A deranged man who likes to call himself the Director kidnaps a teenage boy and girl to be his actors. He expects them to perform the six acts of his play without messing up once, or else harrowing pain awaits them.
🥇1st place / The Cosmic Awards
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"THE SANDBAG FELL by accident, I swear." The Director's eerie chuckle, paired with the sound of his nearing footsteps, could have dislodged Nathan's heart. "I wouldn't lie to you, my villain. I'm not like you."
For a second, Nathan thought he'd been hallucinating when he'd heard the Director say, "Dammit, I missed," the moment the sandbag fell. But then he remembered he wasn't the only one capable of lying—surely a psychopath could do it as well.
"Congrats on finishing Act One, my actors," the Director said as he stood in his place right in front of Nathan and Adelaide. "Let's talk about your performance, shall we? I'll start with my heroine."
The Director tilted his stance so that he was mostly facing Adelaide, then took one step forward. His harsh expression softened progressively like iron melting. "My heroine, darling, you were nervous while performing, weren't you?"
Nathan stared at the two; the Director's hand hovered hesitantly closer to Adelaide, as if longing to hold her hand, but she remained unresponsive.
Say yes, Nathan mouthed to her. Maybe if they'd show him submission or honesty, he'd go easy on them. Lying straight to a psycho's face—about something specifically obvious—wouldn't go well.
Adelaide must've caught Nathan's advice through her peripheral because she finally mumbled, "Yeah," but failed to hold eye-contact. Nathan couldn't blame her. If he hadn't rehearsed cajoling people (into not kicking his ass) throughout his life, he wouldn't have been able to do it either.
"Why, my heroine, why?" A high pitch of surprise marred the Director's voice as he questioningly held his palms out. He stared at her, as if anticipating an explanation, then relaxed again. "I told you I'll shoot my villain if you mess up. You don't have to worry. Nothing's going to happen to you. Only to him."
This had Nathan recoiling in his place: at the reenforced threat or at the part logic behind it. So the Director made it clear he'd shoot him, not her; wouldn't that make Adelaide feel selfishly but understandably relieved?
"Your facial expressions weren't precise, my heroine. I couldn't see the enchantment. That's the name of the act. It was important," the Director continued, one hand absently adjusting the weapon's curved handle shoved in his waistband. "And when you said goodbye to him, it should've sounded sadder. That's written in the script. You should follow the script."
Silence. The type meant to make the listeners feel ashamed, make them sense the weight of consequences. Nathan was too used to this. Except the consequences hadn't been a bullet.
