You know the drill, right?


    That whole lights, camera, action thing? The black clapperboard snapping shut, the microphone dangling from above, the director screaming at everyone like a caffeinated banshee?


    Yeah. That one.


    Well... can I be honest here?


    That part of acting? Always felt... off to me.


    The cuts. The pauses. The way everything comes to a screeching halt every few minutes. It kills the flow.


    Get real with me for a second here.


    I mean, if you''re gonna play a character, shouldn''t you become them? No second takes. No hesitations. Just pure, unfiltered immersion.


    Right?


    That''s what true acting is.


    Or at least—that''s what it should be.


    The best of the best.


    Like...


    The protagonist. The one with main-character energy so powerful it bends the very laws of the universe.


    Call it plot armor if you will. But that''s just good writing if you ask me.


    Or the side character, so forgettable they might as well be a random prop in the background.


    Poor guy... What was his name again?


    Or the villain—the perfect villain. The one who lurks in the shadows, voice dripping with malice, a smirk that promises ruin... only to lose to the hero in the end.


    Every. Single. Time.


    Actually...


    Let me tell you this.


    I''ve searched. Oh, I''ve Searched.


    Capitalization very much intended.


    Desperately flipping through story after story after story, hunting for just one—just one—where the villain actually wins.


    Is that too much to ask for?


    Huh?


    I guess it is.


    Cause nothing.


    That''s what I''ve discovered.


    Nothing.


    It''s like searching for hay in a stack of needles—wait.


    That''s not how the saying goes, does it?


    Was it a stack of—whatever!


    The point is, who cares about hay, needles, or whatever twisted metaphor that saying is trying to paint? Because unless you''re the protagonist?


    Your fate is sealed.


    And that? That''s total bullshit.


    In fact, my mind is racing with so many possibilities right now.


    Honestly, my mind is racing with possibilities right now.


    If I were a side character? I''d nail that role. My name would be so forgettable, it''d vanish from memory the moment you blinked.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    If I were a villain, I''d be so damn good at it, I''d win out of sheer, unrelenting tenacity. Plot armor can suck it.


    And if I were the shining hero…?


    … Maybe life would be just a little bit nicer to enjoy.


    Right?


    Tick.


    A cicada screamed in the summer heat.


    Tick.


    The last lonely bird cried out before the sun swallowed it whole.


    Tick.


    A cruel reminder that time kept moving forward—completely indifferent to the people who wished it would stop.


    I looked up at the clock.


    Maybe if I stared at it long enough, I could force it to—


    "Mr. Yuki Hero!"


    A voice sliced through my thoughts like a guillotine.


    I blinked.


    Standing before me was a woman flipping through an ungodly thick stack of papers. Brown curls bounced as she licked her finger, flipped another page, licked, flipped—dear god, as a doctor, does she not know how unhygienic that is?


    "Blood type B, five feet ten, age seventeen?" she recited. "Am I correct to assume?"


    Well, it''s a bit rude to read out a man''s life like that; what if somebody heard? That''s sensitive information, lady. Especially that height part; I''m at least 6 feet!


    Also—to assume?


    Of all people, shouldn''t doctors be the last ones making assumptions? Especially with my entire medical history sitting right there in their hands? Licking their fingers, doing god knows what!


    Is what I ought to say.


    But what I said was, "Uh… yeah, that''s correct."


    Like the dog I was.


    She nodded.


    Lick. Flip.


    "From what I can see here, you are… perfectly healthy."


    Then—her voice faltered.


    Lick. Flip. Brows furrowing.


    "In fact…" she hesitated, scanning the pages. "It''s a complete contrast to the state of your mother''s health."


    Tick.


    The sound pressed against my chest.


    "I''d have to say it''s hereditary. From her father''s side, perhaps—"


    Her voice blurred.


    Like I was hearing it through water.


    The world tilted.


    The ticking grew louder.


    Louder.


    "I would like to say full recovery is… possible… but… I''m… sorry, Mr.—"


    "MR. YUKI HERO!"


    The world snapped back into focus—hard and fast, like a rubber band smacking me in the face.


    The sterile white walls? Gone.


    The antiseptic smell? Gone.


    The doctor? Nowhere.


    Instead—


    "Mrs. Bellbottom?"


    I nearly laughed.


    Nearly.


    "THE AUDACITY!"


    Her voice boomed through the room like a war horn. Arms crossed. Eyes blazing.


    "To ignore me! ME! Your teacher, as I sacrifice my precious time to ask you a SIMPLE question! MR. YUKI HERO!" I blinked.


    My brain was emptier than a pack of gum among school kids.


    Unfortunately, my mouth has this... unremarkable talent for saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.


    Except with doctors. Doctors are scary.


    "Uh… well…" I paused, giving the dramatic moment the respect it deserved.


    "The real question we should be asking… is… why are you at my doctor''s appointment?"


    Silence.


    Awkward, painful silence.


    Then—


    Laughter.


    The entire class exploded.


    Mrs. Bellbottom turned the color of an overripe tomato. You know, the kind that''s also sagging and looks like it''s about to explode with rage.


    "YOU WANT A QUESTION?!" she screeched.


    … Oh boy.


    "HERE''S A QUESTION FOR YOU! WHY IN GOD''S NAME ARE YOU EVEN IN MY CLASSROOM?! WHY BOTHER COMING TO SCHOOL?!"


    She said that and a bunch of other insults that I''ve decided to spare your ears from.


    ...


    Wait a minute.


    …


    Classroom? School?


    I blinked.


    Desks. Chairs. Students.


    Students, not that fake laughter you usually hear in TV shows.


    All staring at me like I''d just waltzed in wearing nothing but socks.


    And then there was Mrs. Bellbottom, ready to drop the French Revolution on me.


    She was French, by the way.


    She sighed. Twice. Then stared at me like I was a wilted houseplant.


    "Just pay attention next time," she muttered, walking back to her desk.


    The laughter turned into snickers.


    Not the chocolate kind. (That would of been nice.)


    No, not that.


    The mocking kind. The kind that makes you feel like garbage.


    "He''s so lost."


    "Is he even on this planet?"


    "Doctor''s appointment?! Pfft! What a loser!"


    And how is having a doctor''s appointment something to mock? You''re the losers!


    But through the snickers and Mrs. Bellbottom''s monotone lecture, I faded into the background.


    Like some office drone, living the same boring life over and over, in a constant loop of mind-numbing routine.


    Or like a 9-5 convenience store worker. Life defined by depression. Scanning item after item. Beep.


    Sweat.


    Beep.


    Clammy palms.


    Beep.


    A small child stood frozen at the checkout, eyes wide and lip trembling.


    "Yuki!"


    I found my focus.


    The register scanner.


    The dull hum of fluorescent lights.


    The artificial scent of plastic bags and cheap air freshener.


    I wasn''t in class anymore.


    I was at work.


    And I was currently scaring the absolute soul out of a child.


    I followed his gaze—to my own reflection in the register screen.


    My face was… not friendly.


    My boss was making frantic hand gestures. SMILE. SMILE, DAMN IT!


    I tried.


    I really did.


    I forced a smile—if you could even call it that.


    But the kid screamed. Ran.


    And then came my boss. Dragging a hand down his face. "Don''t. Smile. Ever. Again."


    He said either that or—