The manor's oppressive silence pressed down like a living weight. The storm outside had vanished, but inside, the echoes of that violent night clung to every wall, every warped floorboard. The laughter had faded—no longer the manic cacophony that tore through their minds—but it had left behind a void, a hollow ache in the air.
Each of them stirred, scattered in separate corners of the house, tangled in their own fractured thoughts.
Lena
Lena's hands trembled as she rose from the velvet floor, the cracked microphone still humming faintly in her grip. She wandered through the dim hallway, breath shallow, heartbeat loud. The shadows clung to her like old regrets.
She stopped before a shattered mirror. Her reflection fractured into pieces, some showing a younger version of herself—bright-eyed, sharp-tongued, hungry for the spotlight.
"You were wrong to rewrite her sketch," a whisper crawled from the glass.
She dropped the mic, the sound ringing out like a verdict. Lena's throat tightened as memories surged: the rehearsals, the late nights where she convinced Eden to let her "improve" the work. The casual betrayal, disguised as collaboration.
"I remember now," Lena whispered, her voice cracking. "You were right to be angry."
A scrap of paper fluttered from the torn pages of an old notebook nearby. She caught it — Eden's handwriting, scrawled in a frantic rush: "Don't let them steal the soul." The words burned.
Lena wrapped her arms around herself, swallowed the lump in her throat, and then whispered into the silence, "I'm sorry."
The microphone buzzed in response, faint but clear: "You're still performing."
Marc
Marc staggered into a room flooded with harsh white light, his eyes wide. Everywhere, bright marquee posters with his name blazed, but every image of Eden was defaced—her face scratched out, her smile replaced with an accusing frown.
He tried to laugh it off, but the walls seemed to pulse with judgment.
In a cracked mirror, Marc's reflection grinned back—slick, confident, everything he pretended to be. But behind him, shadowy versions of Eden crowded the doorway, whispering over and over:
"You knew. You knew. You knew."
Marc gritted his teeth. "I didn't mean to hurt her," he said, voice low, pleading.
A door creaked open. Inside was a stage bathed in a single spotlight. No audience waited, but a microphone stood at center stage. A flickering sign above it spelled out: "Tell us something original."
Marc swallowed hard. He approached the mic, throat dry. Words stuck like thorns.
"I… I didn't mean to—"
Silence swallowed him whole.
The light snapped off.
Vivian
Vivian stood rigid in a long, narrow hallway lined with framed photos from the infamous Roast of Eden Gray. Each image captured a moment of cruel laughter, frozen smiles, and Eden's slow disintegration.
A faint laugh track played beneath her feet, growing louder with every step she took. She pressed her hands to her ears, but the sound burrowed into her mind, relentless.
Desperately, Vivian grabbed a piece of chalk from a cracked vase and scribbled on the wall: "I didn't mean it."
But as her fingers pulled away, the wall beneath the writing wept dark, viscous streaks, as though the words drew blood.
A childish voice echoed softly: "But you did say it."
Vivian's knees buckled. For the first time, the brittle shield of sarcasm cracked, exposing raw regret.
She whispered, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
The hallway grew cold.
Darren
Darren's breath hitched as he found himself back inside the van, the rain tapping rhythmically against the windows. Eden sat curled in the back seat, her chest heaving, pale and trembling.
"I haven't slept in three days," she whispered, "My chest… it hurts."
Darren's hands clenched the steering wheel. "We've got Denver in the morning," he muttered. "You can rest after the show."
"I'm not okay," she said softly.
He didn't look back.
The van's dashboard flickered red, lights spinning wildly as the shadow of his younger self appeared beside him, grinning with eerie stillness.
"She needed you," the shadow hissed. "And you gave her a schedule."
Darren's fingers clawed at the door handle—it wouldn't open. Panic surged.
Outside, the rain twisted into a chorus of mocking laughter.
He sank to his knees, voice breaking: "I should've stopped. I should've let you rest."
A pale apparition of Eden nodded slowly, then dissolved into mist.
Theo
Theo sat frozen before his glowing laptop. The headline blazed on the screen: "The Breakdown of a Comedian: Eden Gray's Final Set?"
He had written every word—the missed cues, the sobbing photos, the clips showing Eden unraveling onstage. He had published it all despite the voicemails pleading for silence.
The room grew darker as the screen bled red. Letters stretched and warped into every surface, the headline crawling like wildfire.
Behind him, Eden appeared—silent, blank-faced.
Theo spun around just as her porcelain mask cracked, revealing a thin, bitter laugh.
"You got what you wanted," she rasped. "They all saw me die before I did."
His hands trembled over the keyboard.
The lights cut out.
Reconnection
They were broken, scattered—each lost in their private hell. But the manor was shifting again, guiding them, pushing them toward one another. Lena's footsteps echoed down a hallway, soft but determined.
She rounded a corner and found Darren, slumped against a wall, eyes red-rimmed.
"We can't keep running from this," she said quietly.
Darren looked up, voice hoarse. "What do we do?"
Before either could answer, footsteps approached—slow, careful. Vivian appeared, rubbing her arms against the chill.
"Maybe... maybe we start by talking," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Behind her, Marc lingered near the doorway, hesitant, and Theo watched from the shadows, silent but watching.
The manor held its breath.
Eden's laughter—soft, waiting—drifted through the halls.
Closing
The night was far from over.
The house pulsed with a hunger that no apology could sate.
And Eden's show—the endless, broken performance—had only just begun.