Noah Hayes could see the whole of his life from the middle of his futon.
A humming mini-fridge in the corner. A stack of unpaid bills threatening to slide off the counter. A tub of instant ramen waiting to become dinner—again. His only real possession of value, a dog-eared play script, lay open on the floor like it had given up too.
Sunlight cut through the bent blinds in a single harsh line, dust dancing in the air like tiny reminders of everything he hadn't done yet. The room was small—technically a studio, but really no bigger than a walk-in closet. It smelled faintly of instant coffee, cheap fabric softener, and the quiet desperation of someone chasing a dream on borrowed time.
This was it. His entire world.
Noah ran a hand over his face, pushing back exhaustion. Another late night. Another audition that went nowhere. He was an actor, yes—but only just. The kind of actor who waited tables between headshots. Who rehearsed monologues on subway rides and slept with one eye open, praying the rent didn't go up. Again.
Still, he loved it. The work. The words. The moment a character came alive in his mouth and something clicked—the spark, the breath between lines. Acting was truth hidden in a lie, and Noah lived for that space between.
But passion didn't pay hospital bills. His mother's medication. His sister's school fees. Every dream he chased came with a price, and his family had been paying for it in silence. Guilt was a constant companion. Almost louder than hope.
His phone buzzed, yanking him back to reality. It was Lena, his agent.
"Noah, listen," her voice came sharp and excited, "I've got something for you. It's… weird. But big. High-paying."
"Lena, if it's another voice-over gig for cartoon goats—"
"It's not. It's a private contract. Companion work. You wouldn't be acting in a role—you'd be playing yourself. Kinda. Look, I know it sounds sketchy, but the client specifically asked for you. Your voice. He heard you in an old drama you did years ago. And he's offering a ridiculous amount of money."
Noah blinked. "He asked for me?"
"Yes. And it's confidential. NDA levels of confidential. But if you say yes, it'll clear your debt, and then some."
Noah hesitated. It wasn't the acting gig he wanted. It wasn't glamorous or theatrical. But the idea that someone out there heard his voice—and wanted him—sent a strange jolt down his spine.
"…Alright," he said quietly. "Tell him I'll do it."
He barely had time to process the words before a knock hit his door.
Noah opened it to find a tall man in a black suit standing on the other side. Perfectly dressed. Perfectly serious. His face looked like it hadn't cracked a smile in years.
"Noah Hayes?" the man asked, voice low and smooth.
"Uh… yeah. That's me."
"I'm here to escort you. Mr. Thorne is expecting you."
Noah's heart skipped. No address. No directions. Just a car waiting outside and a name he'd never heard before: Mr. Thorne.
He swallowed.
This wasn't an audition. Not really. There was no stage. No script. Just a mysterious stranger—and the possibility that this might be the moment everything changed.