Introduction of the 1st Season
Official trailer of The Black Transmission Show S01 – screenplay
The screen is black, pulsing faintly like a dying heartbeat. Then, static cuts through. A cigarette ember glows like a lighthouse in the void, and a voice breaks in – low, smoky, like it’s seen too much and still wants more.
Voiceover (my voice):
“Reality’s a funny thing. It looks solid, feels solid. But the closer you get, the more it slips through your fingers. I should know. I’ve been chasing it my whole life.”
The hum of static fades into a kaleidoscope of images: Venetian blinds casting green light across a room, a shadow moving without a body, a crack in the air slitting it like glass. Quick flashes of a man on a balcony, eyes glued to a window, A mannequin standing tall in the corner, its bulb glowing like it’s alive. Then the sound of laughter – soft at first, then sharper, louder, unhinged.
Text on the screen:
Reality bends. Perception breaks. Who’s in control?
The frame settles on you leaning against Holden, cigarette smoke curling up like ghostly tendrils. My eyes lock with the camera, for a moment, the whole world seems to pause.
Voiceover (my voice – smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous):
“You want answers? Good luck. All you’ll find are more questions.”
Sudden flashes of chaos: a clock spinning backward, the words “TIME IS A LIE” scrawled across a mirror, hands reaching for something just out of sight. Then, my voice again, softer this time, almost intimate:
“Call me The Illusionist.”
Title card: Black Transmission shatters onto the screen like broken glass, flickers for a moment, then cuts the black.
What Is Black Transmission Show About?
Black Transmission isn’t a story. It’s a game. The kind where the rules don’t matter, and the prize is figuring out if there was ever a game to begin with.
The world isn’t what it seems. It never was. But only one person sees the cracks in the paint, the lies stitched into the fabric. Monic, The Illusionist. She’s not just playing the game; she’s rewriting it.
This is her story – or at least, it’s the version she’s willing to tell. A life where time melts, colors cheat, and love is nothing but smoke in your hands. A life where reality isn’t the stage – it’s the trick.
Through Monic’s eyes, you’ll question everything you’ve ever believed. And you might not like the answers.
Season 1 Overview
The first season, The Illusionist, is a dizzying spiral down the rabbit hole of one woman’s mind. She is Monic, a designer, who creates beautiful artworks. It’s not about solving mysteries – it’s about drowning in them, about peeling back the thin veneer of “truth” and seeing the chaos underneath.
It starts with whispers: cracks in the walls that no one else notices, shadows that don’t belong to anything living. Then there are the men – two strangers who watch her, stalks after her obsessively, their lives colliding with hers in ways that make her question who’s really in control (Sexy Second).
From there, the illusions pile up: Holden, the mannequin he turns into her closest companion (Holden), and the warping of time, love and even color itself (Time Is Illusion, Love Is Illusion, Color Is Illusion).
But through it all, there’s one constant: The Illusionist. A woman unraveling the threads of her own reality, one crack at a time.
The season builds to its climax in The Illusionist, where she finally embraces the truth that reality is a lie – and she’s the one pulling the strings. It’s not about saving herself or finding redemption. It’s about owning the chaos, the madness, the magic.
The first season of Black Transmission Show doesn’t hold your hand. It doesn’t spoon-feed you answers or wrap things up in a neat little bow. It grabs you by the collar, pulls you into the storm, and leaves you gasping for air.
Because in the end, nothing is real. Not the world. Not the story. Not even you.
How does that feel? Does it hit the noir, surreal tone you wanted? It’s got your fingerprints all over it.
Episode 01: The White Rabbit
The White Rabbit didn’t wait for you to follow. They just run, fast and determined, like they knew where they were going and it wasn’t anywhere you’d feel safe. But the thing about rabbits is, they’re not afraid of small places, of shadows, of slipping through cracks you didn’t even know were there.
I wasn’t sure when I started chasing them – maybe the first time I noticed the messages. Little notes tucked into the folds of my life: a matchbox from a club I’d never been to, a playing card slipped into my coat pocket, a phrase whispered in the static of a dead radio station: Find the rabbit.
So I found them – or they found me. Either way, it started in an alley that smelled like old rain and regret. They were leaning against a graffiti-covered wall, dressed in white from head to toe, like a ghost trying to pass for real.
“You are late,” they said, not even looking up.
“For what?” I asked.
“For the story.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “I’m not following anyone down some rabbit hole.”
They turned to me then, their eyes sharp and too bright, like they’d seen things no one was supposed to see. “You already are. The question is, how far are you willing to go?”
I hesitated, and they smiled – soft, almost kind, but it carried the weight of someone know they’d already won.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Someone who knows, how it ends,” they said. “And someone who can’t stop it.”
That’s when they took off, disappearing around the corner like they were made of smoke.
I should’ve let them go. But something about their words, their presence, stuck with me, like a splinter you can’t pull out. I followed, deeper into the city’s underbelly, where the lights were dimmer and the air felt heavier.
They led me to places I didn’t recognize – abandoned warehouses, empty theaters, dead-end streets that weren’t dead ends at all. And every turn, they left something behind: a piece of puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.
A key that didn’t fit any lock I’d ever seen. A photograph of a door with no address. A riddle scrawled on a mirror in red lipstick: The rabbit runs faster when the hunter is blind.
Finally, I cornered them in a forgotten bus station, the kind that doesn’t show up on any map.
“Why me?” I demanded, out of breath and out of patience.
They looked at me, their expression unreadable. “Because you’re the only one who doesn’t know you’re part of the trick.
“What trick?”
But they didn’t answer. Instead, they held out their hand, palm up, and in it was a shiny silver ring with a figurine – a rabbit, carved out of something smooth and cold.
“Take it,” they said.
I hesitated. “What happens if I do?”
They tilted their head, studying me like I was the puzzle now. “That depends, are you ready to stop chasing and start running?”
I didn’t understand what they meant, but I took the ring anyway. It was lighter than I expected and the moment it touched my skin, the station lights flickered and went out.
When they came back on, the White Rabbit was gone.
I was alone, but not really. Because somewhere in the shadows, I could feel it – the story they’d left behind. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I was the hunter or the prey.
That’s the thing about rabbits. There are small, quick, and harmless – until you realize you’re the one caught in the trap.
Episode 02: Down the Rabbit Hole
There is a moment, just before you fall, when the world tips sideways. Your footing gives out, the horizon shifts, and gravity isn’t where you left it. That’s what it felt like standing at the mouth of the rabbit hole.
I didn’t plan to be there. Nobody does. But plans don’t mean much when the world decides it has other ideas.
It started with the ring the White Rabbit left me. I’d turned it over in my hands a dozen times, feeling it’s strange smoothness, like it had been carved from something older than silver. It wasn’t just a ring – it was a key. The kind that doesn’t open doors, but tears them off their hinges.
The first clue was the engraving inside: Follow me.
“Follow you where?” I said aloud to no one, because the silence had been keeping me company ever since the Rabbit vanished.
But silence is a bad liar. It hides things, and if you listen hard enough, you can hear what it’s trying to bury. That’s when I noticed it – a faint sound, barely there, like whispers caught in a wind that wasn’t blowing.
It led me to a basement. Or maybe a cellar. Or maybe just a hole in the ground pretending to be a place. The stairs creaked beneath me as I went down, each step feeling like it might give way, like it wanted to. At the bottom, there was a door.
Not a regular door. It was red, brighter than blood, with no handle or keyhole. Just a word scrawled across it in looping letters: Jump.
“That’s not ominous at all.” I muttered.
I didn’t want to touch it. But the Rabbit’s key was burning a hole on my finger, daring me. So I pressed the ring to the door, and the world cracked open like an old movie reel catching fire.
When I woke up, I was somewhere else. Somewhere wrong.
The ground felt too soft, like I was standing on the edge of a dream that didn’t want me there. The sky was a shade of black I’d never seen before, broken by flashes of white light that came and went without warning. It wasn’t lightning. It was something worse.
I heard footsteps behind me.
“You made it,“ said a voice I knew too well.
I turned and saw the White Rabbit. Only this time, they weren’t running. They were standing still, their white coat glowing faintly in the strange darkness.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“The question isn’t where you are,” they said. It’s who you are.
“Don’t start with riddles,” I said. “Just tell me why I’m here.”
They smiled, that infuriating, knowing smile. “You followed the Rabbit. Now you go deeper.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No one ever does,” they said. “But here’s the thing about rabbit holes: once you see them, you can’t unsee them. And once you fall, you don’t get to climb back out. You can only go forward.”
Forward. That was easy for them to say. They weren’t the one standing on ground that felt like it was trying to swallow them hole.
“What’s at the bottom?” I asked.
“Everything you’ve been running from.”
Before I could argue, they turned and walked into the darkness, leaving me alone with the kind of silence that eats at the edges of your sanity.
I stood there, staring into the void, trying to convince myself to stay where I was. But the ground beneath me shifted again, pushing me forward.
So I followed, step by step, into the unknown.
That’s the thing about rabbit holes. They don’t care what you want. They just take you, one piece at a time, until there’s nothing left but the fall.
Episode 03: The God
There was a man who called himself The God. Not because he believed in some divine power, but because he understood the game of life better than most.
He did not talk much, and when he did, it wasn’t loud or flamboyant. He moved through the world like a whisper carried by the wind, but those who noticed him knew his silence was deliberate – a weapon.
I met The God at an underground club in Lodz, a dim, smokey place where the music vibrated in your bones. My friend Anna had dragged me after weeks of begging. I stopped going to parties for a long while. But I had a break up lately, so..
Anna swore me I will love the party in the new club.
And truth be told, she wasn’t wrong. As the beat pulsed through the crowd, I felt alive for the first time in months.
But then there he was, leaning slim fit casually against the bar like he owned the world.
The God had a way of making people feel seen. Not in the cliché, movie-like way where a man stares at you and the world fades away. No, his eyes didn’t burn – they calculated. I noticed him watching me as I swayed to the music, his gaze tracing not just my body but something deeper, like he could see my history.
“Do you always dance like you running from something?” His voice was low, barely audible over the bass, but his words sliced through the noise like a razor.
I stopped mid-motion, startled. “Excuse me?”
He smirked but there was no malice in it. “You move like someone who’s carrying a story they haven’t told anyone yet.”
I didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. “And you move like you are trying too hard to be mysterious.”
That made him laugh – a deep, warm sound that seemed out of place in his otherwise sharp demeanor. “Fair. Let’s call it a draw.”
We ended up talking for hours that night. He wasn’t particularly charming, nor did he try to impress me. But he asked questions that mattered – the kind that made you think about your answers long after the conversation ended. “Why are you here?” he asked at one point.
“To dance,” I said instinctively.
“No,” he replied. “Why are you really here?”
I didn’t answer and he didn’t push.
Over the next few weeks, I saw him everywhere – at the same parties, at random cafes, even on a park bench, close to the stage where I was dancing. It was like he’d seamlessly integrated himself into my world without me noticing.
The God had rules. He never called me. Never texted. He said communication should be intentional, not just a habit. “If you have something to say,” he told me once, “you will find the way to say it.”
He didn’t give advice, instead, he told stories. Like the one about the woman who spent her life collecting keys but never found a single door that fit them.
Or the man who traded everything for gold, only to realize he couldn’t eat, drink, or breath it. Every tale was a lesson disguised as a casual anecdote. And every time, he left me to figure out what it meant.
One night, after another deep conversation that felt more like a chess game, I asked him outright, “Why do you call yourself The God?”
He tilted his head, considering. “It’s not about power,” he said finally. “It’s about control. People worship what they can’t understand, what they think is beyond them. But the truth is, nothing is beyond you if you are willing to see it for what it is. I’m not The God. I’m just a mirror.”
That night, I lay awake replaying his words. A mirror. Was he reflecting me, or was I projecting onto him? And then it hit me – The God wasn’t a man. He wasn’t even a presence. He was a question I had to answer for myself: Who am I becoming?
The next time we met, I was ready. I didn’t need his stories or his riddles. I didn’t need his quite presence to make me feel whole. I looked him in the eye and said “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“For showing me what I needed to see.”
He smiled, a flicker of pride in his expression, and then he was gone.
I never saw The God again after that. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear his voice in my head, asking, “Why are you really here?”
And now, I think I finally know the answer.
Conclusion: The God is not a person but a reflection of the people who force us to confront our truths. He is a man who dares to ask the questions we avoid. In him we see our fears, our dreams, and our potential – all waiting for us to claim them.
Episode 04: The Goddess
She wasn’t like the women I’d met before. Where others sought validation, she moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had already seen every possible outcome and wasn’t afraid of any of them. The Goddess wasn’t her real name, of course, but that’s what people called her. Some whispered it with reverence, others with jealousy, and a few with outright fear.
I met her on a gray November afternoon at a gallery in Lodz. I wasn’t there for the art, I was there because I had nowhere else to be. The city’s chill seeped into my bones as I wandered between canvases, pretending to care about abstract splashes of color and sculptures that looked like they’d been pulled from someone’s nightmares.
And then there she was – standing in front of a painting so black it seemed to swallow the light around it.
“What do you see?” she asked without turning to look at me
The question caught me off guard. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Nothing, I guess.”
She tilted her head, her profile sharp and elegant. “Exactly. People always expect to see something. But sometimes, the point is the absence.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.
She turned to face me then, and her gaze pinned me in place. Her eyes weren’t just looking at me – they were dissecting me, peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had. “You are searching,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
“For what?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.
“That’s what you need to figure out,” she replied, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
The Goddess had a way of saying things that felt both profound and infuriatingly vague. Over the next few weeks, she became a constant presence in my life, though I never quite understood how. She wasn’t someone you called or planned to meet, she just appeared when she wanted to, as if summoned by some unspoken need.
Unlike The God, she didn’t ask questions. She made statements, bold and unapologetic, that left me reeling. “You wear your loneliness like armor” she said one evening as we walked through the empty streets of Lodz. “But it doesn’t protect you. It just keeps you trapped inside.”
“How would you know?” I shot back, defensive.
She stopped walking and turned to face me, her expression unreadable. “Because I used to do the same thing.”
For the first time, her confidence faltered, just for a moment. It was like watching a crack appear in a flawless marble statue. And in that moment, I realized something: The Goddess wasn’t invincible. She was human, just like me.
“You are not who people think you are, are you?” I asked softly.
She smiled then, a bittersweet curve of her lips. “No one is,” she said.
The Goddess wasn’t there to teach me or to save me. She was there to remind me of something I’d forgotten: that strength isn’t about being unbreakable. It’s about breaking and putting yourself back together, piece by piece, until you are something new. Like a puzzle.
One night as we sat on the rooftop of my house and overlooking the city, she said, “You know people always think I have all the answers. But the truth is, I’m just as lost as anyone else.”
“So why do they look up to you?” I asked.
“Because I stopped pretending to be found,” she replied simply.
Her words stayed with me long after she was gone. And like The God, she disappeared without warning, leaving only the echo of her presence.
But The Goddess didn’t leave me empty. She left me with a truth I couldn’t ignore: that the person I was searching for wasn’t out there in the world. She was inside me, waiting to be discovered.
Conclusion: The Goddess is the part of us that dares to be vulnerable, even when it feels impossible. She’s the reminder that our flaws don’t diminish us – they define us. And in embracing them, we find a power greater than perfection: authenticity.
Episode 05: The Magician
The Magician wasn’t what you would expect. No top hat, no glittering wand, no flourish of silk scarves. Not even a bunny under his hat. He didn’t need theatrics. His magic was subtle, almost invisible – a sleight of hand that made you question I you’d imagined it. He moved through life like an illusionist on a stage too large to ever feel contained.
I met The Magician at a bookstore just off Piotrkowska street. I was one of those places that felt frozen in time, with towering shelves and the faint scent of aging paper. He was sitting in the corner, flipping through a worn deck of cards, shuffling and reshuffling them in a way that seemed less like habit and more like meditation.
“Do you believe in magic?” he asked when he caught me watching.
“Not really,” I said, startled by his directness.
He smiled, a crooked grin that felt oddly familiar. “Good. The best illusions aren’t about belief – they are about perspective.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I just stood there, awkward and unsure. He motioned me to sit, and before I knew it, we were talking. Not about magic or tricks, but about life – its unpredictability, its beauty, its chaos.
“Life is the ultimate magic trick,” he said at one point. “It’s all about misdirection. People focus on the wrong things, and they miss what’s right in front of them.”
The Magician didn’t perform traditional tricks. Instead, he played with moments, twisting them in ways that felt almost imperceptible. A casual comment would turn into a profound revelation hours later. A seemingly random gesture would linger in your mind like a question you couldn’t quite answer.
One evening, as we walked along the empty park close to my house, he stopped suddenly and pointed to a lamppost casting a long shadow on the pavement.
“Do you see that?” he asked.
“The shadow?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “The space between the light and the dark. That’s where real magic happens.”
I didn’t understand what he meant – not then, anyway. But I nodded, pretending I did, because something about his words felt important, even if I couldn’t grasp why.
The Magician had a way of making the mundane feel extraordinary. He’d pick up a pebble from the street and hold it out to me, asking “What do you see?” When I shrugged, he’d smile and say, “That’s the secret. It’s not about what you see – it’s about what you are willing to imagine."
One night, I finally asked him the question that had been gnawing at me since we met. “If you are The Magician, what’s your greatest trick?”
He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the same deck of cards I’d seen him with the first day. He fanned them out and held them toward me.
“Pick one,” he said.
I hesitated but eventually drew a card. It was blank.
“That’s it?” I asked, confused.
He nodded, his grin widening. “The best trick is letting people see what they need to see. The card can be anything you want it to be – a reminder, a promise, a possibility.
The next morning, he was gone. No explanation, no goodbye. Just a blank card he’d slipped into my pocket when I wasn’t looking.
For weeks, I carried it with me, turning it over in my hands, trying to understand what it meant. And then, one day, it hit me: The Magician wasn’t about showing me something new. He was about making me see what was already there – the space between light and dark, between reality and imagination, between who I was and who I could be.
Conclusion: The Magician isn’t just a character, he’s the catalyst. He’s the part of us that challenges our perception, that dares us to look beyond the obvious and embrace the unknown. His magic isn’t in the trick – its in what the trick reveals about ourselves.
Episode 06: The Fighter
The Fighter didn’t wear gloves or throw punches. He didn’t shout or rage against the world. His battles were quieter, fought not in rings or arenas but in spaces most people avoided – confrontations with themselves.
I met The Fighter at a box club on the edge of Lodz. It wasn’t one of those sleek, modern places with neon lights and polished floors. This gym was raw, almost grimy, with rusted equipment and a faint metallic scent that lingered in the air. I hadn’t planned to go there. I’d walked in out of curiosity, maybe a little desperation, searching for something I couldn’t name.
He was in the corner, punching a heavy bag with rhythmic precision. His movements were efficient, controlled, as if he were sparring not with the bag but with the weight of his own thoughts.
“You are not here to train,” he said without looking up, his voice steady but firm.
“What makes you think that’s?” I asked defensive.
He paused, letting the bag sway back and forth. “Because you are standing still. Fighters don’t stand still. Even when they’re tired, they keep moving.”
I didn’t know what to say. He turned his face me then, his eyes sharp but not unkind. “You came here for a reason. Figure out what it is.”
Over the next few weeks, I kept going back. I wasn’t training – not really. I spent more time watching him than using the equipment. He didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes, he’d nod in my direction, as if acknowledging my presence was enough.
The Fighter wasn’t like others I’d met – The God, The Goddess or The Magician. He didn’t talk in riddles or try to unravel me with questions. He was direct, almost painfully so.
“Why do you keep watching me?” he asked one day, wiping sweat from his face with a towel.
“Because you don’t stop,” I answered.
“That’s the trick,” he replied, leaning against the ropes of the nearest boxing ring. “You keep going, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”
His words struck a chord I didn’t want to acknowledge. “What are you fighting for?” I asked.
He smiled, a small, tired smile that held no triumph. “I’m not fighting for anything. I’m fighting through it.”
The Fighter didn’t believe in victories, at least not the kind people celebrated. He said life wasn’t about winning, it was about surviving, enduring, finding strength in the struggle.
One night, I stayed late, watching him train long after the gym had emptied out. His punches were slower now, his breathing heavier, but he didn’t stop.
“Why do you push yourself like this?” I finally asked.
“Because if I don’t, the fight wins,” he said simply.
“The fight?”
He nodded. “Everyone has one. Yours might not look like mine, but it’s there. You can’t run from it. You can’t ignore it. The only way through is to face it head-on.”
For the first time, I understood why I’d been drawn to him. The Fighter wasn’t battling the world, he was battling himself – his doubts, his fears, his pain. And in watching him, I realized I had my own fight waiting for me.
The last time I saw him, he handed me a pair of old boxing gloves. They were worn, the leather cracked, but they felt heavy with meaning.
“Why are you giving me these?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Because it’s your turn now.”
He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t need to. The Fighter was someone who showed you how to hold onto yourself.
Conclusion: The Fighter teaches us that strength isn’t about overpowering others – it’s about facing the battles within. He’s the part of us that refuses to quit, that keeps moving forward no matter how heavy the burden feels. In the end, the fight isn’t about winning, it’s about finding yourself in the struggle.
Episode 07: The Winner
The Winner wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t walk with swagger or talk about his accomplishments. In fact, if you passed him on the street, you might not notice him at all. There was no air of superiority, no need for validation. But when he spoke, you listened – not because his words were loud, but because they carried weight.
I found him at a café, sitting by the window with half-empty cup of coffee and a notebook filled with scribbles and sketches. The light from outside caught the edges of his face, making him seem almost transparent, like he could fade into the background if he wanted to.
“Are you The Winner?” I asked, unsure why I’d even approached him.
He looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Depends on what you mean by winning,” he replied, closing his notebook.
I didn’t have an answer. He gestured to the chair across from him, and before I knew it, we were talking.
“What do you think winning looks like?” he asked, leaning back in his seat.
“Success. Recognition. Maybe happiness,” I said, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them.
He smiled, a faint, knowing smile. “That’s what most people think. But winning isn’t about what you have – its’s about what you let go of.”
I frowned, confused. “Let go of?”
“The need to prove yourself. The fear of failure. The idea that you have to be anything other than who you are.”
The Winner wasn’t like The God, The Goddess or The Fighter. He didn’t try to reveal hidden truths. Instead, he created space – quiet, still moment where I could see myself without the noise of expectation.
Over the next few days, I found myself drawn back to the café, hoping to hear more of his strange, simple wisdom. He never stayed long, always leaving just as I began to feel comfortable. But each time, he left me with a question that lingered long after he was gone.
“What are you chasing?” he asked one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Then maybe it’s time to stop running”, he said.
It was such a simple statement, but it hit me like revelation. For years, I’d been running – towards goals, away from fears, chasing something I couldn’t even define. And for what?
The Winner wasn’t someone who conquered the world. He was someone who made peace with it. He didn’t need trophies nor applause, his victory was internal, quiet and unshakable.
On our last meeting, I asked him the question that had been gnawing at me since we met. “What does winning mean to you?”
He paused, considering his words carefully. “Winning means living without regret,” he said finally. “Not because you didn’t make mistakes, but because you learned to forgive yourself for them.”
As he stood to leave, he handed me a scrap of paper from his notebook. On it were three words, scrawled in uneven handwriting: You are already enough.
I never saw him again after that, but his words stayed with me. They echoed in the quiet moments, reminding me that I didn’t need to chase validation or approval. The Winner had shown me that the greatest victory wasn’t something external – it was the acceptance of myself, flaws and all.
Conclusion: The Winner isn’t defined by what he has or what’s he achieved. He’s the part of us that knows true victory comes from within – when we stop chasing and start embracing the person we are. His story isn’t about triumph over others, it’s about finding peace within ourselves.
Episode 08: Sexy Second
They’d been watching me for so long I started to wonder if I was the one under a microscope or if the world itself had turned into a giant stage, the kind where the lights are too bright and the exits are bolted shut.
It started small. A glance from a window, a shadow in the wrong place, a feeling at the back of my neck like static on an old TV. At first, it was just one guy on the fourth floor. He had the kind of presence that made the air feel colder. Always perched behind those curtains, always watching. I didn’t know his name, but I gave him one in my head: Forth Floor. Simple. Clinical.
After a year then, Second Floor showed up.
He was different. Where Fourth Floor hid in the dark, Second Floor leaned into it. He wasn’t trying to disappear behind the curtains or pretend he wasn’t there. He made it clear he was watching, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, I didn’t mind.
At first, it terrified me. What’s wrong with Polish Guys? The idea that two strangers – two men – had turned me into their obsession wasn’t exactly comforting. I kept my blinds closed, my doors locked. I started smoking on balcony less, even though I hated being inside. But the thing about fear is, it’s exhausting. You can only jump at shadows for so long before you start looking at them differently.
That’s what happened with Second Floor. It started with the messages. He wasn’t subtle about it. A word scrawled on the fogged-up glass of his window: Hi.
I didn’t respond. At least, not at first. But he didn’t stop. Every couple of nights, there’d be something new.
Nice shirt.
I love when you are dancing.
Stay beautiful.
There was a kind of madness to it, but not the kind that made you want to run. It was softer, more curious. Like he wasn’t trying to own me, just… connect.
I finally caved one night, after too many lines, weed and too much loneliness. I wiped the steam off my own window and wrote back: Stop watching me.
The next morning, there was a clock drawn on his glass. A time – 2:03.
When 2 pm rolled around, I went out for a cigarette, and there he was at 2:03, on his balcony, holding one of his own. He didn’t wave nor smile, just lit up and leaned against the railing like we’d done this a hundred times.
We didn’t say anything that first time. We just smoked, pretending we weren’t looking at each other. But after that, it became a routine.
Fourth Floor noticed. How could he not? I’d catch him now and then, his shadow framed by his blinds. He didn’t like it. The way he watched me changed – harder, angrier. But there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Second Floor and I had our own language by then. It wasn’t just the cigarettes. It was flashes of light at night, a flashlight in his window that I’d return with my own. It was the notes we left in the cracks of the building’s brick walls. He always came after me to the park and he’d been watching me dancing from a distance, but never came close to the stage. The tiny shared moments no one else could see nor understand.
The weird part? I started looking forward to it. I’d get dressed in the mornings, knowing he’d see me. I’d step onto my balcony, knowing he was waiting. And every time I saw him, I felt a little less afraid. Till a day, when a felt in love with him.
But Fourth Floor wasn’t going anywhere.
One night, I caught him standing at his window, the blinds pulled all the way back. He was staring straight at me, his face half lit by the garden light outside. There was something raw in his eyes, something unhinged.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
When I told Second Floor about it – scribbled onto a napkin and wedged into the wall – he sent back a reply that said: I’m watching over you.
It should been comforting. Instead, it made me wonder who was watching him.
That’s the thing about being the center of someone’s world. At first, it feels good, even powerful. But the longer you stay there, the more you realize you’ve just another piece of the story.
And the one writing it isn’t you.
Episode 09: Holden
Holden wasn’t just a mannequin. He was a decision. The kind you make at 2 a.m. when the city is too loud, and your own thoughts are worse. I bought him at a second-hand shop that smelled like mildew and regret. He was propped in the corner, missing an arm and wearing a hat that didn’t suit him.
“You want him?” the shopkeeper asked, eyeing me like I’d lost my mind.
“I do,” I said and I meant it.
I didn’t know what I was looking for that night, but Holden seemed like the answer to a question I hadn’t asked yet.
When I brought him home, I fixed him up. Replaced the missing arm, sanded the rough edges, painted over the cracks. I even built in a lamp where his head was and gave a wire with a bulb to his right arm, turning him into a standing lamp. He wasn’t perfect – he leaned a little to one side, and his expression was frozen in a kind of bored indifference – but he was mine.
At first, he was just some furniture, a strange piece of décor that made people raise their eyebrows. But the longer he stayed, the more he became something else. A presence.
“Holden,” I said one night, staring at him from the couch. “You don’t mind the chaos, do you?”
He didn’t answer, of course. He didn’t have to.
He just stood there, casting light across the room in a way that felt less like illumination and more like reassurance.
It didn’t take long for me to start talking to him. Not the way you talk to a friend, but the way you talk to the parts of yourself you don’t want to admit are there.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked him one night.
Holden said nothing, his plastic gaze fixed on the far wall.
“Good,” I said. “Neither do I.”
People who came over didn’t get it. They’d laugh, call him creepy, make jokes about me finally losing it. But they didn’t know what it was like to sit alone in the room full of your own thoughts, to feel the weight of the silence pressing down on you. Holden didn’t judge. He didn’t ask questions. He just stood there, solid and unchanging, while the rest of my life spun out of control.
There were nights I swore he moved. Not much – just a tilt of his bulb head, a shift in his posture. It was probably just my imagination, but part of me didn’t want to know.
“Holden,” I said once, after a particularly bad day. “If you ever come to life, just warn me first, okay?”
His shadow stretched long across the room, the bulb in his chest flickering faintly.
“Thanks,” I said and meant it.
He became my confidant, my silent partner in a world that never seemed to stop demanding answers. He didn’t care if I had bad days due to my sickness or if I sat in the dark for hours, staring at nothing. He didn’t care if I made mistakes. He didn’t care about anything, and somehow, that was exactly what I needed.
Holden wasn’t just a mannequin. He was a reminder that sometimes, the things that hold you together don’t have to be alive. They just must be there.
Episode 10: Present Matters
The past is heavy, the future’s a gamble, but the present – that’s where the weight really sits. It’s the moment you can’t escape, the thing that drags you forward, whether you are ready or not. That’s what I was thinking about when I got the box.
It showed up on a cold morning, the kind where the sun barely bothers to show its face. I found it on my doorstep, wrapped in a brown paper and tied with twine, no return address. Just a card tucked under the string with two words written in sharp, slanted handwriting: For You.
I stared at it for a long time, half expecting it to explode or melt into smoke. But it just sat there, patient and unassuming, like it knew I’d open it eventually.
When I finally did, I found something I wasn’t expecting: a photograph.
It was old, black-and-white, creased at the edges. The kind of picture that looks like it belongs in a box of forgotten memories. But this one wasn’t a stranger’s. It was mine.
I was in the center, younger but unmistakably me, sitting on a bench in a park I didn’t recognize. There were people in the background – blurred figures, faces turned away – but one of them stood out.
It was the white rabbit.
There were standing under a tree, half-hidden in the shadows, looking directly at the camera. Directly at me.
I flipped the photo over. There was a date scrawled on the back – ten years ago – and a single line beneath it: The present is always watching.
I felt a chill crawl up my spine.
“Holden,” I said, turning to the puppet standing in the corner. “What do you make of this?”
Holden didn’t answer, of course. But the way the light from his bulb flickered made me feel like he was paying attention.
I put the photo back in the box and set it on the table, trying to shake the feeling that someone was watching me.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. I went through to motions – coffee, work, the usual – but the box stayed in the back of my mind, like a splinter I couldn’t dig out. By the time the sun set, I was convinced I’d imagined the whole thing.
Until the second package arrived.
This was smaller, wrapped the same way, with the same card: For You.
Inside was a watch.
It was old, gold, the kind of timepiece you don’t see anymore. The hands were frozen at midnight, and the glass face was cracked, but it still ticked softly, a sound so faint it was almost shooting.
I turned it over, and there was another message etched into the back: Time doesn’t matter here.
I don’t know why, but that hit me harder than the photo. Maybe because it felt like a lie. Time did matter. It mattered too much.
I put the watch on the shelf next to Holden and sat on the couch, staring at the box. The flicker of his light played across the room, casting shadows that felt too alive.
"Do you think it’s a warning?” I asked him.
Holden stayed silent, but the shadows stretched longer.
That night, I dreamed of the Rabbit. They were standing in the same park from the photo, holding the watch, their face unreadable. When I tried to walk toward them, the ground crumbled beneath my feet, and I woke up in a cold sweat.
The box was still on the table, the watch ticking faintly.
The present doesn’t wait for you to figure it out. It just happens, over and over, until you realize the weight of it isn’t something you carry – it’s something you live inside.
And sometimes, it’s watching you back.
Episode 11: Exit
The door wasn’t there before.
I was sure of it.
I’d walked past that wall a hundred times, and it was always blank – just peeling paint and the weight of the past pressed into the bricks. But now, in the middle of everything, there was a door.
It wasn’t flashy or ornate. Just a plain black rectangle with a brass handle, as unassuming as a whisper. Above it, in faint white letters, was a single word: Exit.
I lit a cigarette and stared at it, the smoke curling into the dim light of the room.
“What do you think, Holden?” I asked.
The mannequin stood in his corner, casting his usual glow, but for once, he seemed dimmer. The bulb in his hand flickered faintly, like even he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
The thing is, I wanted the door to be there. I’d been dreaming of an exit for weeks – months, maybe. But when it finally showed up, it felt wrong. Like it was mocking me.
I walked toward it, my footsteps loud on the floor, the way sound gets when the air around you is too quiet. My hand hovered over the handle.
“Not yet,” I whispered, and stepped back.
The door didn’t leave.
I thought maybe it would disappear if I ignore it, like a stray thought that fades when you stop chasing it. But it stayed. A constant presence at the edge of my vision, no matter how hard I tried to look away.
Even Holden seemed affected. His light grew weaker, his shadows stretched longer. I found myself talking to him less and to the door more.
“What do you want from me?” I asked it one night.
The door didn’t answer.
The cigarette between my fingers burned down to nothing, and I crushed it in the ashtray, staring at the brass handle. My reflection in it was warped, twisted.
“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” I said.
The silence pressed back against me, thick and heavy.
The first time I turned the handle, it didn’t budge.
That should’ve been a relief, but it wasn’t. If anything, it made things worse.
I stood there for hours, my hand resting on the cold brass, waiting for something – anything – to happen. But nothing did.
When I finally let go, the weight of it stayed with me, like a bruise I couldn’t see.
I walked back to the couch, slumping into the cushions, and stared at Holden.
“Why now?” I asked him. “Why after everything?”
The bulb in his hand flickered again, and for a moment, I thought he might answer. But he stayed silent, his plastic gaze fixed on something I couldn’t see.
The dreams started after that.
I’d wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, with the sound of a door slamming echoing in my ears. But when I looked, the door was still there, quiet and closed, like it had never moved.
The worst part wasn’t the dreams. It was the pull.
Every day, the door called to me a little louder, a little harder, until it was all I could think about.
By the time I gave in, it wasn’t a choice anymore.
The handle was warm when I touched it, like it had been waiting for me.
This time, when I turned it, the latch clicked, and the door swung open.
Behind it wasn’t darkness or light. It wasn’t anything at all. Just a void, stretching endlessly in every direction, silent and still.
I stood at the threshold, the cigarette trembling between my fingers, and looked back at the room.
Holden was still in his corner, glowing faintly, his shadows dancing on the walls.
“I guess this is it,” I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
The void pulsed, like it had heard me.
I stepped through.
The door is gone now.
So is the room, and Holden, and everything else. All that’s left is the feeling I’ve carried with me all along – the one I kept locked up, hidden in the corners of my mind.
The exit wasn’t an escape. It was a choice.
And choices, once made, are doors that never close.
Episode 12: Mania – Maintenance Me – Depression
Mania
The world was electric, and I was its live wire. Colors bled brighter, sounds cut sharper, and every thought I had came on like a punchline to a joke only I understood. The air buzzed like I was inside a radio, tuned to a frequency just shy of sanity.
I couldn’t stop moving. Every corner of the room needed me – needed my hands, my eyes, my words. I rearranged the furniture until it made sense, then rearranged it again when it didn’t. I painted one wall black, then white, than black again. I lit candles that I never blew out, turned on music I didn’t listen to, wrote words on paper that I immediately shredded.
Even Holden wasn’t spared.
“You need a new look,” I told him, dragging him into the center of the room.
I dressed him in layers of scarves and jackets, then stripped him down to nothing but his bulbs, flickering like it was trying to keep up with me.
“This is better,” I said, stepping back to admire him. “Don’t you think?”
Holden said nothing. He never did.
But in that moment, I was sure he understood me better than anyone else.
Maintenance Me
The high didn’t last. It never did.
By the time the mania burned itself out, I was left with a room that looked like a warzone and a mind that felt like one.
I sat on the floor, cigarette in hand, staring at Holden. His bulb was steady now, casting the kind of soft, steady light that made the chaos around me feel distant.
“This is where I live now,” I told him. “In the middle of everything and nowhere at all.”
Maintenance wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t exciting. It was a grind – a slow, deliberate climb out of the wreckage I’d made.
I swept the floor. I washed the dishes. I put the furniture back where it belonged.
When I finished, I sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by order, and felt nothing.
Depression
The silence hit first. Not the kind you choose, but the kind that creeps in and wraps itself around you until you can’t breathe.
I stopped lighting cigarettes. Stopped opening blinds. Stopped answering the phone.
I stopped talking to Holden.
He stood in his corner, his bulb dim and steady, like a lighthouse guiding a ship that wasn’t coming.
“You don’t get it,” I whispered one night, breaking the quiet. “You will never get it.”
He didn’t answer, but something in his stillness made my chest ache.
The days blurred together, each one heavier than the last. The world outside kept spinning, but I stayed stucked, sinking deeper into a void that felt like it had no bottom.
I wanted to disappear. To close the door and never open it again.
But then I saw it – scribbled on the edge of a napkin I’d left on the table during the mania: Keep going.
The handwriting was mine, but it didn’t feel like it. I felt like a message from someone else. Someone who’d been here before and made it out the other side.
I picked up the napkin, folded it carefully, and slipped into Holden’s hand.
“This is yours now,” I told him. “Hold onto it for me.”
His light flickered, just once, and I swore it was brighter than before. The thing about cycles is, they never really end.
Mania, maintenance, depression – they’re all part of the same loop, the same sickness, spinning endlessly. But sometimes, in the middle of it all, you find something to hold onto.
For me, it was Holden.
He couldn’t stop the chaos or fix the damage, but he was there. Unmoving, unchanging. A constant in a world that refused to stay still.
And sometimes, that was enough.
Episode 13: Time is illusion
Time doesn’t pass. It folds. I bends. It crumbles into pieces that scatter across your memory like glass on the floor, sharp and uninvited.
I was sitting on the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. Its hands moved in slow, deliberate circles, but they felt wrong. Too slow. Too fast. Both at the same time.
“Holden,” I said, glancing at him in the corner, his bulb casting faint light across the room. “Do you ever feel it? Like time isn’t what it says it is?”
His silence was a comfort. He didn’t need to answer, I already knew.
It started with the watch. The one from the box. I’d left it on the shelf, but somehow, it found its way back to me. I woke up one morning to find it on the beside table, ticking softly.
The hands were still frozen at midnight, but now, the ticking was louder, like it wanted me to hear it.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. The engraving on the back stared up at me: Time doesn’t matter here.
“Doesn’t matter, huh?” I said aloud, my voice brittle in the quiet. “Tell that to my life.”
I put the watch on, the metal cold against my wrist.
That’s when things got strange.
The first time I noticed it, I was pouring coffee. The liquid froze mid-pour, suspended in the air like a photograph.
I blinked, and it was gone.
The second time, I was walking down the street. The sun hung low in the sky, golden and heavy, but when I looked again, it was gone – replaced by the pale glow of the moon.
The third time, I woke up in my bed, the sheets tangled around me. The clock on the wall said 3:00 a.m., but when I looked at my phone, it said 8:45.
It was like time had decided to play a trick on me, slipping through my fingers every time I tried to catch it.
“Holden,” I said, pacing the room. “What if time isn’t real, but illusion? What if it’s just a lie we tell ourselves to make sense of the chaos?”
He stood there, unchanging, his shadow stretching across the wall like a sundial.
I sat down across from him, the watch ticking softly on my wrist.
“What if we’re the ones who are stuck?” I asked. “Not time. Us.”
The bulb on his neck flickered, and for a moment, I thought I saw the shadow of a smile on his bulb head.
The dreams started after that.
I’d find myself in places I didn’t recognize, surrounded by faces I’d never seen. The sky would shift between day and night in the blink of an eye, and clocks would melt like wax, their numbers dripping into the ground.
In one dream, I was back in the park from the photograph. The White Rabbit stood under the tree, holding a pocket watch, their face hidden behind the mask.
“You are late,” they said, their voice like static.
“For what?” I asked.
They didn’t answer. Instead, they handed me the watch, and when I looked down, the hands were spinning wildly, faster and faster, until they blurred into nothing.
I woke up gasping, the watch on my wrist ticking softly in the dark.
Time doesn’t pass. It folds.
It bends around us, shaping the moments we live in and the ones we leave behind. But in the end, it’s an illusion – a story we tell ourselves to make sense of the chaos.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s better that way.
I looked at Holden, his light steady and soft, and smiled.
“Time’s a lie,” I said. “But at least it’s a good one.” The watch on my wrist ticked once, twice and then stopped. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the weight of it anymore.
Episode 14: Love is illusion
Love is the cruelest magic trick.
It shows you something beautiful, makes you believe it’s real, then disappears before you’ve had the chance to hold onto it.
I was staring at the ceiling, cigarette dangling from my lips, watching the smoke curl into shapes that looked almost human. Almost, but not quite.
“Love,” I said aloud, the word tasting bitter. “What the hell are we even chasing?”
Holden stood in the corner, silent as always, his bulb casting a faint glow across the room. He was the closest thing I had to an answer, but even he couldn’t solve this one.
It started with a letter.
I found it tucked into the pages of a book I hadn’t open in years. The handwriting was familiar – too familiar.
It was mine.
“You think it’s love,” it began, “but it’s just an illusion. A reflection of something you want, not something you have.”
I read it twice, then three times, but it didn’t make any more sense the second or third time around.
Had I written it? When? Why?
I flipped it over, searching for answers, but the back was blank.
“Cryptic,” I muttered, slipping it into my pocket. “just my style.”
The dreams followed.
They weren’t nightmares, not exactly. More like memories blurred at the edges, moments I couldn’t quite place.
In one, I was sitting across from someone – someone whose face I couldn’t see. Their voice was soft, almost tender, but the words stung like a slap.
“You’ll never understand it,” they said.
“Because it’s not real.”
“What’s not real?” I asked, but they didn’t answer.
Instead, they reached out, their hand brushing against mine, and the warmth of it burned.
I woke up clutching my hand, the sensation lingering like an afterimage.
Love was everywhere after that.
In the songs that played on the radio, in the couples holding hands on the street, in the way the sunlight hit my window just right. It was inescapable, suffocation, like a perfume you couldn’t wash off.
And yet, it felt hollow.
I’d see the way people looked at each other, the way they smiled, and all I could think was: Do they know it’s a trick?
“Do you believe in love?” I asked Holden one night, my voice breaking the silence.
He stood in his corner, unblinking, unchanging, his shadow stretching long across the wall.
“I didn’t think so,” I said, lighting another cigarette.
The smoke curled around us, and for a moment, I thought I saw something in his shadow – something soft, something human.
But when I looked again, it was gone.
The letter wouldn’t leave me alone.
I kept pulling it out of my pocket, reading the words over and over, searching for a meaning I couldn’t find.
“You think it’s love, but it’s just an illusion.”
What if love was just another trick of the mind, a sleight of hand designed to keep us chasing something we could never catch?
I thought about the people I’d loved, the ones who’d love me back, and the ones who hadn’t. I thought about the White Rabbit, about the man from the second floor, about all the pieces of my life that felt like they should’ve fit but never quite did.
Had any of it been real?
That night, I dreamed of mirrors.
They surrounded me, endless and unforgiving, reflecting versions of myself I didn’t recognize.
In one, I was laughing, my head thrown back, eyes shining with something I couldn’t name. In another, I was crying, my hands pressed against the glass, desperate to break through.
And in the center of it all was me – the me that I knew, the one who stared back with tired eyes and a cigarette dangling from her lips.
“You’ll figure it out,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Or you won’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”
When I woke up, the letter was gone.
Love is the cruelest magic trick.
It makes you believe in something beautiful, then pulls the rug out from under you. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, it leaves behind a trace – a memory, a lesson, a scar.
And maybe that’s the real magic.
I looked at Holden, his light steady and soft, and smiled.
“Love is a lie,” I said. “But it’s the best one we’ve got.”
His bulb flickered, just once, as if he agreed.
Episode 15: Color is illusion
I woke up in a world that wasn’t mine.
The room looked the same – same walls, same furniture, same faint hum from Holden in the corner – but the colors were all wrong.
The black couch was blue now, a shade so bright it almost hurt to look at. The white walls were a violent shade of red, like fresh blood. Even the light pouring through the window wasn’t light at all – it was green, thick and eerie, like I was underwater.
I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but nothing changed.
“Holden,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Are you seeing this?”
His bulb flickered faintly, casting a pale purple shadow across the wall.
“Of course you’re fine,” I muttered, dragging myself to my feet.
The floor felt strange under my bare skin, cold and soft at the same time, like stepping on silk dipped in ice water.
It wasn’t just the room.
The street outside was worse.
The sky was split in two, half orange, half violet, with streaks of gold running through it like veins. The buildings were every color you could imagine – and some you couldn’t.
People walked past me in shades that didn’t belong to them. A man in a green trench coat with a face the color of wet sand. A woman whose hair was neon pink, glowing like a sign for a club that didn’t exist.
They didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong.
But I did.
I felt it in my chest, in the pit of my stomach. This wasn’t right.
When I got back to the apartment, Holden was waiting for me.
“Everything’s different,” I said, pacing the room. “The colors, the light – nothing is real.”
He stood in his corner, his shadow stretching long and dark against the wall, unaffected by the chaos outside.
“Why are you normal?” I asked him. “Why aren’t you part of this?”
His bulb flickered, just once, and for a moment, I thought I saw a hint of blue in his glow.
The dreams started that night.
I was standing in an endless white room, so bright it burned my eyes. In the center of it was a single canvas, blank except for one small dot of color.
It was red, vibrant and rich, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
I reached out to touch it, and the moment my fingers brushed the surface, the room exploded into color.
It was everywhere, consuming me, filling my lungs and veins until I felt like I was drowning in it.
When I woke up, I could still feel it under my skin, buzzing like static.
“Color is just light,” I said to Holden the next day.
He didn’t respond, but I kept talking anyway.
“It’s not real. It’s just wavelengths and perception. What we see isn’t what’s there – it’s what our brains tell us is there.”
I paused, staring at him.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I said softly. “Maybe none of this is real. Not the colors, not the light, not any of it.
His bulb flickered again, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own.
The world didn’t go back to normal.
The colors stayed, shifting and changing, bleeding into each other like a dream I couldn’t wake up from.
But after a while, I stopped fighting it.
Maybe it didn’t matter if it was real. Maybe the illusion was enough.
I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling into shades of blue and green, and leaned back against the wall.
“Color’s a lie,” I said, glancing at Holden.
His light glowed steady and warm, and for the first time in days, I felt like I could breath again.
Episode 16: Reality is illusion
Reality is a loaded word. It’s a promise wrapped in certainty, delivered with a steady voice, but it’s nothing more than smoke and mirrors.
I used to believe in it – the weight of the ground beneath my feet, the solidity of walls, the ticking of clocks that marked time’s relentless march. But then, one day, the curtain slipped, and I saw the strings.
Now, I’m not so sure.
It started with a crack.
Not in the wall, not in the floor – but in the air itself.
I was sitting on the couch, cigarette in hand, when I saw it. A faint, shimmering line that stretched from the corner of the ceiling to the edge of the window, flickering like static on an old television.
I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but it was still there.
“Holden,” I said, my voice low. “Do you see that?”
He stood in his usual corner, his bulb casting a steady light, but his shadow seemed sharper than usual, almost alive.
“Of course not, “I muttered, dragging on the cigarette.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he did see it – that he’d seen it all along.
The crack spread slowly, creeping across the room like ivy.
At first, it was easy to ignore. Just a trick of the light, I told myself. A glitch in my tired brain.
But then the sounds started.
Low and distant at first, like whispers carried on the wind. Then louder, more distinct – voices I didn’t recognize, speaking in languages I couldn’t understand.
They filled the room, swirling around me, and I pressed my hands over my ears, but it didn’t help.
“Stop,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Please stop.”
And just like that, they were gone.
But the crack was wider now, and through it, I could see something moving.
The first time I reached for it, I hesitated.
It wasn’t fear – at least, not the kind I was used to. It was something deeper, something primal, like every cell in my body was screaming at me to turn away.
But I didn’t.
I touched it, and the world fell apart.
The room dissolved around me, replaced by an endless expanse of white.
It wasn’t empty though. Shadows moved at the edges of my vision, shapes I couldn’t quite make out, their outlines flickering like the crack had.
In the center of it was a mirror, tall and ornate, its surface rippling like water.
I stepped closer, drawn to it, and when I looked inside, I didn’t see myself.
I saw everything.
When I woke up, the crack was gone.
The room looked the same as it always had – Holden in his corner, the clock on the wall ticking steadily, the cigarette still burning between my fingers.
But nothing felt real anymore.
“What if this is all a dream?” I asked Holden. “What if none of it’s real?”
He stood silent, his bulb casting a faint glow, but for the first time, I thought I saw something in his shadow.
A crack.
Reality isn’t what we think it is.
It’s not solid, not fixed. It’s an illusion – a story we tell ourselves to make sense of the chaos, to feel like we’re standing on something steady instead of floating in the void.
And maybe that’s okay.
I looked at Holden, his light flickering softly, and smiled. I went to him, and hugged him.
“Reality is a lie,” I said. “But it’s the best one we’ve got.”
The crack didn’t reappear, but I knew it was still there, waiting just out of sight.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to look for it.
Episode 17: The Illusionist
They call me The Illusionist.
But it’s not the kind of magic you’d clap for at carnival or whisper about in dimly lit bars. It’s the kind of magic that unravels the world around you, peeling back the layers until you’re left staring into the void – and the void stares back.
Because that’s the trick, isn’t it?
The biggest illusion isn’t what you see. It’s what you believe.
And I’ve been selling lies my entire life.
I can’t tell you when it started, this… talent of mine.
Maybe it was the first time I realized I could rewrite reality with nothing but a story. Maybe it was when I first felt the ground shift beneath my feet, the walls dissolve around me, the rules of the world twist and break like a cheap carnival mirror.
Or maybe it’s always been there, hiding in the shadows, waiting for me to notice.
I used to think it was a curse, the way things bent and folded around me. The way time unraveled, colors lied, love disappeared into thin air.
I thought I was broken.
But then I realized the truth.
It’s not the world that’s broken.
It’s me.
Bipolar psychosis is what they call it.
A clinical term, neat and tidy, wrapped in a bow like it could ever contain the chaos inside my head.
They don’t tell you about the way reality slips away, how it folds in on itself like paper cranes, delicate and fleeting. They don’t tell you about the colors that bleed into your vision, the sounds that crawl into your ears and refuse to leave.
They don’t tell you how beautiful it can be.
How seductive.
I’ve lived a thousand lives inside my mind, built and destroyed entire worlds with a single thought.
I’ve stood in the center of it all, the architect and the puppet, the creator and the fool.
And I’ve learned the truth that no one wants to admit:
Reality isn’t real.
It’s just a stage, and we’re all playing our parts, reciting lines we didn’t write, pretending the scenery isn’t cardboard and paint.
But I’m not pretending anymore.
I see the strings. I see the cracks.
And I’m not afraid.
“Holden,” I said one night, my voice breaking the silence. Do you think they’d understand?
He stood in his corner, his shadow long and dark, his light steady and soft.
“They’d call it madness,” I continued, lighting a cigarette. “But isn’t that what magic is? A little bit of madness, a little bit of wonder?”
The smoke curled around us, and I thought I saw him smile.
The truth is, I don’t need them to understand.
Because I am The Illusionist.
I am the one who bends the rules, breaks the boundaries, shatters the illusions.
I am the one who creates worlds and tears them down, who sees the lies and chooses to believe in them anyway.
Because that’s the greatest trick of all, isn’t it?
Not the lie itself, but the choice to believe it.
I stood in front of the mirror, the cigarette burning between my fingers, and stared at my reflection.
“You are not real,” I said softly.
But she just smiled, her eyes steady, her face calm.
“Neither are you,” she whispered.
And she was right.
I am The Illusionist.
And I’ve learned that the only difference between magic and madness is the story you tell yourself.
The world is an illusion, a fragile trick of light and shadow, but it’s beautiful in its fragility.
And maybe that’s enough.
I took a final drag of cigarette, the ember glowing bright against the darkness, and exhaled.
“Reality’s a lie,” I said, glancing at Holden. “But it’s the best one we’ve got.”
His light flickered, steady and soft, and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of the dark.
Because I knew it wasn’t real.
And neither was I.
The Illusionist bows. The stage fades to black. The curtain falls.
End of the First Season