twenty.

NATHAN DIDN'T REALIZE how comforting Adelaide's presence had been until he had to step out alone. Behind him, the Director shut the door then walked past him up to the stage.

With no particular command, Nathan followed the Director but stopped like usual at the last rung. The Director strode across the planks until he stood at the other end of the stage, now far enough to turn into a blurry shadow.

While the Director fiddled with something in his spot, Nathan's peripheral caught a blurry shape at the stage center. The dangling silhouette already made his fingers tingle, almost going numb. He craned his neck and squinted and found a chair with a noose hanging above it. Beside it was a small wooden coffee table. Semblance of a cozy little room.

Nathan would make another reaction if the Director didn't snap his fingers, forcing his attention towards the end of the stage again. His eyes burnt now. He squeezed them shut, let the water pool, then opened them again.

The Director was holding something thin, its other end in contact with the iron chords. Logically rope. Or chains. This act really had some changes, no fucking joke.

"Come here," the Director said.

Nathan did as told. When he was beside the Director, he could tell exactly what was going on: rope tied at one end to the chords, the rest of it coiled loosely around the Director's hand. Clear intentions. Nathan already felt suffocated.

"So." The Director uncurled the rope from his hand and ran his fingertip along it like he was stroking a snake. Glancing up, he gave Nathan a sinister half-smile. "I have to tie you to the wire. Should I tie you by the wrist? Or . . . ?"

Before Nathan could so much as blink, the Director thrust the rope around his neck and crossed it, almost throttling him. "Or by the neck, my villain?" he continued. Nathan choked and his hand shot up to grip the rope. "Should I tie you by the neck like a dog? I think it'd suite you."

This belittling tone made Nathan want to cut the Director's tongue off. He clenched his jaw, tried stifling the desperate need to cuss. What Adelaide had said about anger, she was right. So Nathan didn't let it get to him.

"Wrist," Nathan said. Cocking a brow, the Director pulled the rope off his neck then roughly shoved Nathan into the chords; after crashing with a painful thud, Nathan winced and slouched to his knees.

"Stay down, my villain." The Director tied his wrist. Hard. So hard Nathan felt the scratchy rope cut off his blood circulation. When the Director finished, he straightened and eyed Nathan down on the planks with a creepy smile. "You're in good shape. Very good shape."

Good shape. Yeah, if breathing was enough to qualify him. Good shape except he couldn't function properly anymore, every move heavy with exhaustion like a broken machine. (Particularly like that ancient oscilloscope back at school that barely ever turned on.)

"No, seriously." The Director crouched down in front of Nathan, a few inches away. "I imagined when we'd reach the last act, you'd have been shot once at least. I imagined you wouldn't be able to stand. I had so much I wanted to do to you, so much I could've done."

Nathan's brows furrowed. Only slightly. Midst the silence, he could hear his own ragged breath but nothing else. The best thing yet: the Director pretending Nathan owed him for not beating him more.

The Director sighed and stood up. "You can give yourself a pat on the back, my villain," he said, "for handling everything better than I thought you would. I admit, I thought you'd mess up at some point. I thought you'd forget a line. I thought you'd be a prideful brat and disrespect me. I didn't think you'd be polite. And God, I was ready. I wanted you to make these mistakes so I can make you suffer."

What a moralistic bastard. Nathan would snort if he could, maybe even ask him what the hell held him back. He could've done all that; he could've made him suffer more even without messing up or disrespecting.

The Director took a tiny step forward, then knelt down, his worn jean-clad knee right by Nathan. "Do you think I didn't give you food and water for nothing? Do you think I made you sleep on the floor for nothing? And beating you up every time?"

Of course not for nothing. Shallow answer would be: no, out of anger. But that wasn't it, Nathan had realized this long ago. Anger was a factor, biggest one, but the Director wanted something else out of all of that too. Nathan knew he wanted him to become weak: easier to manipulate and play with.

"I'm sure you figured out why." Leaning forward, the Director caught Nathan's arms. The grip made Nathan wince and desperately stifle a whimper. "I wanted this to happen. I wanted to see you like this. Exhausted. God, it feels great. I got carried away once, but that's not important."

"Why did you tie me this time?"

The Director glanced back at the noose and chair. Slowly, his hands slipped off Nathan's arms. "I'm protecting my heroine from you," he said. "You're a bastard. I wouldn't be surprised if you tried pushing the chair under her so she'd die."

Nathan would be offended if the relief wasn't overwhelming. The moment he'd read the line—Luna hangs herself—he'd known it was just acting, but Adelaide's reaction almost made him doubt himself. This 'protecting her' bullshit, though, meant the Director didn't want to kill her.

Except . . . God, Adelaide was going to freak the hell out as soon as she'd step on stage and actually see the noose.

The Director stood and walked back towards their room to get Adelaide. When he was at the other of the end stage, Nathan couldn't see him clearly anymore, and then he vanished into the transition area.

During the distraction, Nathan tilted his head back, towards the audience area. Something sharp like claws tore his heart. Scarred his ribs. "Dad?" he tried, voice low and shaky. No answer except loudened muffled noises. Nathan sighed, fingertip longingly brushing against a single chord. I need you right now.

With Adelaide in tow, the Director reappeared. She looked terrified even though Nathan couldn't really see clearly: maybe it was just her slow steps and hunched stance that made it look like that. She'd been scouting for Nathan the moment she stepped out, because the first thing she looked at was him, not the stage center.

Nathan couldn't decipher her blurry expression, but he forced a smile when the Director wasn't looking. Except it was right then, right after the smile, that Adelaide turned towards the chair and noticed the noose. She froze. Froze. You'd mistake her for a statue. Nathan could only see her back, but he'd bet her jaw had fallen ajar. Hands probably already shaking.

"Come on, my heroine," the Director said. "Don't panic. You're just gonna act it out. Go up, stand on the chair and put the noose around your neck. For the audience. For the act."

Surprisingly, Adelaide wasn't crying. She moved towards the chair. Nathan was almost taken aback. She gripped the backrest, tried raising a foot to step onto the chair but that was when she stumbled a step back. Now the refusal came.

Nathan tensed. This was just an act. Maybe if she'd refuse, the Director would actually kill her. Couldn't completely trust a psycho and his commitment to a victim. Don't lose his trust, Nathan wanted to tell her. Don't mess this up.

"Need a hand, my heroine?" the Director said with a small and weirdly reverent voice, like he was nothing in front of Adelaide. She nodded. With his callous hand poised as help, the Director waited. So did Nathan; he didn't expect her to actually take his hand, but she did. She did. Without even hesitating. That was basically taking the pretense to another level. Good. And concerning.

Frowning, Nathan watched Adelaide step onto the chair with the Director's help. The noose hung right by her face now. Her knees trembled a little, and Nathan felt like she'd fall over any moment.

"The noose now, my heroine. As I said, no need to worry, understand? I tied my villain to the wire. He can't push you. Nothing's going to happen."

Adelaide nodded, barely, and held the rope with trembling fingers before fitting it around her neck. Tipping her head a little to the side, she tried glancing at Nathan. He returned her with an out-of-place smile and mouthed, you can do it.

The Director said, "Had to open the curtains beforehand to tie my villain. Now we go straight to the act," as he approached Nathan and shoved a paper in his hand. Unlike previous acts, the Director remained on stage. Maybe as a threat. "Act Six: The End, Luna's Death."

Nathan stared at the suicide letter in his hand. The Director hissed, "Read it out loud."

"Dear Dolion, villain of the show," Nathan quickly started, throat aching like his voice was acid. Or maybe the words. "I remember our first times more than anything: the first time I saw you, the first time you touched me." When Adelaide made a choked noise in the background, Nathan glanced at her and realized she could recognize the lines. "I remember . . ."

And Nathan read the letter entirely. As it came to an end, his own heart was tearing, to think this had been directed at his own dad. To think he was the reason a woman died. He finished, "Sincerely, Luna, the heroine of the show."

Silence. The disorienting, sickening kind. Nathan let the paper down. Adelaide gripped the noose, probably hoping she could take it off now.

"You can take it off," the Director told Adelaide. He picked the suicide letter off the ground and behind him, Adelaide shakily removed the noose. With a grip on the backrest, she slipped to the floor then plopped down on the chair, sighing heavily.

The Director was inspecting the letter like he'd never seen it. Turning it so Nathan could see the writing, he tapped frantically and blindly at the top. He missed the Dear Dolion part, but Nathan knew that was what he was trying to gesture at.

"Do you know what the real letter says?" The Director's jaw was clenched. To repress the anger or the tears, or maybe both. "It says Christopher! Dear Christopher!"

Each word carried a torrid of spit, so Nathan turned his face away. The sharp chords pricked his back and the Director's voice rattled in his head and mentioning Christopher butchered his heart. Denial felt enticing but the glaring truth hung onto his lungs, straining his breath. Confrontation now. Reality now.

No. No. No. Nathan squeezed his eyes shut and shrank back against the chords. Maybe hoping he'd disappear, or maybe just subconsciously trying to inch nearer to his dad. His source of safety, despite every single thing he was hearing about him.

"How . . . How do you . . . The real letter's with me. I've always had it. How do you know what she wrote?" Adelaide suddenly asked. Her voice pulled Nathan out of his trance. Head tilted in her direction, he watched her: she was staring at the Director, voice shaky but determined. "And why do you care?"

The Director turned towards Adelaide, but not entirely. Now he was half facing Nathan and half facing her. "I found her," he said, beating his chest a bit too frantically. "I found her. Hanging. I found her dead in her own house. I was the first one to read the letter and it killed me. Ever wondered why the letter is directed at Christopher, and not you, Adelaide? It's because she wanted me to give the letter to him, not you. You were just a baby. But I saved it. I saved it and gave it to you because you deserve it, not this bastard. That's why Christopher never knew she's dead until now, because he never got the letter."

Adelaide and Nathan didn't speak. Nathan kept looking up at the Director, chest heaving slightly even though he wasn't exerting any physical effort. Like breathing alone was strenuous.

"We grew up together, Genevieve and I," the Director continued. Nathan guessed Genevieve was the real Luna: Adelaide's mom. "She was just like my sister. Even more. I was there for her when her husband died, when she went into depression. And she got over it. And then Christopher appeared and she was so desperate to forget and love again. To replace her husband. I told her. I told her, don't trust that bastard. But she didn't listen. She . . ." The Director squeezed his eyes shut for moment as if battling the memories. When he opened them, they were wild. Furious and red. "She didn't listen. So naive, she didn't understand a man wouldn't fall in love with her on first sight."

Nathan squinted so hard to catch Adelaide's expression across the stage: the image blurred and strained but then, like a camera lens finally focusing, he caught the apprehensive frown. Like she was recalculating, labeling who was the real villain and who was the real hero.

"Adelaide," the Director said. Weird thing for him to use their real names now. "I raised you when you were just a little kid. Your mom was so busy with that bastard, she forgot you were her world. But we can't blame her. She was just desperate. We can only blame Christopher, for playing her like he did."

So Nathan would be lying if he said he wasn't worried. Sure they'd established Adelaide wouldn't turn against him but right now felt like a precarious moment.

Just as Adelaide opened her mouth, the Director spun and faced Nathan but his eyes were set above his head. At the audience behind the wire.

"Christopher!" the Director shouted as he crouched, grabbing Nathan's arm and turning him so that his back was pressed against his chest. The most uncomfortable position so far—Nathan desperately moved around. "Look, Christopher! Look at your boy!"

Nathan felt the Director's arms droop down over his shoulders, hands clasping together in front of his chest. Trapping him. The Director's voice came from above his head.

"Are you scared, Christopher? Are you worried about what I'm going to do to him this time?" The Director cackled like a drunkard, his chest bumping into the back of Nathan's head. "You can relax. I won't cut him this time, I promise. But let's have a look. Have you seen his body well?"

Nathan's breath hitched when he felt the Director's hand hover by his hipbone, but then he relaxed slightly when he only caught the hem of his sweater and raised it until his side was exposed. With his free hand, the Director caught Nathan's knees and tilted him until he was facing the chords sideways.

"He's lost weight. Can you see his ribs? I think I can see them." The Director ran a cold fingertip along Nathan's torso, tracing his rib. It'd started protruding more, like his collar bones, and Nathan cringed at the touch. Wept inwardly at the thought. "That's the first rib! That's the first one, Christopher! Can you see? Or are you blind like your son? The idiot can't see two inches in front of him!"

Nathan tried squirming out of the Director's hold, tilting his chin upwards, arching his torso away from his touch. In vain. Something shadowy engulfed his vision for a second. He stopped moving. Focused on breathing. On making his stupid lungs work because God, the Director trapping him like that was worse than the bathroom's tiny space.

"Have you seen the bruises? There's one on his waist from when I kicked him so hard, and I think . . ." The Director caught Nathan's shoulder and forced him forward, glancing at his back. "Yeah, I thought so. He's got one on his back too, when I pushed him, remember? And on his face!" With his palm, the Director roughly rubbed off the foundation. It made Nathan wince and groan under his breath. "Now look at him, Christopher. Look at him."

The Director shut up. Finally. The sound of Nathan's pained breaths reverberated along the stage. In front of him, the muffled protests loudened. Wood creaking and thumping, like someone thrashing in a chair. Nathan couldn't see what was going on but he desperately tried not imagining it.

"Is this your Nathan?" The Director didn't sound as sadistically giddy anymore. Now it was more sorrow than anger. He patted the top of Nathan's head, then stroked his cheek. "Is this mess your precious child? The one you spoiled with your love? But look at him now, he's in my hands and you can't do anything, and he's paying the price for your mistake."

Silence. The Director let go of Nathan and stood. Sighing, he said, "That's it. The end of Act Six. That's how the real story ends, with Genevieve hanging herself and the bastard getting away."

Nathan had leant a shoulder against the chords again, watching the Director with his lips parted a sliver. His heart clenched. Breaths shallow. Now it should come.

"Do you know what it's time for now, my villain?"

_________

a/n: thank you for reading/voting/commenting, it means a lot ❤️