Hours later, Morthisal lowered his staff as his final words echoed through the studio space.

"Cut!" Honor called out. "That was amazing, but let's do another take."

"Why?" Morthisal asked. "I delivered the lines perfectly."

"We need options," Betty said. "Try it again, but this time with more contained rage."

Take after take, they had him repeat the performance. Some with quiet menace, others with thunderous authority. By the eighth take, Morthisal's patience wore thin.

"What purpose does this repetition serve?" he demanded.

"The editor needs choices," Honor explained. "They'll pick the best version or pieces of the best versions and use that in the final cut."

Before Morthisal could protest further, Betty ushered him to another set. This one featured grey foam blocks carved to look like stone battlements. A plastic staff waited for him, painted to resemble ancient wood.

"In this scene, you'll summon lightning to strike down your enemies," Honor said.

"Finally, something worthy of my talents," Morthisal said.

But the reality proved far less impressive. He stood for hours, waving the staff at nothing while crew members called out instructions about where to look and how to move.

The day dragged on through cycles of brief action followed by endless waiting. When not performing, Morthisal sat in a folding chair, reading through script pages that grew increasingly tiresome. Some of the dialogs were drivel. His thick costume became uncomfortable under the warm studio lights.

By the time darkness fell outside, Morthisal's enthusiasm had completely faded. Honor finally approached and told him they were wrapped for the day. He had never been more relieved to hear modern terminology. The ride back to his apartment was a sullen affair. He stared out the window and shook his head a few times just to stay awake.

Morthisal trudged up the apartment building steps, his feet heavy with exhaustion. The day's performance, as well as keeping the crew in check, had completely drained his power reserves. He fumbled with the key, trying it several times before the lock turned.

A prickling sensation crept up his neck. He turned and scanned the empty hallway behind him. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows in the corners. No one was there.

"You're being paranoid," he muttered to himself and went inside, locking the door behind him.

"By the dead," he said, rubbing his aching shoulders. "All that standing and repeating lines. Is this really worth the money?"

As he moved through the apartment, small details caught his attention. The oversized book, filled with recipes and pictures of prepared food, sat at an angle, and he distinctly remembered it being parallel to the edge. Not that he'd read the damn thing, since all it did was make him hunger. His leather jacket hung on the wrong hook by the door. The throw pillow on the couch faced the opposite direction.

"This isn't right," he said but shook his head and dismissed the oddities as being brought on by weariness. Nothing more.

Morthisal considered taking another dose of electricity to extend his senses and determine if someone else was in the apartment. Instead, he moved around and checked the closets, then every corner, nook and cranny. A few things were out of place, but no one else was there with him.

Morthisal dragged the chair across the room, the wooden legs scraping against the floor. He wedged it under the doorknob with the back of the chair pressed firmly against the door.

"This is absurd," he muttered, shaking his head. "Centuries of ruling with an iron fist, and now I'm reduced to barricading myself inside this pitiful dwelling."

He shuffled to the kitchen, his stomach growling. The microwave hummed as he heated up another pre-packaged meal, and the scent of processed food filled the air. Morthisal picked at the rubbery meat and overcooked vegetables, his appetite waning with each bite.

Exhaustion tugged at him. His body demanded rest. Morthisal stumbled to the bedroom, not bothering to change out of his clothes. The mattress creaked as he collapsed onto it and his head hit the pillow. Within moments, sleep overtook him and dragged him into a dreamless void where a pair of directors yelled and threw things at him when he did not perform up to their standards.

Morning arrived too soon and sunlight stabbed through his eyelids. Morthisal groaned as he rolled out of bed, his muscles stiff and aching. He glanced at the clock, cursing under his breath.

"I'm going to be late," he grumbled as he hurried to the bathroom.

As he rushed through his morning routine, the nagging feeling of unease returned. He paused and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

"I need proof," he said, grabbing his phone.

Morthisal moved through the apartment, snapping pictures of the living room, kitchen, and bedroom. He zoomed in on the coffee table, the couch, and the jacket hooks, capturing every detail.

A pile of envelopes sat on his entryway table, so he also took a picture of them. He'd learned from one of the other neighbors that mail arrived daily, but from what he had gathered, most of it was made of empty promises for goods he did not desire.

However, there was one envelope that was thicker than the rest. He must have ignored it the other day. Now, the red lettering caught his eye.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He tore open the envelope and extracted a thick stack of tri-folded pages. Opening the pile revealed a hospital bill. He thumbed through them and found that he owed quite a bit of money. Morthisal gasped when he found the bottom line. His one-day visit to the emergency room had cost over six thousand dollars. Vince’s insurance had covered less than half of that, and a large red box with the words 'Your Portion' taunted him.

Morthisal tossed the bill on the table and planned to ignore it. Where in the world was he supposed to come up with several thousand dollars? If it came to it, he would simply visit this insurance company's office and put the bill minders under his thrall. How large could their office be?

"Bah." Morthisal blew out a breath.

His last stop before setting out for the day was the one he dreaded the most. The knives sat near the power outlet, and his hands shook as he prepared for the jolt.

After picking himself up off the floor, Morthisal cursed a few times and went to retrieve his jacket. He ignored the fact that both hands were trembling enough that sliding into his outerwear took a couple of tries.

With one last glance around the apartment, Morthisal headed out the door. He hailed an Uber with his mind already focused on the day ahead. The car sped through the city streets and delivered him to the film set just in time for the second day of shooting.

Sunday at the small movie studio proved to be just as exhausting as Saturday. He checked in, was hurried to makeup, and then sent back to wardrobe once more. They moved quickly, since he had experienced this the day before. For reasons he couldn't grasp, they decided to reshoot two lines from the previous day, which took an additional two hours.

"I grow weary of the tedium," he told Betty Mead.

"You're doing great, Vince. We'll be done soon."

They were not done soon.

Marty arrived late in the afternoon, his face flushed with anger. He stomped around the studio like a petulant child throwing a tantrum, which Morthisal found both amusing and pathetic. The director's shouts echoed through the cramped space as he berated his crew, demanding to know which ‘incompetent fool’ had dared to change the name of a main character in the script and rename his precious movie. His tirade continued for several minutes, punctuated by wild gestures and occasional kicks at empty cardboard boxes littering the floor.

"Who's the dead man? Huh?" Marty shouted.

Morthisal, dressed in his dark lord robe and clutching the prop staff that had been created for the movie, a mere shadow of what he had once held, strode directly toward Marty.

The director wore a long gray woolen jacket and wrinkled tan slacks. His disheveled appearance was a far cry from that which Morthisal had expected. Marty's shoes were covered in water, squelching with each agitated step. His head was drenched, with dark hair plastered to his skull. He held his script in one hand and fumed, his face red with anger.

"You did all this? You?!" Marty screamed. "I'll have you thrown out of this studio by the scruff of that stupid robe. I'll…"

"Stop this immediately." Morthisal thrust the staff against the floor and added a spark of power. It illuminated the staff and sent a spark toward the ceiling.

"And who in the fuck paid for that? I didn't ask for a prop staff that shot electric bolts!"

Morthisal rolled his eyes at the director's tirade and latched a strong thread around the director. He pulled it tighter than usual, eliciting a squeak from the man. The others had mostly shied away and retreated from Marty's side. Betty stood off to the side, half hiding in a curtained off area, her eyes huge.

Morthisal easily held Marty, even though it drained his energy.

"Are you okay, Marty?" Betty called from across the room.

"Yes, Marty. Are you alright? What is the saying here, cat ate your tongue?"

"Got your tongue, but that's the gist of it. Yeah. Nice. Everything is nice and clear now. The changes are good. Really good. What's the villain's name now?"

Morthisal reviewed the changes with the director, who now grinned and nodded at each one, occasionally adding, "Oh, that is genius." Morthisal was relieved when the director was finally brought to heel and they could continue shooting.

The rest of the afternoon went much as the previous day, with Morthisal performing his scenes over and over again. He had Betty Mead, Honor April, and Marty Klein under his thrall, but he recognized that he knew next to nothing about movies. Besides making sure they allowed him to 'ad lib' most of his lines and use his real name, Morthisal left them to run the rest of their movie as they chose.

Morthisal slumped into the back seat of the Uber, his body aching from standing under hot lights all day, being on his feet, and wearing the hot robe. The driver attempted small talk, but Morthisal waved him off with a grunt. His powers felt depleted, and barely a flicker remained. He had controlled the movie crew for hours.

"Just get me home," Morthisal said to the driver.

The car pulled up to his apartment building fifteen minutes later. Morthisal dragged himself up the stairs and fumbled with his keys at the door. A massive yawn escaped him as he pushed inside, but he froze mid-step. The living room lay in darkness.

"This is not right," he muttered.

Moving cautiously through the dark apartment, Morthisal approached the breaker box mounted on the wall near the kitchen. He opened the metal panel and ran his fingers over the switches until he found the tripped one. With a click, he reset it.

Light flooded the apartment. Morthisal's gaze went straight to the outlet where he'd jammed the knives that morning. They still protruded from the socket, their handles slightly blackened.

"Did I forget to fix this before leaving?" he asked himself.

Yesterday's suspicions rushed back. Someone had been in here, moving things around. Morthisal pulled out his phone and opened the photos he'd taken that morning. He held up the screen and compared the coffee table arrangement to the picture. The remote sat exactly where it had been.

He looked around the apartment. The throw pillows were untouched. His jacket was on the right hook. The stack of mail, including the outrageous hospital bill, rested undisturbed on the entry table. Everything matched the photos from the morning flawlessly.

I must have been so weary this morning I left the breaker open.

Morthisal shook his head and made for the bedroom, ready to strip off his clothing and put on something that didn't reek of dried sweat and the crappy food they had been fed on set. He was a fan of fried fast food, but this had arrived late and cold.

As he stepped through the doorway, a startled cry left his lips.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in her dizzyingly bright dress, with Vince's photograph book in her lap open to a page of memories Morthisal did not know was the shop owner, Penny.

"What in the blazes!" he exclaimed and reached for a thread of power, but there was barely a flicker.

"Hello, Morthy-baby. I've missed you so," Penny simpered.

"What?"

Something lashed out from her and cascaded around him. A blast of cool air made him shiver. He attempted to lift his arm to point a finger at her, but his body did not respond.

"I don't know how you did it, but I'm here."

Morthisal's mouth tried to form words.

"You look just like that tavern keeper. It's uncanny," Penny muttered, then turned the page in his photograph book before looking up.

Morthisal tried to demand what this woman had done to him, but all he could hear was a barely audible "Mmmm!"

She smiled brightly. "It's me, Thalindra. How much have you missed me, darling?"