The theater was a ruin.
Charred beams.
Melted chandeliers.
A stage swallowed by time.
Elián stood at the edge of it, Isla beside him.
"This is where it happened," she said. "The original finale. The one they buried."
Elián stepped forward.
The floor groaned beneath him.
But the mirrors were still intact.
Cracked.
Blackened.
But intact.
---
Cassian arrived with the reel.
"The Rehearsal" had more than he realized.
At the very end — a voice.
Not Ava's.
Not the Archivist's.
A woman.
> "If you're watching this, you've found the wrong ending.
> The real one is beneath the stage."
Cassian froze.
He knew that voice.
So did Elián.
"Mom," he whispered.
---
They pried open the trapdoor.
Beneath it: a staircase.
Burned, but stable.
They descended into darkness.
The air was thick with soot and memory.
At the bottom: a room.
Mirrors on every wall.
And in the center — a trunk.
Inside: a journal.
Marisol Vale's.
---
Elián opened it.
The pages were scorched, but legible.
Drawings.
Notes.
Blueprints.
A map of the surveillance network.
A list of names.
Vivienne.
The board.
The Archivist.
And one more.
Mateo.
---
Cassian stepped back. "Your uncle was part of it?"
Elián shook his head. "No. He was trying to stop it."
He flipped to the last page.
A note.
> "If you find this, Elián —
> Don't perform their finale.
> Perform ours.
> The one we wrote together.
> The one that ends with truth, not silence.
. M."
---
That night, a package arrived at Elián's door.
No return address.
Inside: a flash drive.
A note.
> "You're not alone. — M."
The drive contained footage.
Old.
Grainy.
A rehearsal.
Marisol and Mateo.
Dancing.
Together.
Free.
---