"A whimsical fairy tale ending—happily ever after, or so the story goes."
"But fairy tales lie, and yours is no exception."
"It's a carefully constructed illusion."
A dream spun so intricately that Alexis believes she's alive, living out her fantasy as the lead in Spider-Man, basking in the glow of fame, convinced she's reached the summit of her life.
All of it is to keep her happy while she fades away.
Charlize lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling she knew too well, frustration simmering beneath her skin.
A beautiful deception.
'Mastering dreams, bending them to your will—it's supposed to be impossible. And here I am, wide awake, not even able to sleep, let alone dream that damned dream.'
"Insomnia's the price," Christian's voice echoed in her mind, rough like gravel and soaked in cigarette smoke.
"You dosed her up on painkillers to mess with her consciousness. It should've lasted longer. But Alexis… she's not exactly natural, is she? Once she took over your body, she burned through the drugs like wildfire. So when you came back, the effects were gone. Ghosts have a way of screwing with the rules. Overdosing like that messes with your sleep cycle—hence, insomnia."
Charlize remembered how he said it, casually, like reading a recipe aloud while flipping through a grimy old grimoire.
"I'd say you're in for a few rough nights. Three days, maybe a week, if you're lucky. Sleep won't come easily, but the dream can still be made if you stick to the plan. And once it's done, you'll finally get some rest."
'So that's the trade. If I want peace, I have to step into that damn dreamscape and babysit a ghost. And probably get chased around by monsters while I'm at it.'
She tossed and turned. Her body ached with exhaustion, but her mind buzzed with a cruel energy, like an engine that wouldn't shut off.
Insomnia was hell—a slow, crawling torment.
She pulled the blanket over her head, but the darkness offered no comfort. If anything, it smothered her more.
'Screw it. Might as well try. I've come this far. One nightmare beats no sleep at all.'
With tired defiance, Charlize reached for the glass bottle on her nightstand. Beneath it, folded neatly, was a slip of paper.
She pulled it free and read:
Crossed valleys and hills, passed through thorns and underbrush; crossed pastures and gardens, navigated rapids and fire.
'I wandered far and wide, as gracefully as the moonlight.'
A poetic line Christian had marked out—something he claimed was lifted from Shakespeare. She paused, letting the words settle in her bones.
Then she whispered, "Dream forever, Alexis Rachel Hyden."
Saying the name gave her chills. Alexis had written it herself—signed it.
That was the trick Christian pulled.
The contract Alexis thought she'd signed was a performance agreement, but beneath it, hidden in plain sight, was the real trap: the spell.
"It's all suggestion, really," Christian had told her, flicking ash off his cigarette.
"Words with weight, paper laced with just enough magic to bind. When she signed the top, she signed the real deal underneath. That's how we locked her in—and you'll find her again."
He explained it like teaching a course on curses and con jobs. As long as Charlize followed the steps, the dream would unfold.
She'd meet Alexis inside, help her live her dream until it reached a satisfying close. Only then could she complete the ritual.
"When you're done," Christian had said, "go to a crossroads. Burn the spell. Shatter the bottle. Bury the pieces together. That's the only way to set her free."
'Using dreams to break a haunting… It's poetic. It's twisted. It's just like him.'
Charlize looked at the paper again. Below the lines, there was a blank space.
Christian mentioned another stanza once, but it was blurred out and has since been erased. The details were lost to time, washed away on purpose.
He never explained why.
She didn't ask. She didn't want to know.
All that mattered now was the dream—and surviving it.
"Add a little iodine and the text reveals itself."
Charlize knew the trick—an old-school concealment method, like something from a Cold War spy file. But she didn't bother.
Christian had left that part obscured for a reason. He wouldn't have hidden it behind chemistry if he wanted it read.
She skipped the blank section and focused on the final line:
"To Charlize Theron."
A strange tingle sped down her spine when her name crossed her lips.
She sank into the mattress, body softening as if the world were loosening its grip on her.
The spell paper floated upward from her fingers, not falling but spinning—twisting in midair like a bird catching a sudden updraft.
The motion grew faster, tighter, almost hypnotic. In that moment, hovering between waking and sleep, Charlize saw a flicker of light...
She passed through valleys and streams, forests and lakes, and into a garden bursting with impossible color, as the air filled with the chirping of birds she couldn't name.
------
Somewhere else, Christian sat back in a battered hotel chair, smoke curling from the cigarette in his fingers, eyes lost in thought.
He wasn't in Charlize's house—he could have been. Bridging the space wasn't hard with the right spell and the drawbridge effect.
But he chose distance. There were rules, even for him. Especially now.
"She skipped the iodine. Didn't expect that," he muttered, half-amused.
"Thought she'd be more curious. Most people are. She's playing it straight. Smart... but maybe too straightforward. Pretending to be clever gets people killed."
He leaned back, jaw tight, one leg bouncing restlessly.
Regret nipped at him. The opportunity to anchor the spell directly, face-to-face, was gone. Still, this was safer. Cleaner.
Charlize didn't need him hovering like some secondhand ghost. She needed guidance, not control.
But the hotel walls were thin, and his neighbor was snoring or summoning a demon. He thumped his fist against the wall. No change.
"Perfect. I could've been helping her, but I'm stuck in this dump listening to amateur ASMR through drywall."
He lit another cigarette with a flick of his thumb, the tip glowing like a warning light.
He didn't say it out loud, but he knew why he was here. This spell- this dream-weaving- was his first real success in years.
Not theory. Not theory wrapped in ego. Real magic. Real results.
And it terrified him.
"The resonance between the poems… It's working," he whispered, staring at the last sliver of ash falling from the paper.
"The spell's taking hold."
He let out a slow breath.
"This isn't Inception. I'm not designing some clockwork maze for her to explore. I just opened the door. Charlize has to walk through it and guide the dream from there. Her intent shapes the space. My magic keeps the lights on."
It was a good dream, as far as dreams went. For Alexis, it was salvation. A final curtain call in a world she could believe in.
But for Charlize?
"For someone clawing her way through auditions and dead-end scripts, dreaming of stardom is the easiest trap to fall into."
Christian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"She could lose herself in it. Forget what's real. That's the danger."
He stayed there in silence for a while, staring at nothing.
"...If it comes to that," he said quietly, "I'll pull her out. She helped me once. That has to count for something."
He smiled—tired, crooked, too old for his face—and let the cigarette burn out between his fingers.
"Beautiful women. Always trouble," he muttered.
And with that, Christian—the so-called Master of magic theory, an amateur in practical spellwork, and a man still figuring out how to live with his second chance—finally let the weight of the night pull him under.