A stage unfolded beneath their feet, rising from shadows with unnatural grace. Golden spotlights snapped on one by one, illuminating velvet curtains and wooden floorboards that hadn't existed seconds ago. Rows of faceless audience members sat still, their hollow eyes watching. "What is this now?" Raj asked, stepping back. A loudspeaker crackled above. "The grand performance," the voice announced, "where reality is a script, and all of you are merely roles." Meera spun toward the sound. "He's turned the next layer into theatre," she hissed. "We're trapped in a scripted reality." Aarav muttered, "I hate metaphors come to life."
A rope dropped from above, tied into a noose. Another spotlight revealed a director's chair at the center of the stage—empty, but still turning slowly. Suddenly, a figure descended in pieces: limbs forming from ink, clothes from words, and a face that never fully formed. "Behold, the true Author," the voice echoed again. Ravi stepped forward. "You're not the same as the Reauthor." The being tilted its head. "No. I am older. I wrote the first ending and then erased it." Meera's grip tightened on the notebook. "Then why show yourself now?" The Author chuckled. "Because it's time for your audition."
Suddenly, the group was separated by rising platforms. Each spotlight dimmed except for theirs. A script appeared in front of Raj, floating mid-air. "Read your failure," the Author commanded. Raj glanced at the page. "This isn't mine." But the words burned themselves into his mind: 'Raj watched as his friends were taken. He chose silence. He chose survival.' Raj's eyes widened. "No… I never..." The Author's laughter rang through the theatre. "Even unwritten regrets leave scars." The spotlight turned harsh. Raj dropped the script, but it stuck to his palm like tar. "You have to rewrite your choice," Meera yelled.
Aarav faced his script next. 'Aarav lied to Meera. He found the last fragment first and kept it. He feared being erased if she succeeded.' "That's not true!" Aarav screamed. The Author stepped out of the shadows, clapping slowly. "Yet you feared irrelevance. Your silence was your betrayal." Aarav gritted his teeth and tore the page. It burst into fire, but pain flashed through his chest. "It's feeding on unresolved guilt," Ravi said. "It's rewriting us with our worst selves!" Meera's page hovered silently. She didn't read it. Instead, she reached for the notebook. "We need to write our truth now."
Meera scribbled furiously: We are not roles. We are not versions. We are real. Instantly, the stage flickered. Curtains frayed. The faceless audience hissed and started to crumble. The Author stumbled. "That is not your line!" it roared. "That page is mine!" The notebook trembled, resisting Meera's hand, but she pushed harder, writing the next sentence in golden fire: No one writes us but us. A surge of light erupted from the book, burning through the theatre illusion. The ropes snapped. The stage cracked. The Author's face began to dissolve. "You're erasing the setting!" Raj shouted. "Good," Ravi growled.
The audience stood, thousands of them, but they were unstable—flickering with multiple masks. "They're all alternate authors," Aarav realized. "Fragments that tried and failed to control this world." The Author screamed. "You think you've won? You don't even know the final twist!" A spotlight burst, revealing a mirror behind them. Their reflections stepped out, identical but smiling coldly. "Another test?" Ravi asked. The reflected Meera spoke first. "We're not your shadows. We're the next version of you." The real Meera frowned. "What are you saying?" "You fixed the draft," the mirror said. "But you broke the future. Now we fix you."
Battle erupted in a blur of light and motion. Reflection-Ravi struck first, fast and precise. Real Ravi dodged and struck back. Raj grappled with his double, each move mirrored like a cursed dance. "They know everything we're going to do!" he shouted. "They are us!" Aarav hurled a beam of gold light, but his mirror caught it. "Predictable," it whispered. Meera leapt over hers, flipping mid-air and slamming the notebook into the ground. "Let's write unpredictability!" The golden fire flared once more, scattering illusions and mirrors. The reflections screamed as they shattered. Only silence remained—and one chair, still turning slowly.
The Author, half-formed, crawled toward the notebook. "You still don't understand," it rasped. "There's always a final author. And it's never you." Meera walked past it, lifted the notebook, and held it out. "Then let's finish the play." She wrote one last line: This chapter is done. The chair exploded into ink, soaking the stage, collapsing the set. A door opened behind them, glowing. "You think it's freedom?" the Author whispered. "It's only another rewrite." But none of them looked back. One by one, they stepped through. Behind them, the theatre collapsed into smoke—and the script caught fire.