The stage curtain opened without a sound.
Mikael stepped into a vast, circular chamber lit only by the glow of floating lanterns. Each hovered midair, unmoving—trapped fireflies sealed in glass. There was no ceiling. Just blackness that seemed to stretch forever, pulsing faintly like a sleeping lung.
At the center of the room stood a tall, empty chair. Carved of bone-white wood, gilded with red thread, it resembled a throne—but it was too narrow, too upright, too cruel in its posture to be meant for comfort.
Elise stood beside him, quiet.
"That's where he watches from," she said.
"The Director," Mikael muttered.
"Yes. But not the first one. Just the one who's playing him now."
"What does that mean?"
Elise looked at him for a long time before answering. "The Dollhouse runs on stories. On roles. When someone forgets their part… someone else steps in. Sometimes willingly. Sometimes not."
Mikael shivered.
A spotlight snapped on. There was no source—just pure, cold white light that fell from the heavens and burned shadows into the walls. It landed squarely on the chair.
And then… someone sat down.
No footsteps. No sound.
One moment it was empty.
The next, he was there.
A man in a tattered red suit, skin as pale as the moon, and eyes like shattered glass. His smile was stitched into his face, lips unmoving even as words poured out of him like honey through a broken jar.
"Ah, Mikael. Late to the performance again."
Mikael's throat went dry.
"You remember me, don't you?" the Director asked.
"I don't," Mikael said, though something inside him twisted in denial. "I've never met you."
The Director chuckled. "Of course you have. You wore this chair long before I did. You made the rules. The tragedy. The script."
"No… that's not…"
"Did Elise not tell you?" he said, glancing at her with a theatrical frown. "You're not the hero here. You're the playwright. This Dollhouse? It's your story."
Mikael staggered back.
Elise wouldn't look at him.
The Director rose, spreading his arms. The lanterns dimmed.
"All these horrors. The Rehearsed. The Masquerade. Even the blood that paints this stage… all yours."
"No. That can't be true."
"Oh, but it is," the Director whispered, stepping forward. "You didn't escape. You simply ran from your own guilt. But we remember, Mikael. We always remember."
The chair behind him cracked. Splintered.
And from it spilled shadows that moved like marionettes, strings reaching toward Mikael.
He turned to Elise. "Tell me he's lying."
But her silence spoke louder than any scream.