"We do have the incomplete version, but..."

Yuna hesitated, her hand hovering near her bag as if weighing the consequences. She glanced at Noine, who sat still, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

"Show it to me."

Arzen’s tone left no room for negotiation. Yuna’s hands shook slightly as she rummaged through her bag, pulling out a thick stack of papers. She pushed them across the table, her movements slow, as if the weight of what she was handing over was crushing.

Arzen’s hands trembled as he grabbed the script, his knuckles blanching as he flipped through the pages. The room fell silent except for the faint sound of turning paper. Each page turned was like a knife twist, and his shoulders slumped a little more with every word his eyes absorbed.

'It’s good. Really good.'

Arzen placed the script back on the table, his expression a complex mix of defeat and simmering frustration. He glanced up, meeting Yuna’s eyes briefly before looking away, his jaw clenched tight.

'Is there really no hope for my script?'

Arzen’s fists clenched on the table, the tension in his muscles visible as his hands curled tighter, knuckles turning bone white.

Yuna watched Arzen closely, her eyes following the restless movements of his fingers on the table and the way his shoulders were hunched in frustration. She remembered every late night they spent on the script—his focused expression, his careful adjustments to each line, and the shared satisfaction when they finally got a scene just right. It wasn’t just work; it was something they’d created together.

Her chest tightened. The club’s ambitions were pulling her one way, but the sight of Arzen, visibly hurt and on edge, pulled her another. She felt torn, caught between her duty as the club leader and the loyalty she felt towards the friend who had poured his heart into this project.

‘Is this really the right thing to do?’ 

Yuna’s thoughts wavered, guilt twisting inside her. The allure of Mona’s name promised success, but at the cost of everything they’d built together. Could she really abandon Arzen’s effort so easily?

She glanced back at Arzen, her chest tightening at the thought of letting him down.

Yuna cleared her throat, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. She straightened up, squaring her shoulders as she tried to project confidence.

"H-how about this... I’ll talk to the club members again."

She inhaled deeply, her chest rising as she gathered her resolve.

"Mona’s script isn’t finished yet, and yours is."

She paused, then continued, her voice gaining a firmer edge.

"We only have about three to four months left. We need to start rehearsing as soon as possible."

Yuna locked eyes with Arzen, her expression set with determination.

"Give me around three days to convince them. I promise, I’ll do my best."

Arzen’s gaze was sharp, his fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against the table. His shoulders were rigid, tension coiling through every muscle.

Noine leaned forward, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he addressed Yuna. His voice was cool, almost clinical, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife.

"We need to remember the stakes of this festival before doing anything that we’ll regret."

Suddenly, Cain appeared in the doorway, his presence instantly commanding attention. He sauntered in, his lips curled into a lazy smirk as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"Yuna, you’re being selfish. You’re the leader. Get your act together."

He shifted his weight, his eyes flicking to Arzen with a dismissive glance.

"It’s normal in showbiz to have competition. It’s also normal not to get selected if your writing isn’t good enough."

Yuna’s jaw tightened, her glare directed squarely at Cain. She stood her ground, defiant.

"Don’t butt in, Cain. This is between us."

Turning back to Arzen, her features softened, a mixture of guilt and earnestness coloring her expression.

"I’ll try to convince the other members. Give me three days."

Noine sighed audibly, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the table, each tap a silent indication of his growing frustration. Lia squirmed in her chair, visibly uncomfortable, while Cain’s smug satisfaction only deepened.

Arzen’s chair scraped against the floor, the sound cutting through the tension like a sharp blade. He pushed back abruptly, his movements stiff and determined as if each step was his silent protest. Without a word, he turned on his heel, the door slamming shut behind him with a force that sent a tremor through the room. The faint echo hung in the air, a lingering trace of the confrontation that remained unfinished.

Arzen paced down the corridor, each step uneven as if the ground beneath him was unsteady. His mind was a mess of voices, Cain’s words cutting through the noise like a harsh reminder. Showbiz wasn’t just about how hard you tried; it was about what you could deliver. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him out of his thoughts. Arzen pulled it out, the screen lighting up with messages from the group chat. Hanjun’s text floated at the top, asking if he was back at the dorm yet. Arzen locked his phone with a sigh, stuffing it back into his pocket without replying, the screen's light extinguished as quickly as it had flared up.

Arzen wandered the school grounds, his path aimless and his thoughts swirling. He didn’t want to return to the dorm, not yet. The thought of facing his roommates, their warmth and easy smiles—meant for this world’s Arzen, not him—made his chest tighten. He needed to be somewhere quiet, somewhere he could be himself without the weight of expectations.

After what felt like an eternity of wandering, Arzen found himself in a secluded corner behind the left wing of the school building. It was eerily similar to a spot he used to escape to in his own world—a small, hidden clearing with a tall oak tree that spread its branches wide, casting shadows that danced in the afternoon light. The scene felt like a strange mirror, reflecting both familiarity and unsettling differences.

Arzen approached the weathered bench beneath the oak tree, its rough, splintered surface offering a stark contrast to the manicured school grounds. He ran his hand along the wood, feeling the familiar uneven texture that reminded him of his old world. In his world, the benches were covered in graffiti, little scribbles of rebellion etched by restless students. Here, the bench was worn but clean, as if even the signs of defiance had been carefully scrubbed away.

Arzen sat down, the bench creaking under his weight in a way that felt oddly comforting. He leaned back against the tree trunk, the rough bark pressing into his skin, grounding him in the moment. Above him, the leaves rustled softly, a gentle whisper in the otherwise quiet clearing. 

Arzen closed his eyes, trying to let the quietness calm him, but it only reminded him of how far away he was from everything he knew. He felt so alone. More alone than he had been in his world. Even more so after he had tasted what companionship felt like.

‘Haha.. and here I thought I was used to being alone.’

He traced his fingers along the grooves of the bench, feeling each rough edge. The sensation anchored him, pulling him away from his swirling thoughts. The cool air brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of earth and greenery, a stark contrast to the stuffy air inside the drama club room.

‘I just want to find my place... ’

Arzen opened his eyes, staring up at the canopy of leaves swaying gently overhead. The sunlight filtered through, creating patches of light and shadow on the ground. It was peaceful, but it didn’t fill the void. 

Arzen’s eyes drifted to the sky, watching the sunlight shift as the afternoon wore on. Shadows lengthened, stretching across the ground like creeping fingers.

Arzen didn't know when it started, but he realized deep down, he had many conflicting desires inside him.

Arzen had taken the scriptwriting job for one reason—survival. He needed money, a backup plan in case he couldn’t find a way back to his world. He didn’t want to rely on the connections this world’s Arzen had; he wanted to stand on his own, independent of the life he was now forced to live. At first, it was just about securing his future, nothing more.

But somewhere along the way, his motivation shifted. Writing wasn’t just a job anymore; it became his way of proving himself. He began to wonder if he could carve out something that was truly his—an achievement that didn’t belong to the Arzen of this world but to him.

Maybe if his script was good enough, if his work shined on its own merit, he could make a name for himself. And maybe, just maybe, those who loved this world’s Arzen might come to see him for who he truly was and love him, too—not because he was a stand-in, but because he was worthy in his own right.

Arzen reached into his bag, his fingers brushing against the cold metal zipper as he pulled out the neatly folded script. The paper rustled softly. He stared at it, his eyes tracing the lines he had poured so much of himself into. It was supposed to be his masterpiece, the one thing that was truly his.

Arzen’s fingers tensed, the edges of the script bending under the pressure of his grip as frustration boiled within him. The sound of the paper crushing echoed in the quiet, mingling with the distant hum of student chatter. His grip tightened, knuckles turning white as he fought against the frustration that bubbled up inside him.

'What do I do now?'

Arzen’s breaths grew uneven, each exhale laced with frustration. His gaze fixed on the script in his hands, his vision blurred. He gritted his teeth, the script crumpling as his grip tightened. The pressure built, each second stretching painfully until he could no longer contain it. His fist came down on the bench, the sharp crack of wood meeting bone echoing in the quiet clearing. 

Pain shot up to his shoulder, sharp and jarring, but he welcomed it. Another hit, harder this time, until the wood splintered beneath his palm. Blood welled up, dripping from his hand onto the worn bench, staining it red.

He watched the droplets fall, each one a tiny burst of crimson against the weathered wood. The sight mesmerized him, the chaos of his mind reflected in the scattered drops. Arzen’s breath came in ragged bursts, the physical pain a distant echo compared to the storm brewing inside.

The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of cologne that felt out of place in the quiet solitude of the clearing. Arzen blinked, his weary gaze fixed on the ground, where a pair of polished loafers disrupted the pattern of blood-streaked dirt. He looked up, his vision unsteady, and found himself staring at a figure that didn’t belong in this secluded corner.

'Did I lose too much blood? Is that why I am hallucinating?'

Raizel stood before him, his expression cold and detached, like a statue carved from marble.