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, 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.

I help dismantle the set and return my prop rapier to costumes before slipping outside. My car is already at the edge of the tape, humming with anticipation. The producer catches up, phone in hand.

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

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

“I know.”

A text flashes on my phone. This is already the third in the past half hour. “I know your work. When’s the last time you scheduled for yourself?”

He pauses. I open up 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. But I can shuffle. 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 name of the book 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.”

“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.”

I chuckle and hand the book back to her. “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 are enflamed with an adorable red. Guiding her deeper into the store, we browse a few of the shelves and chat. She pauses at the self-help section, roaming her fingers over a handful of the titles.

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

“They wouldn’t read it anyways.”

Her voice sounds sad. 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 answers, then continue. “Do you want the book?”

She doesn’t answer the question. I don’t press her for one 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 slips away from the crowd upon spotting me, absently fixing 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 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. Lowering her voice to a murmur, her tone turns serious.

“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. There’s a brief confliction. Then she withdraws. “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.”

“Hug?”

She shrugs the offer away, then comes back. Wrapping her arms around my waist, she nuzzles my suit. I help her fix her hair.

“I love you,” she says, softly.

“Me too.”

She walks away, pauses briefly to fix her expression, and cheerfully calls out to Tasha. The two of them hug and chat animatedly about each other’s costumes. Tasha shuts the door of the vehicle as the two head inside and Sarah reintegrates herself into the role of the playful host. I watch her for a few minutes as she deliberately avoids my gaze, then open up the car door and drive off. Taking care of the task, I finish up with some work at one of the offices and return home. Bringing my tools and the bag from the bookstore inside, I dedicate a half hour to cleaning and returning everything to its place before sitting at the table and opening up the bag. The weight had felt off leaving the restaurant, and as suspected, Sarah must have snuck another book into it during one of my calls.

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. Makes sense if she’d held onto it for a while; I didn’t notice her pick anything else up at the store today. Perhaps one of her finds from the Farmer’s Market or one of the vintage stores she likes to browse.

The second detail is the title and author. While the title isn’t remarkable for a fantasy light novel, the author’s name is a touch strange. Knowing Sarah, this is most likely her motivation behind purchasing the book, 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, with the sole exception of one.

Hero of Ingenuity. That is the title one warrior holds and the sole information about their character within the text. While the other warriors have chapters and inner monologues dedicated to them, the Hero of Ingenuity extracted themselves from the plot early on for undisclosed reasons. Given the natural pace of storywriting, I suspect their reappearance in the plot within the next handful of chapters.

A short break to stretch my legs and fetch a glass of water. Rare for zero interruptions to disrupt my downtime. Ten minutes to midnight. Sarah’s party is most likely in full swing.

I shouldn’t have left her alone. But those were her wishes. I just have to trust she’ll actually take the time for herself and for us. Without rationalizing away her feelings.

Setting down the glass, I place a call.

“Rare to receive a greeting from my little Sparrow,” the voice filters through after a short ring. Jovial as always.

“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. Despite the passing of a year, I still haven’t discovered a match to the characters within the circle.

“Just a feeling,” I answer. “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.