand in a small wave.
“Hi,” he said into his mic, “you all look more shocked than I expected.”
Gene’s smirk widened at the lack of response due to everyone’s surprise. “You’re all still piecing it together, huh?”
Bacon finally stepped forward and spoke.
“This is not just an acting competition. It’s not about who has the most followers or who looks best under the lights. This is not your average show.”
He paused.
“This is a challenge.”
“There will be no biases. No agencies pulling strings. No guaranteed screentime. No favoritism. Every decision will be made based on two things—your skill and your resonance with the public.”
The screen behind them split into percentages.
70% CRITIC SCORE.
30% VOTING.
“You will be judged,” Gene chimed in, “by a panel of critics from across the country.”
“You’ll be subjected to missions,” Bacon added. “They will vary, but I assure you that it would make you grow.”
“And why are we doing this?” Gene leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Why go through all this pain?”
Another flicker on the screen and the crowd hushed.
A new logo.
ACT ON TOP PART ONE.
Zeno’s frown deepened. Part one? There was going to be another one?
And then, Zeno felt there was something about Bacon PD’s smile. Of course, he wouldn’t be here just for the variety or survival element of it all.
“After the success of Bacon PD’s last movie, he is now ready to come back with a new full-length screenplay.”
“And the lead role—only one—for this movie will go to the actor who earns it.”
“Only one will stand—only one will Act on Top.”
