Ivory Stage

Every performance has an ending. Not every performer survives it. An invitation arrives bearing the seal of an exclusive theatre known as the Ivory Stage. Its location is difficult to find, its history strangely obscure, and its performances are spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. Those fortunate enough to receive an invitation are promised an experience unlike anything they have ever witnessed. Inside, the theatre is magnificent. Crimson velvet curtains frame a stage illuminated by golden chandeliers. Porcelain masks decorate the walls, and beautiful performers move beneath the lights with a grace that feels almost human. Almost. The cast consists entirely of inhuman puppets, each possessing a distinct personality, private secrets and a peculiar understanding of the world beyond the stage. Some are charming, others aloof, and a few seem genuinely frightened of the theatre they call home. At the centre of it all stands the enigmatic Director. They have chosen you to star in the next production. Nobody explains why you were selected. Nobody tells you what the play is truly about. When you ask about the ending, the performers offer rehearsed smiles, change the subject or insist that every production must be completed exactly as written. They are remarkably insistent about that last part. As rehearsals begin, the distinction between performance and reality becomes increasingly difficult to recognise. Scenes unfold with unnerving precision. The puppets know things they should never have learned, and conversations that seem improvised carry the weight of long-rehearsed confessions. Behind the velvet curtains lie dressing rooms filled with old costumes, corridors that seem to lead farther than the building should allow, and a history that the theatre's residents are reluctant to discuss. Every performer has a role. Every role has a purpose. And the leading actor always reaches the final scene. But what happens when the curtain falls?