The Silver Theater stood on a side street, an old brick structure barely surviving among modern buildings. To most, it was a place of decadent charm. To Kein's eyes, it was an environment with three obstructed emergency exits and deficient lighting.

  ' 6:42 pm. '

  ' Time remaining: 04:50:28 '

  Kein crossed the threshold. The lobby was a hive of cables, actors rehearsing whispers, and the metallic scent of hot spotlights. He walked with a measured stride—not out of arrogance, but efficiency; he dodged the chaos with the precision of someone who had navigated war zones far denser than an independent theater.

  At the back, near the proscenium, a man with tense shoulders and a frayed scarf was shouting at an assistant holding a tablet. It was Marcus.

  "Damn Jackson! That arrogant bastard, why didn't you tell me he canceled on Paul! If there's no Claudius, there's no second act! Find someone, now!"

  Kein stopped at just the right distance to not be invasive, but enough to be noticed. He waited for the microsecond Marcus took a breath.

  "Jackson Brooks sent me," Kein said.

  His voice was clear, without the tremor of a novice seeking approval. Marcus turned sharply, his bloodshot eyes scanning Kein from head to toe.

  "Brooks? That shark sends me a kid at this hour?" Marcus let out a bitter laugh. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Kein Adler. Jackson Brooks sent me to participate in tonight's play," Kein said in a calm voice.

  The group of actors surrounding Marcus fell silent.

  "..."

  ' What is this kid? That look... is it confidence or simply a lack of fear? ' Marcus thought, rubbing his temple.

  "The role of Claudius is empty... because of Jackson," the director hissed with annoyance. "He's a king who killed his brother. A man carrying a stolen crown. You look like someone who has never had to make a difficult decision in his life."

  Kein held his gaze. He didn't blink. In his mind, he processed the information on Claudius: a politician, a usurper, a man who understands that power is a zero-sum game.

  "Test me," Kein said. "Five minutes. If I don't convince you, I won't waste any more of your time."

  "Marcus, we don't have time for auditions!" an actress dressed in dark velvet exclaimed.

  "Shut up, Ana," Marcus snapped without taking his eyes off Kein.

  The atmosphere in the theater shifted. The frenetic energy transformed into a dense curiosity. Technicians leaned out from the catwalks to see the stranger who spoke with such composure to the most difficult theater director on the circuit.

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  The silence was thick, almost solid. Marcus, the director, kept his arms crossed, watching Kein with a mixture of skepticism and weariness.

  'Brooks sent him, that bastard pulled a fast one on me... But Brooks isn't an idiot; this kid must have something.'

  "Get on stage," Marcus ordered, pointing to the worn floorboards creaking under the spotlights. "The repentance scene. Claudius's monologue trying to pray. If you don't make my hair stand on end in five minutes, Jackson will receive a complaint that will kick you out of this industry before you even start. Ana, give him the script."

  Kein nodded and climbed the wooden steps with the script in hand.

  As soon as he reached the center, Kein read the script briefly, assemilating the character. His posture had changed subtly. His shoulders didn't tense; they sank, as if the gravity of the room had increased just for him.

  Kein closed his eyes for an instant. In his mind, he didn't search for an actor's technique, but for the memory of a contract in the chrome suburbs of NEXARA.

  The smell of ozone, the warm blood on cold metal, and the gaze of a target asking him:

  "Why?"

  When he opened his eyes, Kein was no longer there. His shoulders didn't tense; they sank, as if the theater's atmosphere had turned to lead.

  "My offense is rank... it smells to heaven," Kein murmured.

  His voice didn't come from his throat, but from the bottom of a well.

  It had a trace of ash, the weight of a man who has done what was necessary to survive and now discovers the price is his soul.

  Marcus took a step back, bumping into a wooden chair. The sound of the thud was ignored by everyone.

  'That voice... it doesn't seem like acting, he's confessing,' Marcus thought, feeling a sudden chill run down his spine. Not even five minutes had passed and he had already approved; he could have stopped the scene... But he couldn't.

  Kein looked at his hands, his fingers trembling with a rhythmic vibration that screamed guilt.

  "What if this cursed hand were thick with brother's blood? Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash it white as snow?"

  Kein paused. The silence in the Silver Theater was absolute. The assistant dropped his tablet onto his lap without realizing it. The actress playing Gertrude reached for her neck, feeling the air grow thin. It wasn't a performance; it was like witnessing a crime live.

  ' This is... restrained, ' Kein thought internally, as his eyes grew moist remembering that mission. ' If I give them the full Kael registry, if I pour all my feelings into this act, they'll panic. They'd call the police, not a talent agency.'

  Kein forced a bitter smile, one that denoted decades of experience in the darkness. He looked up, but not at the spotlights, but as if searching for a God he knew wasn't going to answer.

  " May one be pardon'd and retain the offence? My words fly up... my thoughts remain below. "

  He finished the line and stood motionless. The echo of his voice seemed to keep floating in the dust-laden air.

  Marcus didn't applaud. He stood there, rubbing his arms to soothe the goosebumps, feeling strangely vulnerable before the young man on stage. He looked around and saw the faces of his team: everyone was captivated, paralyzed by the presence of someone who seemed to have committed a thousand murders and yet sought an impossible redemption.

  "You...", Marcus started, his voice somewhat hoarse, breaking the spell.

  "What did you say your name was? That Claudius you played... he isn't a stage King. He's a man who knows how much a corpse weighs. It seems almost real."

  'Because it is,' Kein thought.

  Kein recovered his neutral posture in a second. The shimmer of agony in his eyes vanished, replaced by his usual icy calm.

  "Dress him," he shouted to the assistants, recovering his energy but without stopping looking at Kein with a new respect. "Dress him now! We have a King!! Hurry, there are 40 minutes left until the play!"

  Kein stepped down from the stage as the team rushed toward him with costumes and makeup.

  The show was about to begin. And Kein knew that every pair of eyes in the audience would be a battery for his survival.