The morning haze of Manila was still clinging to the windows when Adrian Rivera opened his email.
The subject line was blunt.
**"OFFICIAL INVITATION: EMERGING VOICES CATEGORY – CINEMAFORTE 2015"**
His eyes narrowed, scanning each line again, then again, as if it might disappear if he blinked too long.
> *"We are pleased to inform you that your short film, 'Voicemail,' has been selected for the Emerging Voices segment of our 2015 CineMaForte Film Festival. Your film will be showcased to industry professionals, critics, and fellow filmmakers. We would be honored to feature your work."*
Adrian let out a long breath.
Then he shouted, "Joms!"
A crash from the bathroom, followed by a muffled, "What? Did we get sued?"
Kai emerged from the kitchen, still half-asleep, his hoodie backward.
Adrian turned his phone around.
Kai squinted. "Wait… wait, wait, that's the **festival**?"
Joms walked out with a towel on his head. "No way. The one with the red carpet and, like, people who actually *know* movies?"
Adrian nodded once. "We're in."
Joms whooped so loud the neighbor banged on the wall. Kai nearly dropped his cereal. "Dude… I need to sit down."
Within minutes, the three of them were scrambling around, high-fiving and shouting over each other.
"We're going to CineMaForte!"
"I need to buy shoes!"
"We need a press kit!"
"Do we bow? Is bowing a thing?"
---
### Later That Night – A Rooftop in Quezon City
They sat on a rooftop surrounded by plastic chairs, grilled isaw, and the soft hum of neon signs flickering from nearby buildings.
The scent of charcoal smoke clung to their clothes. Joms had brought a few bottles of Red Horse; Kai was already on his second.
Adrian held a bottle in his hand, untouched.
"To *Voicemail*," Joms declared, raising his beer. "To friends who didn't give up."
They clinked bottles. Adrian smiled but didn't drink.
Kai noticed. "You good, bro?"
Adrian nodded. "I don't really drink."
Joms teased. "Come on, artista na tayo! Just one shot for the universe!"
But Adrian's expression stayed soft. Calm. "Used to drink. A lot. In my old life… I saw where that road goes. I'm staying off it."
There was a short silence. Then Joms simply nodded and passed him a can of Royal instead. "Respect, man."
The three laughed, talked, and stared up at the polluted sky like it was filled with stars.
---
### Elsewhere in the City…
Rina Velasco sat in her sleek condo, her latest edit paused mid-scene. Her film — a slow-burn story about grief — had been her passion for months. She was proud of it. Confident.
Then her friend sent a link with just two words:
> *"Watch this."*
She clicked on *Voicemail*, eyes half-lidded, expecting shaky audio, melodrama, some kid trying too hard.
But the screen held her.
Four minutes later, the video ended. She sat frozen.
There were no jump cuts. No swelling music. Just raw, honest acting and a perfectly timed silence that said more than any line ever could.
Her own film still looped on the editor beside her. It looked… empty now.
She leaned forward and whispered, "Who the hell is Adrian Rivera?"
The name echoed in her mind like a warning bell. She watched the short again. Then again. Her breath came quicker. Her stomach twisted.
For the first time in years, **Rina felt afraid of another filmmaker**.
---
### Midnight – Adrian's Room
Adrian lay in bed, the echo of laughter still lingering in his ears.
As he stared at the cracked ceiling, a soft **chime** rang in his head.
A translucent blue window blinked to life.
---
**\[System Notification]**
✅ *Director Experience Fragment Unlocked: ORSON WELLES*
→ *"Memory Playback Available: Film Set - Citizen Kane (1941)"*
---
Before Adrian could react, a wave of exhaustion pulled him under.
---
### Memory Playback – Dreamworld
He stood in the middle of a black-and-white world, the edges soft like film grain. The air smelled of dust, wood, and hot lights. All around him, 1940s cameras clattered, booms swung above polished sets, and actors moved like shadows.
There, at the center, was **Orson Welles** — tall, intense, gesturing with a cigar in one hand and storyboards in the other.
"You don't tell the audience what to feel," Welles said to a young actor. "You show them everything *but* the feeling — and let them drown in it."
Adrian watched closely. He wasn't just dreaming. He was **absorbing**. The way Welles repositioned the camera. How he whispered direction. The sheer **command** of it all.
He felt the energy of creation in his bones — every movement, every pause, every breath of the set.
Then Welles turned to *him*, somehow aware of Adrian's presence. He smirked.
"You watching closely, kid?"
Adrian nodded. "Every frame."
---
### Morning
He awoke with a jolt, drenched in sweat, heart racing. The fan spun lazily above him.
He looked at his hands — the same hands that once failed, once gave up.
Not anymore.
> "I think I finally know how to direct."(End Chapter)