The theater groaned beneath them, an old beast waking up for one final performance.
Cedric's breath clouded in the cold air as he stepped onto the stage, Marcus at his side. The velvet curtain, torn and stained, hung half-open like a gaping wound. Footlights flickered. Above them, the rafters creaked — watching.
And in the center of it all, waiting like a king in his decaying kingdom, stood Rupert Vale.
He wore his golden mask, gleaming faintly in the dark. A cracked smile was painted across its surface. The rest of him was draped in a black ceremonial coat — one Cedric recognized. Theater robes. Ancient. Stained.
"You came after all," Rupert said, voice calm. "I had hoped you wouldn't."
Cedric stepped forward. "We're not here to watch the final act."
"No," Rupert said softly. "You're here to ruin it."
He reached up and removed the mask.
Underneath, his face was pale — not sickly, but empty. Painted with four lines, almost like stage makeup, except the ink was carved into his skin. Years of performance etched into flesh. His eyes, glassy and calm, didn't blink.
Four lines.
Marcus froze. "Jesus..."
Rupert smiled, gently. "No gods here, Marcus. Only puppets. And I—"
With a sudden motion, he reached behind his back and drew two ritual daggers, thin and curved, engraved with old theater runes.
He twirled them once, then pointed one at Cedric.
"—I am the director."
The moment shattered.
He lunged.
The clash was raw and immediate — Rupert was fast, faster than Cedric expected. The daggers moved like extensions of his wrists, cutting arcs of silver through the dusty air. Cedric blocked with his forearm, barely dodging the first swipe.
Marcus ducked, rolled, and circled to flank, but Rupert moved like he'd seen this play before. Every motion was precise, choreographed, like a dance he'd rehearsed a hundred times in his mind.
"You think I fight like a man?" Rupert said, his voice rising. "No. I fight like a scene. You can't improvise with me, Cedric."
Blood flashed — a shallow cut on Cedric's cheek. Rupert stepped back, admiring it like a painter admiring a brushstroke.
"You bled just right."
"Shut up," Cedric growled.
He charged again — this time with fury, not form. He tackled Rupert to the ground, fists slamming into him, breaking rhythm, breaking the "scene."
Rupert laughed under the blows.
Marcus rushed in, trying to restrain him, but Rupert twisted — slashing Marcus across the shoulder. Marcus cried out, fell back.
"Every act needs a sacrifice!" Rupert roared, eyes wild now, face streaked with his own blood.
Cedric didn't hesitate.
He grabbed a broken spotlight from the floor and smashed it against Rupert's arm, sending one dagger clattering across the stage.
Rupert shrieked — high and animalistic — and rolled back, clutching his forearm. But even wounded, his smile remained.
Four shrieks.
"This isn't the finale," he whispered.
And then he moved — with inhuman speed, like something possessed. Blood dripping from his arm, his remaining dagger flashing, Rupert Vale spun with the elegance of a trained dancer and the brutality of a wild animal.
The stage flickered to life, floodlights flaring red and gold like curtain fire, casting their shadows ten feet tall on the theater walls. Dust swirled in the heat. The old boards groaned underfoot, like an audience holding its breath.
Cedric barely blocked the next blow — the dagger skimming past his jaw, slicing through the collar of his coat. He retaliated with a brutal elbow to Rupert's ribs, but Vale twisted, using Cedric's own weight to spin him sideways. Cedric slammed into a wooden pillar, cracking it.
Rupert was on him instantly.
Strike. Twist. Cut.
A flurry of slashes, all too precise — none meant to kill. Just to weaken. To punish. To perform.
"You think you understand pain, Cedric?" he hissed. "You only ever observed it. I lived it. I wrote it. I bled it into every line!"
A metal clang echoed through the theater as Marcus reappeared, swinging a stage rigging chain like a flail. It slammed into Rupert's back, staggering him forward. Cedric took the opening, grabbed Rupert's wrist, and snapped it back — the second dagger fell.
Rupert screamed. Not in pain — in rage. Like the scene wasn't going to plan.
"You ruined it!" he shrieked. "This was supposed to be beautiful!"
He ducked under Marcus' next swing and with terrifying grace, grabbed a hanging spotlight cable, wrapping it around Marcus' neck and pulling him back. Marcus choked, gasping, but still managed to kick backward, throwing Rupert off balance.
Cedric charged, tackled Rupert to the ground. This time he didn't let up — punch after punch, knuckles cracking against bone, teeth, flesh.
"NO MORE MONOLOGUES!" Cedric roared.
He didn't see it.
Didn't see the glint of metal on the floor.
Didn't see Rupert's broken wrist scramble for the fallen dagger.
Marcus did.
And Marcus moved.
He threw himself between Cedric and Rupert — taking the blade directly to the ribs.
Four cuts.
A sickening sound. Wet. Deep.
"Marcus—!"
Marcus stumbled back, coughing, but grabbed Rupert by the collar with both hands and headbutted him hard, smashing his skull into the wooden floorboards.
Rupert collapsed — unconscious. Bleeding.
But Marcus… was already falling.
Cedric caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him gently behind a toppled prop wall.
"Stay with me," Cedric said, panic strangling his voice. "You did good. You did everything."
Marcus smiled through the blood in his mouth. "Tell me… it looked cool as hell."
Cedric blinked hard. "It did."
But they both knew — Marcus wouldn't fight again tonight.
And now Cedric was alone.
The curtain behind him swayed once.
And somewhere in the darkness…
something else was moving.
The silence was deafening.
Cedric stood, chest heaving, knuckles raw, blood staining his hands — his or Rupert's, he couldn't tell. Marcus was still, hidden behind a fallen backdrop, breathing shallow.
And Rupert Vale… was gone.
Not vanished — but dissolved into the darkness, like the scene had changed and Cedric hadn't been told. The stage lights flickered. Then dimmed. Then shifted — red, then blue, then a sickly gold.
And the world began to warp.
The stage elongated, stretching into impossible space. The theater walls curved inward, and the curtain behind him closed without a sound. Suddenly, Cedric was standing in the middle of a spotlit void, alone — no exits, no sound, no time.
Then came the voice.
"Act XIII. Scene II. Madness."
Rupert stepped forward — no longer bleeding, no longer broken. His face was clean. Composed. The gold mask was back, but now it shimmered like liquid metal, expressionless and alive.
Cedric blinked.
There were four of him.
Four Ruperts — stepping out from the wings, from the shadows, from the rafters above. They moved in perfect synchrony, circling Cedric like wolves in a ballet.
"I told you this wasn't the finale," the voices said as one. "This is my stage."
Cedric lunged at the closest figure — but his fist passed through it.
An illusion.
He turned — another one slashed at him. Real. Pain burst across his shoulder.
He swung wildly, staggering backward, but the stage shifted under his feet, becoming tilted — no, rotated — no, spinning. The rafters twisted. The chairs in the audience bent upward like teeth.
He was in a theater of nightmares, and Rupert was the director.
"You're not the hero," Rupert whispered, voice echoing from everywhere. "You're the understudy. Forgotten. Replaceable."
Cedric gasped, trying to find the real one — any anchor in this shifting hell.
"I watched you break, Ashwell. And now I'll stage your fall."
From the smoke, Rupert emerged — the real Rupert, dagger raised, face twisted in calm hatred. Cedric stumbled, off-balance, too slow.
The blade came down.
And then—
Gunfire.
A voice.
"Cedric—MOVE!"
The illusion shattered like glass.
Colors bled away. The stage snapped back into shape. The fake Ruperts blinked out like dying lights. The mask fell to the floor, clattering — empty.
Cedric rolled instinctively as the real Rupert staggered from the bullet to his shoulder. Behind him stood Eliza, pistol in hand, breath sharp and controlled, eyes blazing.
"You're not dying in some third-rate monologue trap," she said.
Cedric, panting, stared at her.
"...You came back."
She stepped forward, eyes never leaving Rupert. "Just this time."
Rupert tried to rise again, dazed — but now the illusion was broken. And Cedric... wasn't alone anymore.
Rupert Vale lay on the cracked stage floor, one hand clutching his bleeding shoulder, his breath ragged — but his eyes burning.
And then, slowly, like an actor returning for his final bow, he began to laugh.
It was quiet at first. Then louder. Echoing across the ruined theater, until it felt like the building itself was laughing with him.
He dragged himself upright, kneeling beneath the shattered spotlight, blood running down his face like stage makeup melting under heat.
"You think you've won?" he rasped, smiling wide. "You haven't even understood the script."
Eliza raised her gun, eyes narrowing.
Rupert spread his arms.
"I am the director!" he cried, voice thundering. "I always was."
The theater went still.
"I was born behind the curtain. My father was a stagehand. My mother a costumer. I learned to speak not from lullabies, but from monologues whispered backstage. My lullaby was Hamlet. My first breath — taken in the wings."
He stood now, blood staining the collar of his coat.
"They laughed at me. The critics. The scholars. Said my productions were too 'morbid', too 'obsessed' with pain."
His voice cracked into a smile. "And maybe they were right."
"I remember my first masterpiece. A man who murdered his family in silence. No props. No set. Just stillness. And when the curtain fell — people cried. They stood."
"I've been chasing that applause ever since."
He turned slowly toward them, eyes gleaming.
"My victims? They were cast. Carefully chosen. Placed in roles that fit their sins. The politician. The liar. The mother who turned her face away. I gave them all meaning. I gave them art."
"Blood on the floor is not horror — it's punctuation."
Eliza's face was pale now. "He's the Puppeteer," she whispered.
Rupert grinned.
"I gave him that name," he said. "He was my greatest creation. Until he walked off script."
And then—
CRACK.
Cedric's fist collided with Rupert's face.
The monologue stopped mid-sentence. Rupert's head snapped sideways, blood and spit flying.
He stumbled, dazed — and Cedric stepped forward.
"No," Cedric said coldly. "You're not the director. You're a man-child with a god complex and a stage light shoved up his ass."
He punched him again.
"And that 'greatest creation' of yours? He outgrew you."
Another hit — harder.
"You think this is about art?"
Another blow. Rupert collapsed, coughing.
"You think this is performance?"
Cedric's voice broke with rage.
"You took my sister from me. You dragged my family into this madness."
He grabbed Rupert by the collar, lifting him partway off the floor.
"I've already lost one family."
He slammed him down again.
"I am not losing another."
He stood there, chest heaving, blood on his hands. Eliza watched in silence, frozen between shock and awe.
Then — still breathing hard — Cedric turned away.
For a moment, Rupert didn't move.
Just silence. Broken lights. Distant wind.
Then a cough.
And a whisper.
Rupert pushed himself to his knees, a delirious smile on his broken face.
"You don't understand," he rasped. "I still am the director…"
His voice shook.
"…And the final scene…"
His eyes widened.
"…doesn't belong to me."
A noise.
A creak.
From the rafters above, something moved.
A black thread — thin as hair, silent as death — coiled down from the darkness.
It wrapped around Rupert's arm.
His expression collapsed into panic.
"No. No no no—"
The string tightened.
Before Cedric or Eliza could move, Rupert Vale was ripped backward, off his feet, into the shadows behind the curtain — swallowed whole into blackness.
No scream.
Just silence.
And one word etched into the floor beneath him, glowing faintly:
"REGIE."
The stage was still.
The air, thick — like breath held by a thousand ghosts.
The spot where Rupert Vale had stood was now empty, save for the glowing word burned into the floor:
REGIE.
Cedric stared at it, fists clenched, blood cooling on his knuckles.
Eliza took a slow step forward. Her gun was still raised, but her hands were trembling now.
Then —
a light clicked on.
High above, center stage.
Not a spotlight, but something colder. Whiter. Almost surgical.
A silhouette stood beneath it.
Not behind the curtain.
Not above them.
Right there. On stage.
He had been waiting.
Eliza froze. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came.
Her eyes widened.
"…It's him," she whispered.
Cedric turned, and for the first time since this nightmare began —
his heart truly stopped.
There stood the Puppeteer.
His figure was tall, slender — not fragile, but precise. Every movement calculated, like a dancer mid-performance.
He wore a black suit, but not modern — something between a conductor's coat and a mourner's tuxedo.
Threads of silver stitching ran along the seams, like puppet strings etched directly into the fabric. His gloves were pale, almost white.
His face… was hidden.
A porcelain mask, featureless except for two black teardrops beneath each eye. No mouth. No nose. Just eyes — empty holes — and those tears. Like sadness frozen in place.
Around his neck, a noose of red silk, draped like a scarf.
He tilted his head.
"Hello, Cedric. Eliza."
His voice was smooth. Soft.
Like someone telling a bedtime story to a child they never planned to let wake up.
"You've done well," he continued. "Truly. Rupert was always… loud. So obsessed with being seen. This obsession has taken over, so I had to take care of him myself."
He took a step closer. The floor didn't creak.
Cedric stepped in front of Eliza instinctively.
"What do you want?" he said, voice raw. "Why now?"
The Puppeteer tilted his head the other way.
"I've written many acts," he said. "But this one… is personal."
He spread his arms, slowly, like welcoming them to a stage.
"We're going to play a game. Just the four of us. It's called—"
"Regie."
A chill swept through the room, as if the name itself carried weight.
"You'll learn the rules as we go," he said, almost gently. "But don't worry… I'm very fair."
"You're insane," Eliza breathed, her voice cracking.
"Maybe," the Puppeteer replied. "But I never claimed to be the actor in this story."
His eyes — those voids behind porcelain — locked with Cedric's.
"I'm the director."
The light above him flickered once.
And when it came back—
He was gone.
No sound.
No trace.
Only the lingering echo of that single word:
"Regie."
The first act had begun.
The light where the Puppeteer had stood still buzzed.
Then — a single flicker.
And it went dark.
No footsteps. No retreating echo.
He was just gone.
As if he had never truly been there — only a shadow that decided to speak.
Eliza stared at the empty stage. Her hands were still trembling.
Cedric didn't speak. He just turned — and ran to Marcus.
He dropped to his knees beside the fallen man, checking his pulse. Weak. But steady.
"Hey," Cedric whispered. "You're still here."
Marcus barely opened one eye. "Did we… win?"
Cedric exhaled shakily. "No. But you're not missing the next round."
Eliza dropped beside them and helped wrap Marcus' wound with a strip from her jacket.
"We need medics," she muttered. "Now."
Sometime later — after the ambulances had come, after the theater had emptied — they stood outside in the dead, humming silence of the street. The sky was turning pale.
Jonathan Harrington stepped forward, blood on his sleeves, exhaustion in his stance. But his eyes remained sharp.
"You saw him," he said. "The real one."
Cedric nodded.
"And Vale?" Jonathan asked.
Cedric shook his head. "Gone. Pulled into whatever that was."
There was a pause. Then Jonathan looked at Eliza.
"We'll need a full report. Internal review. And this time… no more secrets."
Eliza met his gaze. "I know."
Jonathan looked between them, then walked off toward the waiting police cars — trusting Eliza to follow.
Cedric stayed behind.
He didn't say anything for a moment. Just found a stone bench near the theater steps and sat down slowly, elbows on his knees. He stared at the cracks in the pavement.
Eliza remained standing. Her arms crossed. Her shadow falling over him.
"I know what he is now," Cedric said finally. "What he wants. And I'm not letting him pull the strings this time."
He looked up at her.
"I can't do this alone."
A pause. Then:
"Will you work with me again?"
It hung in the air between them like smoke. Familiar. Heavy.
Eliza didn't answer right away.
She glanced back — toward the police. Toward Jonathan. Toward the people who were now her team. Who had her back. Who trusted her. Who let her lead.
Then she looked at Cedric — and for the first time, saw someone still chasing what she'd already found.
"I've spent most of my life trying to belong somewhere," she said softly. "And I think I finally do."
Cedric's expression didn't change. But the way he dropped his gaze told her everything.
"I'm staying," she finished. "With them."
A quiet beat.
Cedric nodded once. "Then I hope they know what they've got."
Eliza smiled, small and sad.
"They do."
She walked away.
The theater behind him was empty now.
The stage dark. The curtain lowered. The audience gone.
But Cedric stayed on that bench — still as stone — while the morning light crept over London like a slow, silent spotlight.
He didn't cry. He didn't move.
He just watched.
Because he knew —
This wasn't the end of the play.
It was the end of Act One of what happened to be at least Four Acts.
The piece hasn't been finished.
It had only just begun.