After Rio stepped through the door, the room began to unravel.
The endless rows of glowing portals flickered, their colors bleeding into the air before dissolving like wet paint.
Within moments, the grand hall was gone — leaving only Hocus, his desk, and an ocean of quiet nothing.
The void hummed softly, like the silence after a stage performance.
He stood there for a long while, ears drooping, lost in thought.
Then—ring—ring—ring.
A sharp tone echoed from his wand. Hocus sighed, twirled it once, and flicked it.
A holographic image shimmered to life — the beaming face of the Casting Director, a little too perfect to be real.
His smile was polished, practiced, and utterly hollow.
"Marvelous work, Hocus!" the Director sang, his voice smooth as silk. "Truly marvelous. You've outdone yourself once again."
Hocus managed a thin smile. "Thank you. Though… I do have a question."
The Director's grin widened, stretching just a little too far. "Of course, my dear hare. Speak freely."
"Why him?" Hocus asked quietly. "He's not like the others. He's uncertain, insecure — still human. You've never chosen someone like that before."
The Director tilted his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Exactly. We've done perfection before, haven't we? Gods, monsters, prodigies — every flavor of power, love, and tragedy. But the audience…"
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"…they're bored of perfection."
Hocus's expression darkened. "You're playing with a soul."
"Playing?" The Director chuckled, the sound sharp as glass. "No, no, my dear Hocus — we're telling a story. Every heartbreak, every descent into madness, every inch he claws toward despair — that's art. And you…"
He tapped a finger against the invisible barrier between them. "You, my loyal stagehand, helped set the stage beautifully."
Silence followed. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then the Director's tone shifted, still cheerful but with a hint of malice beneath it.
"Although… I'll leave you with a warning, bunny."
His smile faltered into a thin, cold line.
"If I ever see you assisting another prospective talent again unauthorized, I'll have you skinned and stretched across my office floor. And I'll make rabbit terrine, rabbit pappardelle, rabbit cacciatore, and all sorts of other lovely rabbit related dishes out of your entire family."
Hocus didn't move. Didn't blink.
And then, as if the threat had never left his lips, the Director's smile returned — bright, perfect, and empty.
"Now then," he said lightly. "We'll see how our little protagonist performs soon. The trailer is set to come out tomorrow."
A pause. His grin stretched just a bit too wide.
"Farewell, my dear Hocus."
The projection shimmered — then vanished.
Hocus stood alone in the void, staring into the space where the Director's image had been.
"…And the show goes on," he murmured, voice barely a whisper.
His paw tightened around the wand until the wood creaked.
And with that, the last light faded — leaving only the dark.
---
Rio fell.
The world around him blurred — colors, sounds, and light blending into a rushing stream of chaos.
Yet even in the confusion, he understood.
He wasn't falling through space.
He was falling through possibilities.
Every door he hadn't opened flashed past him — every world, every path he could've walked.
Faces, places, choices — all tumbling by too fast to grasp.
Except for one.
He saw her.
Morgan.
Images tore through the storm — their wedding beneath the sun, their first child in her arms, him older, laughing with Felix over a game of FIFA, both worn by time but content.
For a moment, time stopped.
He reached for the image, desperate — but it dissipated like sand, scattering into the dark.
Tears streamed down his face, lost to the wind.
It's not too late, he thought. I can still make it. I have to.
As the darkness closed in, he filled his mind with memories — laughter, warmth, the smell of home.
The things worth fighting for.
The things he needed to return to.
The void swallowed the light.
Rio gritted his teeth, heart hammering, and let the darkness consume him.
---
Two figures sat across from one another at a small, dimly lit table in a house so barren and ancient that it could barely be called that.
The floor was dirty, the door barely looked anything like a door at all, and above all this stick house seemed one huff or puff away from it coming down.
One was a frail old man — skin pale, hands trembling as if the years themselves were gnawing at him.
The other was a beast — tall, fur streaked with silver, long ears twitching as candlelight danced across his wise, mournful eyes.
"Are you absolutely certain about this?" the beast asked quietly, his deep voice carrying the weight of ages. "Once the contract is signed, there's no turning back."
The old man let out a rough, bitter chuckle. "Old friend… I don't have a choice. Everything's been taken from me."
He clenched his fist on the table until the knuckles went white. "This is my one chance to even the odds against the Celestials. My one chance to…"
His voice faltered. "…to finally leave this hellhole."
"Mr. G—" the beast began softly.
"Don't call me that," the man snapped, the air trembling with sudden anger. "I've cast that name aside. You know what to call me now, Agent."
The beast hesitated, golden eyes dimming. Then, with a small bow of his head, he said, "I'm sorry… Celestial King."
He reached into the air and drew out a sheet of parchment and a pen. The paper started writing the terms of the agreement that they had made. When it was done, the beast passed the paper toward the man.
"Does that look right to you, sir?"
"Yes," the old man said flatly.
"Then, as a representative of the Agency, I vow that these are the terms agreed upon. We will uphold them as long as there is no breach of contract. If a breach does occurs though…" His tone darkened. "…payment will be collected. In full. With interest. Do you understand your terms and rights?"
"I do."
The beast slid the pen across the table. "Then sign there," he said, pointing to the line marked World Representative.
The old man picked up the pen and signed. The ink glowed faintly, then the paper ignited in a flash of orange light — gone before the ashes could touch the table.
The beast stood. "I hope you're sure about this. The path you've chosen is… risky to say the least."
The old man rose too, a faint grin tugging at his face. "I know the perils. But this is my last chance. There's no better time to go all in."
The beast began to fade, his form scattering into the air like smoke. He reached out one last time, pulling the man into a brief embrace.
"This feels like our final meeting," he said quietly.
"If all goes well," the old man replied, "it will be."
The beast vanished completely. A single word remained, whispered through the stillness — unheard by any living soul but his.
"Godspeed."
The candle flickered once… then went out.