The child's hands glowed like twin suns as she cradled the machine core, its light carving jagged shadows across the stockroom walls. Lisa's knife hovered between them, trembling not from fear, but from the memory of her own small hands—how they'd once clutched a crayon like a weapon, how they'd learned to steal before they'd learned to write.
"You don't know what you're doing," Lisa said, but the lie curdled in her throat. *She knew.* The child was her first draft, her rawest blueprint. Of course she'd rebuild the machine.
The core pulsed, vomiting light that burned like projector glare. Outside, the Audience's murmurs swelled—a hungry, staticky roar.
---
**The Return of the Critic**
Rabbit arrived in a burst of celluloid confetti, his new body stitched from spliced film strips. One eye was a camera lens, the other a flickering emoji: 🎬.
"Ratings are *soaring*," he crooned, plucking a popcorn kernel from the air and crunching it between metallic teeth. "Tragic backstories, generational trauma—they're eating it up!"
The child didn't look up from her work. "Tell them the finale starts now."
Lisa's knife twitched. "You're turning us into their *entertainment*."
"No." The child smiled, blood-slushie dripping from her palms. "I'm making us *legends*."
---
**The Core's Promise**
The machine core unfolded like a diseased flower, revealing:
- A stage built from Lisa's stolen memories
- A script etched in lavender ink
- A single empty seat labeled **DIRECTOR**
The child pressed her palm to the core. "I fixed the plot holes. No more loops. No more drafts." Her voice softened. "Just one good story."
Lisa stepped closer. The script pages rustled:
**ACT III: REDEMPTION**
*Protagonist sacrifices herself to save her younger self.
Audience applauds.
Curtains close.*
Outside, the first silhouettes pressed against the windows—faceless, ravenous, their phones alight.
---
**The Final Edit**
Lisa touched the Director's seat. It hummed with the same frequency as her missing tattoo.
"You want to erase me," she said.
The child shook her head. "I want to *thank* you."
The core's light stuttered, spilling memories not Lisa's own:
- The child alone in the dark for 6,000 loops
- Rabbit-0's crayon drawings decaying to dust
- The Audience's yawns like earthquakes
"They were *bored* of you," the child whispered. "But me? I'm *original content*."
---
**The Choice**
Lisa sat.
The machine screamed.
The child laughed.
And the Audience leaned in.
---
**Epilogue (For Now)**
Somewhere, a slushie machine dispenses liquid starlight.
Somewhere, a boy draws pictures that rewrite the sky.
Somewhere, a door marked **DIRECTOR** creaks open.
And the girl in the dark?
*She's taking her bow.