[Creative Divergence pathway initiated]
[Skill growth: Storytelling +1, Observational Analysis +1]
[First Mission Generated:One-Shot Adaptation – Adapt an existing short story into a one-shot drama script suitable for contest submission.]
[First Sub-Mission Generated:Visual Overhaul – Redesign the drama's presentation for maximum emotional impact.]
The panel faded, leaving me staring at the computer screen — and at the draft of "Pretty Ugly" in the word processor.
My eyes narrowed, 'By short story…You mean "Pretty Ugly".'
The System did not respond. But I took the silence as affirmative.
I groaned, dragging my chair closer to the desk. The document sat exactly where I'd left it. It wasn't bad for something I wrote in stolen hours between assignments, but reading it now, I could see every flaw — the pacing that lagged in the middle, the scenes that skimmed past the real emotional weight.
The system wasn't wrong. This could be sharper. Better.
'System, what's the contest?' I asked.
[Target: Horizon Broadcast Network's Annual One-Shot Drama Festival.]
[Theme: "Transformation"]
[Length: 30–50 pages.]
[Format: Industry-standard screenplay.]
[Submission Deadline: 20 Days from now.]
[Prize: 1,500 - 15,000 credits + potential production deal.]
[Note:Submissions must be original works and include at least one scene that can be staged in a domestic interior.]
A real contest.
A real deadline.
I leaned back in my chair. This wasn't just a creative exercise — it was a test. The system wanted me to sharpen the blade, and it had just given me the whetstone.
The theme was practically a dare. Transformation. It was as if the system had tailor-made the contest for "Pretty Ugly", and perhaps for me.
The thought made me uncomfortable. Was this all a coincidence, or was it quietly nudging me toward something?
I pushed the unease aside, letting my attention drift instead to the prize money. Fifteen thousand credits — the number meant more to me now than it had when I was actually twenty. Back then, it was just an abstract figure; now, I could translate it into over a year's rent in a city like this. Even in this world's economy, it wasn't "retire forever" money, but it was substantial — the kind of sum you couldn't ignore.
That was when it hit me: I knew almost nothing about writing a one-shot drama script. Not the structure, not the pacing, not even the formatting rules. Yet somehow, a small part of me was already turning over ideas.
"System, I don't know the first thing about writing for screen."
[Recommended Action: Research one-shot drama structure, formatting, and pacing.]
So it wasn't going to just hand me the skills. It wanted me to earn them.
I opened the browser again, typing in "how to write a one-shot drama." Results filled the small screen: concise plotting guides, visual storytelling tips, award-winning scripts.
I sat back, fingers drumming against the desk. This was going to take work.
Real work.
I told myself I'd just look up the basics — structure, length, maybe a few examples. But one search led to another, and before I knew it, I'd fallen headfirst into articles, interviews, and even old forum posts buried in the corners of the internet.
Page after page, tip after tip — acts, beats, turning points, character arcs. At some point, I had three tabs open comparing the same scene breakdown from three different screenwriting guides, wondering which made more sense. The world outside my screen faded. The clock might as well have stopped.
It wasn't until I shifted in my seat and heard the faint hum of the fridge in the silence that I noticed the darkness outside. The city had gone to sleep without me.
Somewhere in the quiet, there was… something. A faint stirring I couldn't quite name.
By the time I had a clearer picture in my mind — the framework, the pacing, the bones of something that could work — the night had already surrendered to the early hours. My eyes burned, my shoulders ached, and I knew I needed to rest if I wanted to have a real shot at writing this.
Tomorrow, I'd start.
And, somehow, tomorrow arrived sooner than I expected.
When the alarm chimed, I didn't groan or hit snooze — I got up. The air still held the cool edge of morning, and for once, it didn't feel heavy. That faint ember from last night's research — the one I thought might fizzle out by morning — was still there, glowing steady.
I moved through my routine without distraction: shower, coffee, the soft clink of the mug against the counter. The rich scent followed me back to my desk, warm and grounding.
The laptop whirred to life, its fan humming like a low prelude. I reopened the "Pretty Ugly" file — the same handful of pages I had written in a time that felt like another lifetime entirely, as if the girl who had typed them existed in a season I could never return to. My eyes traced each sentence slowly, carefully, as though reacquainting myself with an old friend I'd once loved dearly but had since lost touch with, uncertain if we still spoke the same language.
Some parts still held a spark; others sagged under their own weight. I pulled out a notepad and began sketching a new outline, shifting scenes, sharpening character beats. By the time I returned to the document, the cursor was no longer just blinking — it was waiting.
The first few lines came slowly — interior description, dialogue placeholders — but once I had the shape of the opening scene, the words began to loosen. For the first time in years, I felt the old rhythm again — that strange, alert hum when ideas click together.
I began to give the bones more flesh. One paragraph bled into another, and soon the empty morning air was filled with the quiet tapping of keys.
In-between bio breaks and before returning to the keyboard, I decided to squeeze in a few more uses of Script Master. I'd already tested it before and it worked on my kettle — not sure about Mr. Kang yet — but at its current accuracy, I couldn't rely on it for anything more than guesswork. The only way to improve was to keep using it.
The night before, in the middle of my deep dive into one-shot drama structures, I'd used Script Master on the stack of books at the side of my desk.
[Prediction: Top book will fall to the floor before 03:00. Probability: 24%]
When the clock hit three, the stack was still perfectly balanced, untouched. I sighed, chalking it up to its low probability — or maybe the system just didn't understand that I was too focused to bump into anything.
This morning, between paragraphs, I decided to test it again. I chose my coffee mug.
[Prediction: Mug will be knocked over onto notes before noon. Probability: 39%]
I moved it far from the edge, just in case. Hours later, the mug sat exactly where I'd left it, coffee long gone cold.
Not exactly a false alarm — more like I'd plucked the thread before it could unravel. Still, the thought nagged at me. If my actions could shift an outcome this easily, did Script Master factor that into its probability… or had I just set off a ripple that would surface somewhere else entirely?
The idea was unsettling — a chain of events quietly rewritten because I nudged a single cup a few centimeters away. What if, in avoiding a spill, I'd delayed my break just enough to miss an unexpected phone call… one that might have altered something bigger? The butterfly's wings beat softly in my mind, carrying questions I wasn't ready to answer.
My gaze drifted back to the screen. In "Pretty Ugly", I'd just swapped the order of two scenes, sliding a pivotal argument earlier. It was a small change on paper, yet it sent ripples through the characters' arcs, altering their tones, their choices, the story's heartbeat. The mug, the manuscript — both felt like fragile worlds where one shift could redraw the ending.
[Mission Progress of One-Shot Adaptation: 26%]
The progress bar inched forward, a small spark of satisfaction lighting in my chest. I saved the file and leaned back, stretching until my shoulders gave a quiet pop, rolling the stiffness from my fingers. It wasn't much, but it was progress — tangible, visible. At this pace, a rough draft in two weeks felt not just possible, but within reach.
But the first sub-mission — "Visual Overhaul" — still loomed in my mind like an unknown final boss, vague and slightly menacing.
Almost as if it had been eavesdropping, a subtle ripple of pale light flickered into view. Then, in a smooth, deliberate sweep, new lines of text slid in, glowing blue:
[Support Feature Activated:Scene Capture – Allows recording of real-life sequences for later integration into scripts.]
The words hung there for a beat, like the calm after a lightning strike, before another pale-blue prompt settled at the bottom of the panel — patient, expectant, and just a little smug.
[Tip:Scene Capture is available for immediate use.]