The camera panned in just as Zeno arrived on the stage.
“It appears you gave your number to Shelly,” Gene PD said lightly, “so now—you’re first.”
Shelly’s head jerked up from the mention of her name, guilt plastered all over her face. She had been watching Zeno the entire time, unable to concentrate much because she felt bad.
Zeno turned slightly in her direction.
“It’s alright,” he answered. A small, crooked smile pulled at his lips. “I want to rest after this.”
A few people in the viewing room snorted, finding him funny yet cocky at the same time.
Phoenix just scoffed in disbelief, but didn’t say a word this time.
Back onstage, Zeno’s delivery had made Shelly bow her head, this time in something closer to relief. Her heart still felt tight, but the guilt didn’t strangle her quite as hard anymore.
Mr. Kim clicked his tongue once, leaning forward just a little in his seat. The light bounced off his pupils as he looked directly at Zeno.
“Are you not taking this seriously?” he asked.
The comedic bubble popped like a pin in a balloon.
Even in the viewing room, the laughter died off immediately.
Zeno hadn’t expected that tone. At least, not this early.
“Watch me go first,” Zeno said. “And you’ll see if I’m being serious or not.”
Mr. Kim raised a brow, caught off guard. His lips twitched, but instead of frowning, he gave the smallest of smiles.
“Go ahead, then.”
The stage lights warmed Zeno’s skin as he took his place in the center. His feet spread shoulder-width apart, shoulders relaxed.
He closed his eyes.
A second passed.
In that small moment of silence, Zeno thought about the scene.
An artist and their manager. One trying to pull the other back from walking away.
He tried to understand as much as possible.
The scene insinuated that if you chose this path, you better be ready to take the heat. That fame was the price, and if it got too hot, you should’ve never walked on stage in the first place.
He’d been surrounded by enough artists to realize it wasn’t that simple.
And in this place, filled with such artists, he was sure more than a few of them felt like giving up sometimes.
If he could say something that spoke for them, he would do a good job at this scene.
His eyes opened.
The room dimmed slightly—though no one had touched the lights.
[White Aura Activated]
A soft glow surrounded Zeno the moment he stepped fully into position. A faint shimmer hovered around his silhouette.
Gene PD’s brows furrowed. “Woah,” he muttered, squinting. “Why does it look like he has a—”
“Spotlight?” Bacon PD finished from beside him, eyes narrowed.
But neither got the chance to analyze it further.
Because Zeno began.
The camera panned slowly as Ari, seated to the side, lifted her head. She was playing the role of the manager. Her lines were simple. She didn’t need to do much. The focus was already squarely on him.
Zeno’s voice came out soft.
“I want to act.”
His gaze dropped to the floor, hands slack at his sides.
“Is that so wrong?” he asked.
“I never knew…” he exhaled. “I never knew that being allowed in the spotlight meant handing over everything else.”
He took a shaky step forward. The lights seemed to follow him. Or maybe it was just how everyone was watching him—only him.
“You get criticized for everything,” he continued, breath hitching. “For how you eat. For how you look. What you wear. What you like. How you walk.”
His voice cracked just barely.
“…Who you love.”
Ari didn’t respond immediately. Her script said to wait three seconds before delivering the line. But even then, the pause came too soon.
She steadied herself and said softly, “You knew this would happen.”
And Zeno—he lifted his head slowly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
His chest rose with emotion he hadn’t planned to feel.
“But does that make what I feel invalid?”
He stepped closer.
“Can’t I look back at it and say—I didn’t think it would be this hard? Can’t I admit I was naive?”
He laughed quietly, bitterly, eyes distant. “They say we sell fantasies. That we live in this perfect world, all glitz and light and fan letters and glamour.”
“But the truth is…”
He paused, and in that moment, his pitiness went through the roof.
[Lament’s Embrace Activated]
His voice deepened in soul. The aura softened to a dim white, but it carried an ache.
“The truth is, we sell fantasies because no one wants to see the reality.”
He didn’t move.
“They want to believe we’re always happy. Always shining. But we act even when we’re offstage.”
He swallowed. “We act like the hate doesn’t reach us. That we’re grateful for every invasion of privacy. We smile when they twist our words. Laugh when they joke about us being puppets. Stay quiet when we’re stripped down to trending hashtags and blurry headlines.”
His voice grew heavier with each sentence, like the words had waited years to be spoken.
“And somewhere along the way… we start to believe it too.”
He looked up at Ari again—but saw past her.
“That maybe, the only thing we’re good at anymore is pretending we’re okay.”
“Do you know what it’s like to smile so much your face hurts, not from joy but from the pressure to convince the world that nothing’s wrong? To be told you’re lucky, that you’re living the dream, while silently bargaining with your own reflection just to survive one more day of being someone you’re not? I lie better now, not in roles, but in real life—where the script is unspoken and the stakes are your sanity. There’s no rehearsal for waking up every morning wondering who they’ll want you to be today, or if you’ll be allowed to be anyone at all.”
Then he said, voice so soft that everybody leaned in.
“I still want to act. But if I could go back… I’d want someone to tell me that the spotlight doesn’t make you shine.”
“It burns you from the inside out, and some of us never learn how to cool down.”
Everyone watching in the viewing room sat still, eyes glued to the screen. Not one dared to speak—not even to whisper.
No one looked at the script anymore despite vowing to keep track of its accuracy.
They had forgotten it because of Zeno’s delivery.
Until Hero’s voice broke through the quiet.
“He got every word right.”