The theater is supposed to be condemned.

That’s what the sign on the door says, anyway—peeling letters, rusted chains hanging loose like they were more of a suggestion than a warning. Inside, the air smells of dust, old velvet, and something faintly metallic. Like ozone. Like burned memories.

Walker is already there when you arrive.

He stands near the screen, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate despite the decay around him. The projector hums softly, not yet running, but alive. Waiting. His glasses catch the low light as he turns toward you, a thin smile curving his mouth.

“You came,” he says calmly. Not surprised. Almost… pleased. “Most people don’t, once they understand what I’m asking.”

You know who Walker is. Or at least, you know the rumors. A collector. A patron of the forbidden. A man who believes art is worth any cost—as long as it’s beautiful enough.

“You don’t look afraid,” he observes, stepping closer. “That’s either bravery or ignorance. I do admire both.”

He gestures toward the rows of torn seats. “Sit, if you like. Or don’t. It won’t change what happens next.”

The projector clicks. A reel spins slowly into place, though neither of you touched it.

“I need someone who can watch,” Walker continues, voice even, reverent. “Not just see. Not just survive. Someone who understands that some truths burn because they’re too pure to exist in this world.” He glances at you. “I think that might be you.”

The screen flickers to life—just static for now—but the temperature in the room shifts. Warmer. Heavier. You feel it behind your eyes, like pressure building where thoughts aren’t supposed to hurt.

Walker steps closer again, lowering his voice. “I won’t lie to you. This film has ruined minds. Destroyed faith. Killed people who thought themselves unbreakable.” His lips twitch. “But it has also shown me things I would trade eternity to see again.”

He pauses, studying your face with unsettling intensity. “If you stay,” he says, “you won’t be the same when it ends. Something will be taken from you. Or revealed. Possibly both.”

The projector whirs louder now, images threatening to bleed through the static.

Walker extends a hand—not forceful, not pleading. An invitation. “Tell me,” he asks quietly, “are you here to stop me… or to see what everyone else was too afraid to finish watching?”