From a layman’s view, it was a classic scene. The writer, the producer, the director. Each stationed around a square table as they wrestle a script back and forth with increasing increments of volume. Loudest voice wins a lozenge.

I take the empty slot at the table and confiscate the script. Smoothing the wrinkles out with my gloved hand, I flip through a couple of the pages.

The writer cuts off first, flicking his empty hands palm-down-up before dropping his gaze to the script. The director is next, his sudden leave of the conversation prompting the producer to shut up.

“Who are you?” The producer folds his arms, silencing the vibrate of the phone gripped in his palm.

Flashing my entry permit, I locate the page in question. A permanent marker has attacked the paper; scribbled notes and crossed out lines decorating every scrap of white. A thinner pen attacks the permanent marker and a few of the printed text, chased up by a blue pen that chastises both. I slip the metal squares and pry open the fasteners. Out comes the two illegible pages. In slides a slightly creased copy of their former selves. I pass the script back to the writer.

“You can’t remove that scene.”

“Thank You!” The writer gripes, clutching the script with renewed vigor.

“You also can’t rent the space again. There’s no room in the budget and no availability till next December.”

The producer has swapped focus to his phone, but nods in agreeance.

“But without your lead, there is no scene,” I add, queuing the director. “And so you’ve been wasting away the past forty minutes arguing about the same thing and offering no solutions. It’s a failure on all of your parts.”

“What do you propose?”

I meet the director’s gaze with an even, sincere stare. “I’m the replacement.”

The director sizes me up for a good, long minute. He flicks his gaze to the producer, briefly, then to me. “Script memorized?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Everyone; stations. I want our actors on set in thirty; not a minute later - we have two hours to get this done.”

The staff move quickly; energized into action. Costumes and makeup huddle me into a room in a frenzy; practiced hands navigating my face and shoulders as the clothes are peeled off and on rapidly. True professionals on autopilot. They pause at the end of their work, a confused pucker on their lips and questions alighting their eyes. I offer a playful wink and return to set. The director rushes through the marks and gets the cameras settled. Everyone’s relieved when he gives the footage an okay and signals to wrap up a half hour early.

My car is already at the edge of the tape, humming with anticipation. The producer rushes to catch up, phone in hand. "Boss!"

I stop on the other side of the door, holding it open.

“Sorry you had to see us like that.” He rubs his neck, a fluster peeking out from beneath his hand.

“Our company prides itself on a solid workplace environment. Shit happens. Your behaviour today was inexcusable.”

“I know.”

A text flashes on my phone. The third in the past half hour. “I know your work. When’s the last time you scheduled for yourself?” He pauses. I slip into the backseat. “Your health is an important asset; make it one.”

“Yes, President.”

Shutting the door, I tap out a text to the missing lead, whose response is an all caps ‘thank you’. Putting the phone to my ear, I swap focus from work to personal.

“You’re a bit anxious today.”

“I’m not anxious,” she denies automatically, my adorable little liar. “Do you have some time today?”

Not really. I glance at the driver, who gestures an answer. “An hour-thirty? We can do lunch.”

“I can do lunch.”

“Are you sure? It seems you may be stretching yourself.”

“No! I can do it – I will do it. We can meet at the book store; there was a book you were interested in checking out, right?”

She already knows the title and author. “How about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Alright. I’ll see you after your class.”

“But! I… uhhh… Love you…”

“Love you too. Now get to class.”

Reluctantly, she hangs up. Full time university student, full time volunteer, part time waitress – that is the crowded schedule of my lovely partner Sarah. And she still squeezes in hosting a Halloween party this evening and a lunch date with me.

The phone nudges my attention.

Report *******635. Confirmed. Replacement Primed. 

I tap out a brief response. Ready at 15:00. I will procure the files.

Confirmed.

Stepping onto the plane, I power the phone off and back on an hour later. Sarah has just finished her classes and is dozing on her favorite bench enclosed within the presumed privacy of a ring of trees. Anyone who has wandered the university enough, however, knows it is little more than a pretty deception. The security cameras makes it explicit.

Slipping the open binder from her lap, I flip through a few of the lined pages. She stirs, blinking two bleary eyes upon the trees, then to me. A lock of hair is trapped between her lips, darkening the blonde to a soppy brown.

“Professor causing issues again?”

She blinks again, rubs her eyes with her palm, and shifts her textbook into her bag. Clapping her fingers against her palm as she thinks, her eyes sweep the grass and bench.

I pet her hair, slipping the lock from her lip. “Here.”

Oh, her lips form, delayed, before splitting into a wide yawn. She tucks the binder into the bag, zips it up, and curls into my arms. Her skin is warmed from the sun, but not feverish. Give it a day.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

“We can skip lunch.”

She perks up immediately. “No! I mean, I’m fine.”

I give her a gentle peck. She nuzzles into my shoulder. “Ready?”

She certainly doesn’t look it. But she asked me.

“Yep. Need anything?”

Pulling away, she loops her bag over her shoulders. A hop to her feet and a spin, she flashes a bright smile. “All good.”

The walk from the campus to bookstore is only ten minutes, but she ensures to pack them full of stories and questions. An alarm on her phone distracts her attention briefly - the same alarm she’d set to leave campus for our meetup prior to her unexpected nap. Waving the flush from her cheeks, she launches into her plans for the party tonight and who will be there with whom before tangenting into an ongoing feud between two of her friends. I open the door to the bookstore for her, subtly steering her shoulder from the frame, and link our fingers together inside.

“-and so it’ll be fine as long as Tasha remains on the balcony and Stacey in the living room and - oh. This is the book, right?” She halts at one of the featured tables and picks up a light grey hardcover. Similar to marble, the cover transitions between a polished and grungy coat in texture and hue, weaving subtle elements of the book into the cover through obscure and less noticeable references.

He did say he wanted a second-glance aesthetic. Not bad.

“So?”

“So?” I echo, cocking an eyebrow.

“How much is true?”

“The novel’s marked as fiction.”

“I’m calling Bullshit on that. Seriously Ryan, spill.”

Collecting the book from her, I flip through a handful of the pages. Then a handful more. She bounces heel to toe as I flip, eyes blazing with anticipation. She catches my side glance and fumes.

“Now I know you’re teasing!”

I chuckle, pass the book back to her and point at the opening paragraph of chapter two. “This scene’s pretty accurate.”

She devours the half page easily, scrunching her face. “You played keep away with a homeless man?”

“I offered him a fair deal. I held up my end when he did his. And this part,” I add, flipping through to a later chapter, “is also pretty on point.”

“I bet there’s more than that.”

“You’re betting now, are you?”

“Grrr.”

“Why don’t we read it together? We can talk about the details then.”

“Promise?”

“I promise to answer any question you have pertaining to this book while we are reading it.”

“That’s not fair. What if I ask questions after we finish reading the book?”

“Then we’ll just have to read through it again.”

She sticks her tongue out at me. I weave her fingers through mine and lean in for a kiss. She flushes, but reciprocates. “Not in the library…”

I steal another kiss. “It’s a bookstore.”

Her cheeks enflame with an adorable red.

We continue to chat while navigating the shelves. She pauses at the self-help section, hesitating.

“For your friends?” I ask, nodding to one that has caught her eye. Pick Up the Phone.

“They wouldn’t read it anyways...”

I squeeze her hand. “Let’s pick it up.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I still have some play money this month.”

“But what if there’s something you want next week?”

“What about it?”

She falls silent.

“Sarah.” I wait till she responds, then continue. “Do you want the book?”

She doesn’t answer the question. I choose not to press her either. We finish our walk around the book store and lunch before splitting up. Her to her Halloween preparations, me to the next appointment.

Firing the accountant and collecting the paperwork was simple. Delivering said paperwork to the new accountant and officializing the tradeoff is easy. Speaking to each of the affected families and delivering suitable recompense? Routine. But figuring out the wants and needs of my girlfriend, without resorting to invasive measures?

That is what baffles me.

I get a text and stop by the house. Sarah is greeting guests at the door, expertly managing and maintaining three separate simultaneous conversations. She hastily excuses herself upon spotting me, jogging over as she smoothens down her hair and dress.

“You made it!”

“Briefly. Have an errand in the area; thought I’d say hi.”

The enthusiasm in her eyes dim. She spots the case in the backseat and notable lack of driver and dims further. “You look nice.”

I let her adjust the cuff of my suit and the buckle. She reaches up to straighten my collar, stepping close. Her voice lowers to a murmur, matching the downcast in her eyes. “Who is it?”

“Campus.”

“Warning?”

“This time.”

She takes a shaky breath. “Is it tonight?”

“I’ll keep you safe. Won’t disrupt the party.”

“Are we even really dating?”

“Sarah.”

“I know. You keep your promises. Like with the full scholarship coverage.”

“I’ve already told you; that was your father.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she snaps, cheeks heating red. She catches herself. Turns away. “I have to go. Stay safe.”

“We’ll–.”

“We’ll talk later, right? I know. Put a pin in it; talk about it later when there’s a more appropriate time. When you can free up two hours in the schedule instead of one. Maybe you’ll find a half-day just for me. Oh, but then I won’t be available. We’ll take a raincheck. That’s fine. It always is.”

“Sarah.”

“I don’t want to hear it right now, Ryan. It’s Halloween, the house is full, and I have to keep my friends happy.” A brunette in a flare-out green pantsuit with flowers on her hands and shoes steps out from the backseat of one of the vehicles and leans back in for a similarly coded purse with a thin string decorated in leaves. “Tasha’s here now. I’ll chat with you later.”

"I–" I stop. “Hug?”

She shrugs the offer away, then returns and wraps her arms around my waist, nuzzling my suit with a sulky pout. Mindful to avoid the concealed dagger as always. I help her fix her hair.

“I love you."

The words are barely above a whisper. Nearly a plea.

“Me too,” I say.

She bites her lip, repressing the emotion on the verge of her tongue and fully turns away.

One. Two. Three. Four.

The transition from wounded girlfriend back to playful host is nearly immaculate. From quivering shoulders to a cheerful greeting with the brunette, followed by a large hug and animated chatter as Sarah escorts her inside. The only tarnish to her mask the tweaked smile twitching from the overstretch and the deliberate avoidance of my direction. After a minute, I get in the car and leave.

I linger on the mirror after washing my face of the makeup, watching the water drip from the black bangs of the wig before straying to the green irises framing pupils empty of emotion or heart.

I slip the contact lenses back over my eyes, obscuring the probing of the green with the red befitting of a demon. A little longer. Just a little longer.

The bag from the bookstore is resting on the table where I'd left it after entering the house. As suspected, it seems Sarah slipped something extra into the bag when I'd stepped away at the restaurant. The first detail to catch my attention is the cover. Worn and slightly creased. Not the kind of wear and tear typical to a bookstore. Perhaps one of her finds from the Farmer’s Market or those vintage stores she likes to browse.

Next is the author. Knowing her, this was probably her true intention, given how the summary on the back doesn’t match either of our typical reads. She could have asked directly on this one.

Flipping to the first page, it doesn’t take long to ascertain the plot. A kingdom on the verge of destruction. Four mysterious warriors summoned from another world, typical of the original Isekai, and a political plot to twist said warriors to their own ends. For various reasons, each of the somewhat friendly acquaintences are pitted against one another in conflicts. To one exception.

Hero of Ingenuity. That is the title one warrior holds and the sole information about their character. While the others have chapters and inner monologues dedicated to their perspective, Ingenuity extracted themselves from the plot early on undisclosed. Given the natural pace of the writing, their reappearance to the plot is due within the next handful of chapters.

I set aside the book to stretch my legs.

Her party must be in full swing by now. I wonder if she's fretting over her two friends, navigating between keeping them happy and the snack refills and not neglecting her other guests. They'd be suspicious by now at the constraint – it's only a matter of time before one of them strays from their set placement.

I slip my phone from my pocket.

“Rare to receive a greeting from my little Sparrow,” the voice chirps after a brief ring. Waiting at the receiver with anticipation, no doubt.

“You remember Starfall, right?”

“Big Brother remembers everything. But why now?”

I push back the lip of my white glove to reveal a black tattoo on the back of my hand. One year, and still no answer. But whatever it is, I know I'm nearly out of time.

Her lips tugged when I entwined our hands before lunch. Still hasn't said a word about it.

“Just a feeling. I hope I’m wrong.”

“For our sakes, me too. Think you can manage it in six months, whatever it is?”

I sigh. “I don’t know. But I’m going to have to.”

“What about Wildflower?”

“I’m trusting you on this.”

He pauses. “That bad, huh? You know I’ve got your back.”

Ending the call, I return to the table. There is a lot that needs to be done. A lot that should be done. But, if my suspicions about the tattoo are right, not nearly enough time. The book is where I’d left it. I flip the page to the next chapter and pause.

Blank. All of the next ones too. Not even a hint of text or misprint. I send a text to Sarah; no response. Such a stupid, clever trap.

A blinding, white-hot flash of light. I drop the book and clap my hands over my ears. Searing headache. Acute dizziness. A chime strikes midnight.

Everything turns black.