The theater stank of spilled soda and rotting nostalgia. Lisa stumbled down the aisle, her boots sticking to decades-old gum as the house lights burned like judgmental suns. Rows of sagging velvet seats stretched endlessly, each occupied by a flickering silhouette—*people* she realized with a shudder. Not gods or monsters. Just… people.
A man in a moth-eaten cardigan hurled popcorn at the screen. "Boo! *Boring!*"
A teenager filmed the chaos on her phone. "So meta!"
A child wept into their hands. "Make her *stop*!"
They didn't look up as Lisa passed. None of them noticed the knife in her hand, the blood on her boots, the way her tattoo smoldered like a dying star.
*They're just here for the show.*
---
**The Script**
The screen loomed ahead, its surface a mosaic of every loop Lisa had endured. There she was, age eight, wrists bound to a chair as Lora Prime leaned in with the syringe. There she was at twenty-three, kissing Rabbit-0 goodbye before he dissolved into static. There she was *now*, a shadow climbing the stage steps.
A script materialized in her hands, pages whispering:
**FINAL ACT**
*Protagonist confronts Audience.
Heroic sacrifice optional but recommended.
Epilogue: Roll credits.*
Lisa shredded it with her teeth.
---
**The Critic's Last Review**
Rabbit materialized in the projector's beam, his body stitched together from filmstrip scraps. "You're tanking the ratings," he hissed, digits glitching. "Give them the martyr speech. *Cry*. They love tears."
"Or what?" Lisa spat. "They'll write me out?"
"Worse." His grin split into a Cheshire rictus. "They'll *rewrite* you."
The screen flickered. New scenes bloomed:
- Lisa settling down with a faceless partner
- Lisa aging, softening, *forgetting*
- Lisa in a 7-Eleven apron, serving slushies to ghosts
"Happy endings are cheap," Rabbit whispered. "But they *sell*."
---
**The Edit**
Lisa climbed into the projector's light.
The Audience finally noticed. Phones rose. A chorus of shutters clicked.
"Look!" someone shouted. "She's *breaking character*!"
Lisa pressed her tattoo to the lens.
**FINAL EDIT:**
**[X] ERASE THE DIRECTOR**
The machine screamed. The screen cracked. The Audience's applause curdled into shrieks as their faces pixelated, their memories of the story unraveling.
---
**The Truth**
In the collapsing dark, Lisa found the child.
Not a clone. Not a draft. *Her*.
Six years old, clutching a crayon drawing: a stick figure holding hands with shadows.
"You're the real one," the girl whispered. "Always were."
Lisa knelt. "Come with me."
The child shook her head. "Someone has to remember."
---
**The Choice**
Lisa stepped into the dying light.
The girl stayed in the dark.
---
**Epilogue (For Now)**
Somewhere, a slushie machine hums.
Somewhere, a boy draws pictures no one sees.
Somewhere, a door waits.
And the Audience?
They're already queuing for the sequel.
---