There's a girl inside him now.
Not metaphorically. Not in the way people say, "she lives in my head rent free" or "I can't stop thinking about her." NO — she is inside him. Beneath his ribcage. Beneath his skin.
Sometimes, she moves.
Sometimes, she hums.
Sometimes, she screams.
He wakes in a dressing room soaked in smoke. Not real smoke — the kind that crawls across the edges of dreams and leaves soot where memory should be. The cracked mirror reflects too many versions of him, and none of them blink in sync.
"She's not real," he tells the reflection.
"She's not me."
"I'm not—"
Who?
The reflection doesn't answer. But in the corner of the glass, he sees her again:
Kneeling.
Bloody.
Broken wings curled behind her like a shroud.
And her hands — covered in ash — are drawing something on the floor.
The drawing is simple.
On one side, a girl with a gaping wound in her back kneels over something lifeless. On the other, she stands — axe in hand — her silhouette bleeding into monstrous wings. Between them, a line of fire.
A transformation. Or maybe a confession.
He sees it carved into the wood beneath the stage.
Burned in with the tip of her axe.
A name follows it.
"EMBER."
Is that hers?
Is that his?
The stage is set again.
Tonight, it's raining inside the theatre. Not metaphorically. It falls from the ceiling — thick drops, tasting like ink and wine. He doesn't ask why. He just performs.
But his script is different now.
It begins with a kiss.
It ends with a knife.
Between the two, he begs.
"Stay.
Kill me again.
Make it real this time."
Ember sits in the front row. Only her. Always her.
She claps once. Slowly. The sound is wet.
"You don't die for me,
"You perform."
And so he does.
Backstage is a labyrinth now. He opens the door to props and finds a hallway of doors. Each one numbered. Each one locked.
Except for Room Thirteen.
Inside, a violin plays itself. Strings pulled by unseen hands.
He steps forward and sees himself — years ago? Or days? — dancing with a girl in a crimson dress.
Her eyes are hollow. Her mouth stitched shut. Her hands trembling.
She tries to speak.
"Why do you keep acting?"
He touches her cheek. It's cold ash. She crumbles.
He screams. But only dust escapes his throat.
He remembers now.
Not everything. But enough.
He once had a lover.
She once had a secret.
He once found it.
And he couldn't let her leave.
"She begged me," he says to Ember, who now sits on the rafters, bare legs swinging.
"She wanted to go. She wanted to stop pretending."
Ember tilts her head.
"So you gave her a final act."
He nods.
"A little death."
She drops from the rafters. Lands soundlessly beside him.
"Then let's do it again."
She drags the axe across the floor. It squeals. Sparks.
He lies down. Arms spread. Like a martyr. Like a child waiting for a lullaby that ends in silence.
Ember kneels beside him.
"You want pain," she says.
"Because pain makes you feel authored. Designed. Significant."
She places the axe on his chest. Doesn't press.
"But you never let go."
He looks up at her. At the winged shadow behind her. At the bruised light bleeding through her hair like a halo cracked in half.
"Tell me what I am."
She smiles.
"You're the play."
She swings.
But the axe doesn't cut flesh.
It slices the air. The illusion. The fourth wall.
And the theatre itself begins to collapse.
The red curtains catch flame.
The seats scream.
The mirrors shatter with a sound like thunder made of glass and grief.
He tries to stand, but Ember grabs him — pins him down.
"You don't get to leave.
You built this.
You called me.
You begged for an audience, and now you have me."
She kisses him. There's blood on her tongue.
There's ash in her mouth.
And then, all at once, he is her.
He stands now, wings heavy behind him.
The axe drips from his hand.
And across from him:
A man in a cracked mask.
Trembling.
On his knees.
"Please," the man whispers.
"Don't let me vanish."
He does not reply.
He simply raises the axe.
A red line opens across the mask.
The audience rises in the shadows.