The studio buzzed with energy, the steady hum of equipment merging with the low murmurs of the crew shuffling about. Bright, strategically placed lights cast a golden glow across the set, illuminating the star of the production, Raven Brock.
His sharp features was framed by the faux regality of his costume, making him seemingly larger than life. As he stood tall at the heart of the scene, his presence effortlessly commanded attention from the set workers and director. Everyone was drawn in on this scene.
Despite the absence of the effects of CGI and rendering, Raven was still quite catching.
The throne room set was a masterpiece, meticulously designed to give the grandeur of a bygone medieval era.
Ornate stone columns rose high, their surfaces etched with swirling patterns of ivy and cresting wolves.
Massive banners, rich in color and detail, hung from the rafters above, bearing the sigils of a fictitious kingdom—crimson with gilded embroidery, catching the flicker of simulated torchlight.
The walls, though artificial, looked weathered and ancient, as if they had borne witness to centuries of intrigue and betrayal.
At the center of the room sat the throne itself, carved from dark wood and embellished with golden accents that gleamed like sunlight through forest canopies. The seat's high back curved slightly, giving it an imposing stature, while intricate carvings of dragons curled along its edges, their sharp eyes and talons frozen in eternal vigilance.
The floor beneath Raven was a sort of mosaic polished stone, swirling patterns reflected the set lights as though it had been newly scrubbed for the presence of royalty.
Even the smaller details contained authenticity: tarnished goblets resting on a side table, faintly glowing braziers emitting a soft, wavering orange, and a tapestry near the rear of the room depicting a legendary battle, the figures locked in combat.
Raven stood at the throne's edge, draped in an ornate leather coat that brushed against the mosaic floor. A prop sword hung from his side, its hilt inlaid with rubies that caught the light and shimmered faintly.
He adjusted the coat with practiced ease, his fingers brushed against the supple leather, and as he turned toward the camera, the set around him seemed to fade.
For a moment, the throne room wasn't just a set, it was a world. As alive as history itself, with Raven at its very center.
His deep voice rang out. "You dare speak to me like that, knowing full well that I am—"
He paused, his expression morphing into exaggerated shock. He jabbed a finger toward the supposed "traitor" in the scene and bellowed:
"—Eating a burger with no honey mustard!"
The tension in the room instantly shattered like glass. Laughter rippled through the crew as Raven turned toward the camera, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even the stoic extras, whose job was to remain as stiff and fearful as statues, cracked smiles.
The director, a seasoned veteran with a permanent scowl etched on his face, stood up from his chair, shaking his head with a rare grin. "Cut! Damn it, Raven, you know we don't have time for this!"
Raven turned to face the crew, spreading his arms wide in mock apology. "I couldn't help it, Phil. This was the perfect moment. It came to me. I thought we could all use a little levity."
The director snorted, waving a hand at the script supervisor, who was scribbling furiously. "If this were a comedy, I'd leave it in and call it genius, but it's not. Let's reset. And Raven—seriously this time."
Raven bowed dramatically. "As you wish, oh so Great Director."
The crew chuckled as the set returned to its professional rhythm. Raven adjusted his coat again, standing before the faux throne with renewed focus. The joking demeanor melted away, replaced by the stoic intensity that had earned him his reputation.
The cameras rolled. This time, there was no hesitation.
"You dare speak to me like that, knowing full well that I am the rightful heir to this kingdom!" His voice carried a weight that seemed to reverberate through the room. "You have forfeited your life, and now... you will kneel before your king."
The tension in the air was evident, every crew member held their breath as Raven unsheathed his sword in one smooth motion. The camera zoomed in on his face, capturing the flicker of fury in his eyes.
The director gave a slow clap as the scene concluded. "Perfect. That's the Raven I want to see. Now, let's move on before he decides to improv again."
"Hey, improv is how I got in this industry…" Raven rebutted, getting a nod of agreement from the set crew as they began moving about, breaking down and moving equipment.
***
Hours later, the shoot wrapped for the day. The once-lively set now stood quiet and bare, except a few crew members tidying up as Raven made his way to his trailer. He exchanged smiles and quick thanks with the crew, the exhaustion only just beginning to creep into his body.
Inside his trailer, Raven let out a long sigh. He tossed the costume jacket onto a chair and slumped onto the small couch, rubbing his temples. The adrenaline from performing always left him feeling hollow afterward, like he was chasing something he couldn't quite name.
"Another day, another masterpiece," he muttered, though the words felt empty. He reached for a bottle of water on the table, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. His sharp jawline and piercing eyes stared back at him, but there was something else there—something he didn't like.
The person in the photo taped on the right side of his mirror stared back at him as he took a passing glance. A face all so familiar smiling back made him pause, his tired face now somber.
Raven stared blankly at the photo. A single question escaped his lips. "Why aren't you here?"
Memories, sensations, and more rushed back into his head. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to fall. With one deep breath, Raven managed to stop the tears.
He pushed the sad thoughts filling his mind aside. Tomorrow was another shoot, another performance to nail.
This was it. What he'd been working his whole life for was a chance to debut on the big screen. And his big break had finally come. He built a name for himself in every role; uniquely playing each character he took, putting his own spin to it. Everyone loved him.
PHEW!!!
For now, he just needed fresh air.
The city was quiet as Raven walked the dimly lit streets of New York. The studio was in a part of town that straddled the line between opulence and decay. Bright, gleaming high-rises gave way to older, crumbling buildings, their windows shattered and walls covered in graffiti. Raven often walked here when he needed to think.
As he rounded a corner, the sound of hurried footsteps behind him made him pause. He glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing. There were nothing but empty streets and the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp.
Shaking off the unease, he continued walking, his mind drifting back to his performance.
'What could I do better?'
The footsteps came again; closer to him this time.
Raven's hand instinctively clenched, though he had nothing to defend himself with. He turned quickly, his eyes scanning the dark alleyway to his left.
A figure emerged from the shadows, their face obscured by a hood. They walked with purpose, their hands buried in their pockets.
"Hey,"** Raven called, his voice steady. "Do you need something?"
The figure didn't respond. Instead, they stopped a few feet away, the dim light glinting off something metallic in their hand.
A gun.
Raven's heart slammed against his ribs as the figure raised the weapon, their movements deliberate and unhurried. "What do you want?" he asked, taking a step back. "Money? My watch? Just take it and leave."
The figure remained silent.
PEW!
The first shot rang out, the crack echoing through the empty streets. Pain exploded in Raven's chest, white-hot and all-consuming.
He staggered back, his breath hitching as he clutched at the wound. His knees buckled, and he collapsed against the brick wall of the alley.
PEW!
The second shot came, and darkness began swallowing him whole.
Before his consciousness faded, he heard a grim voice, muffled but audible.
"You are needed elsewhere, kid. This world ain't for ya." And with that, Raven's soul left.
***
Raven's eyes shot open. He gasped for air, his chest heaving as if he'd been holding his breath underwater. But the pain was gone.
The cold concrete of the alley was replaced by a jagged, cracked surface that glowed faintly under an eerie sky.
He sat up, his hands trembling as he took in his surroundings. The world around him was desolate, broken. Strange plants glowed faintly, their twisted forms unlike anything he'd seen before. The air felt heavy, charged with a strange energy that made his skin tingle.
"Where... am I?" he says to no one in particular, his voice younger than he remembered.
He looked down at his hands that are now scarred and entirely unfamiliar. His body felt different, stronger but alien. Panic began to rise in his chest as he struggled to make sense of what had happened.
In the distance, a low, guttural growl echoed through the landscape, sending a shiver down his spine.
Raven forced himself to his feet, his legs unsteady but functional. He didn't know where he was or how he had gotten here, but one thing was clear.
He wasn't safe.
And he wasn't Raven Doomson anymore.