The glass doors of the Indigo Performing House hissed open with a quiet sigh, like the building itself was too tired of newcomers. Rishan hesitated before stepping in, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished floor. He wasn't used to places like this—bright, humming with ambition, full of people who looked like they belonged in spotlighted posters and late-night interviews.
Just yesterday, he was just another CST diploma student. A decent student, maybe a little lazy. But his future had always seemed like a straight line—graduate, find a job in some office, maybe work on a few programming projects if luck allowed. That line shattered the moment he received the rejection email. No position available. No internship, no job offer. Just... nothing.
He was unemployed. Officially.
He hadn't told his parents. He hadn't even processed it himself, not properly. That's when Kirit, his overly energetic childhood friend, had called.
"Bro, just come with me," Kirit had said over the phone. "You're moping like your dog died, and you don't even have a dog."
"I'm not moping."
"Come. It's not even serious. It's just an acting competition."
"I'm not an actor."
"I'm not asking you to act. Just come. You'll get to see Laxmi. And Lari too."
That had done it. Rishan had hesitated, bitten his tongue, and finally said yes. Laxmi and Lari. Two names he pretended not to care about when they came up in conversation. But he watched every interview, followed every new drama, remembered every behind-the-scenes video. Laxmi was grace and confidence in motion, and Lari—Lari was chaos bottled into talent.
So here he was, clutching a half-folded CV he'd printed at the last minute, trying not to look like the imposter he felt like.
Inside, the lobby buzzed with voices, laughter, camera clicks. A receptionist handed him a badge without asking questions, and someone ushered him toward a waiting room with dozens of others. He caught snatches of conversation.
"…three years of theater…"
"…I trained under Minal Koirala…"
"…this is my fourth audition this month…"
They all looked like they belonged. Rishan shifted uncomfortably in his hoodie. He hadn't even worn something proper—just his usual clothes and his usual uncertainty.
"Name?" someone asked from behind a desk.
"Rishan. Rishan Dev."
The woman tapped on a tablet. "Role?"
"Uh… extra? Just an extra," he said quickly. "Background guy."
She raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "CV?"
He handed it over. She barely glanced at it before placing it on a stack. "Room 3B. You'll be called in when it's your turn."
Rishan found an empty chair in the corner of the waiting room and sat down, trying to look calm. His heart thumped like he'd just run a mile. He hadn't expected this. He thought he'd be in the audience, cheering Kirit on. But apparently, only participants could attend the audition hall. Spectators weren't allowed.
So now he was a participant.
He glanced around the room again. Some people were rehearsing lines. Others were stretching, warming up like dancers before a big recital. A girl near him was practicing facial expressions in the mirror—joy, shock, despair, rage, serenity. Rishan looked away before she noticed.
He had no idea what he was doing here.
But he knew why he stayed.
Laxmi.
Lari.
They were supposed to be here as guest judges. Kirit had gone into his own audition ten minutes ago with a nervous grin and a confident nod. Rishan had almost backed out right then. But the thought of seeing her—even from far away—was enough to make him sit back down.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from Kirit.
> Bro. I saw them. They're REALLY here. Laxmi's wearing that green outfit from that ad shoot. You're gonna faint.
Rishan's mouth went dry.
Before he could reply, a door opened.
"Rishan Dev?"
He stood up before his name finished echoing.
"Here," he said.
The woman by the door gave him a clipboard. "You're reading for Scene 2, character: Waiter #3. You'll have a line. Just one. Try to project clearly. Room's on the left."
He blinked. A line?
He hadn't even expected a line.
As he walked toward the room, the paper trembled slightly in his hand. The line was short. Just a greeting and a question. But it was something. An actual role. Not that he planned to win. He wasn't here for that.
Inside, the audition room was smaller than he thought it would be. There were cameras. A spotlight. A panel of four people sitting behind a table. His eyes skimmed the faces—
—and stopped.
Laxmi.
She looked even more beautiful in person. Her presence sucked the air out of the room. Her gaze was calm, unreadable, but there was something sharp beneath it—like she could see through people with a glance.
Beside her, Lari sat with a lopsided smile, his chin resting on one hand. He looked relaxed, amused, like this was all a game to him. But his eyes—those were serious.
Rishan swallowed.
"Begin when you're ready," someone said.
He stepped onto the mark on the floor. The paper crinkled in his grip.
One line. That was all.
He took a breath, then another. Then, somehow, he said it.
"Good evening, sir. Would you like the house special, or should I bring the menu?"
There was a pause.
Lari scribbled something. Laxmi didn't move.
"Thank you," the voice said. "You may go."
And just like that, it was over.
He walked out of the room without looking back, heart still racing. He didn't know if he'd done well or terribly. But he had seen them. He had stood in front of them, spoken in their presence.
That was enough for today.
Almost.
Because now, something strange was happening. Some part of him—small, sharp, and curious—was whispering that maybe this wasn't just a mistake.
Maybe this was the beginning of something.
.
.
.
Rishan leaned against the cold wall outside the audition room, exhaling like he'd just escaped a high-speed chase. His palms were still clammy. He wiped them on his jeans, pretending it would make a difference. The hallway was quiet, too quiet, except for the occasional shuffle of footsteps or a distant call of someone else's name.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there before he moved. Five minutes? Maybe ten. His mind kept replaying that single line he'd delivered like it was a scene from a bad drama. Good evening, sir… He cringed inwardly. That wasn't acting. That was surviving.
"Bro!" Kirit's voice came from behind him. "You done?"
Rishan nodded. "Yeah."
Kirit grinned. "I told you. You got to see them, right?"
He managed a small smile. "Yeah. I saw them."
But he didn't say how it felt—how Laxmi's eyes had met his for a split second, how Lari's half-smile had somehow burned itself into his memory. He didn't say that standing in front of them had made his knees feel like melting wax.
"You were in there forever," Kirit said, slapping his back. "Did they give you more than one line or what?"
"No. Just the one."
And it hadn't even been good. Not by his own standards, at least. He'd choked. No expression. Just nerves wrapped in a cheap hoodie.
His phone buzzed.
He almost didn't check it, thinking it was another meme from Kirit or a missed call from home. But when he looked, his breath caught.
> From: Indigo Casting Desk
Congratulations, Rishan Dev. You've been selected for a background role in Scene 4: Dining Room Guest. Filming begins in two days. Report back to Indigo Performing House at 9:00 AM. Further details will be shared on set.
"What the—" he whispered.
Kirit leaned over. "You got in?"
"I… yeah. But not for the waiter role. They're giving me something else. A guest at a dining table."
"Bro! That's awesome!" Kirit grinned so hard it looked painful. "Told you this place had good vibes."
Rishan stared at the screen again. A dining guest. Probably just sitting at a table, pretending to eat or nod or laugh quietly while the real actors did the heavy lifting. Still—he'd made it in.
Barely. But in was in.
"You okay?" Kirit asked, nudging his shoulder.
"Yeah," Rishan replied softly. "I think… I think I am."
But inside, the disbelief was still loud.
He hadn't earned this. Not really. He knew it. Anyone in that waiting room could've done better. He didn't even act like a waiter—he just stood there, stiff as a mannequin, mouthing a line like he was answering a roll call.
So why had they picked him?
He tried to tell himself it didn't matter. Maybe they needed more bodies in the background. Maybe someone dropped out last minute. Maybe—just maybe—he had something, something small, that they saw in him even when he didn't see it in himself.
Or maybe it was fate. Some strange twist of it.
But one thing was certain now.
He was going to be back. On set. Around the same people. Around her.
Laxmi.
Just the thought of seeing her again made his chest tighten. This time, he wouldn't be speaking. That was good. He could just blend into the background and watch the professionals do their thing. Watch her. Maybe learn something. Maybe understand what made people like her different.
And maybe, just maybe, he could breathe normally this time.
---
Back in the judging room, the panel had relaxed. The cameras were paused. Lari leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head.
"Not bad," he said, tossing Rishan's CV onto the table.
"He was nervous," said the assistant director, flipping through her notes. "Didn't really act."
"No," Laxmi said quietly, her gaze still lingering on the empty space where Rishan had stood. "But there was something… genuine."
"Not for the main role, of course," Lari said. "But he'd make a good extra. Got the kind of face that doesn't steal focus but still feels real. You'd notice him if the scene lingered a beat too long."
"Assign him to the dining room," Laxmi said. "He'll do fine there."
The assistant jotted something down. "Background guest, Scene 4. Got it."
Lari looked over at Laxmi. "You saw something?"
"I saw someone scared out of his mind and still doing what he came to do," she said, standing up. "That's something. That's more than most."
Lari smirked. "Spoken like someone who remembers their first audition."
She didn't answer. Just smiled faintly and walked out of the room.
---
That night, Rishan couldn't sleep.
He kept checking the message, like it would disappear if he blinked too long. He imagined the set—cameras, lights, maybe even lines overheard from actors running their scenes. And somewhere in all that, he'd be there. A nobody with a job. An audience member who'd somehow stepped onto the stage.
He didn't know if this was the start of something or just a lucky mistake.
But he knew one thing for sure.
He'd get to see her again.
And next time, maybe he wouldn't freeze.
Maybe.
.
.
Sleep was a stubborn thing that night. Rishan lay in bed, arms behind his head, eyes locked on the ceiling as if it held answers. The casting message still sat open on his phone screen beside him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Laxmi's face—or worse, remembered how badly he'd delivered that one line.
He turned to the side. Then to the other.
Still nothing.
The clock glowed 1:43 AM.
Just stop thinking. Breathe. Sleep.
And then—
BOOM.
He shot upright.
The sound wasn't from inside. It wasn't a car or a slammed door. It was deeper, duller, and distant. A low, resonating thud that echoed through the building's thin walls. The kind of sound that made your chest tighten on instinct.
He threw the blanket off and stumbled toward the window. It faced the back of the complex, where a rugged hill rose behind the building—a patch of wild land most people ignored.
And from the side of that hill, rising slowly in the moonlight, was smoke.
Thin, strange-colored smoke curling upward from the base of the trees near the top. Not grey. Not black. More… bluish? Greenish? It shimmered like heat waves in summer.
"The hell…?"
He didn't even stop to think. He pulled on a hoodie, grabbed his phone and flashlight, and slipped out the door. The hallway was silent. His roommate was snoring. Nobody else had stirred.
Outside, the air was crisp, almost too quiet, as if the world was holding its breath.
The hill wasn't far—just past the back fence of the apartment compound. A broken section in the chain-link had long been used as a shortcut by kids and college students. Rishan ducked through it and started climbing.
His flashlight flicked across tree trunks, rocks, and weeds. The smell hit him first—not burning, not natural. More like metal, ozone, and something... electric. The smoke had mostly faded now, but the air still shimmered oddly.
Then he saw it.
A shallow crater, not large, maybe two meters wide. Scorched grass. And at the center of it—a cube.
About the size of a basketball. Perfectly shaped. Dark and glossy, but not reflective. It almost looked like obsidian, but too smooth, too precise. It didn't shine. It absorbed light.
Rishan stepped closer, heartbeat rising.
The moment he reached out—
The cube shimmered. Like a ripple across its surface.
Then it broke apart.
No explosion. No sound.
It simply dissolved into a cloud of fine, glittering particles, rising up like ash caught in reverse gravity. They hovered in the air for a split second—then shot toward him.
"Wait—what—!"
The particles surged forward, surrounding his head in a blur of light and dust.
He flinched, turned away, tried to shield his eyes. But it didn't hurt. No heat, no sting.
They didn't stop at his skin.
They went into him.
Through his temples. His forehead. His eyes.
He staggered back, gasping, grabbing his head—waiting for pain, for something—
But nothing came.
No burning. No hallucinations. No sudden voices in his head or flashes of memory. Just… nothing.
He stood there, blinking, breath visible in the chill night air. The particles were gone. The cube was gone. Only the shallow crater remained.
"What the hell just happened…"
He checked his arms. His chest. His eyes in his phone's front camera. Nothing looked different. No glowing veins. No weird symbols. He was still him.
Still Rishan.
But something was off. Not painful. Not physical. Just… an echo. Like something unseen had pressed itself into his brain and left a fingerprint.
A hum.
It was fading, slowly, but it had been there.
He looked around the hilltop again—nothing else. Just trees and quiet.
Rishan turned back toward the building, heart racing.
Okay. That happened. That definitely happened.
Whatever it was… it didn't feel normal. It didn't feel like Earth, or science, or even like a dream.
And yet—nothing else happened.
No powers.
No messages.
No answers.
Only silence.
By the time he crawled back into bed, the clock read 3:07 AM.
And for the first time that night, he actually slept.