The conservatory groaned under its own history.
Elián stepped through the broken glass, the air thick with dust and memory. Moonlight filtered through shattered windows, casting fractured shadows across the floor.
In the center stood a girl.
She didn't flinch when he approached.
Her posture was poised, her gaze unblinking.
She looked like Ava — but sharper. Like someone who had learned to survive by becoming steel.
"I'm Isla," she said. "Ava's sister. And I know what they did to her."
Cassian was buried in the archives.
He hadn't slept.
Hadn't spoken.
He was chasing ghosts through reels and tapes, desperate to find the moment everything changed.
Then he found it.
A tape labeled "The Rehearsal".
He played it.
Ava stood alone in a dim studio.
No music.
Just her breath.
Her movements were hesitant, raw.
Then — a voice.
Not Cassian's.
Not Vivienne's.
The Archivist.
"Again. But this time, bleed."
Ava faltered.
Collapsed.
Cried.
Then stood.
And danced again.
Cassian watched, frozen.
He hadn't known.
He hadn't seen.
He hadn't stopped it.
He whispered, "I'm sorry."
Isla handed Elián a folder.
Inside: contracts signed under duress, photos of Ava's bruised feet, maps of surveillance setups, and Ava's journal — pages filled with desperation and defiance.
"She was trying to escape," Isla said. "But they made her sign the finale. She didn't want to perform it. She wanted to burn it."
Elián's hands trembled.
"We have to stop it."
Isla nodded.
"Then you'll need to perform it first — and rewrite it."
Cassian's phone buzzed.
A message from the Archivist.
A countdown.
72 hours.
"Perform the finale. Or the world sees everything."
Attached: a clip.
Cassian.
Crying.
Begging.
"Please. Don't show them this."
It was a moment he thought had been erased.
But the Archivist had archived everything.
Elián stood on the rooftop again.
Camera in hand.
The city behind him.
The storm ahead.
He hit record.
And spoke.
"You want a finale?I'll give you one. But it won't be yours. It'll be mine. And it won't end in silence."