Chapter 2

The school auditorium buzzed with nervous energy.

Students clutched scripts, storyboards. The "Future Filmmaker" showcase.

I spotted Olivia near the stage, holding a flimsy folder.

She saw me and her face lit up with that practiced, sweet smile.

"Emily! There you are! I was getting worried."

She rushed over, giving me a quick, airy hug.

"Are you ready? I' m so nervous for you! Your script is always the best."

Her voice was pure sugar, but her eyes, I saw them scan my face, looking for my usual pre-presentation jitters.

In my first life, her words would have been a comfort. Now, they were a reminder.

"Thanks, Liv," I said, keeping my voice even. "Just a little something I threw together."

"Oh, you always say that, and then it' s amazing!" she gushed.

I gave a small, noncommittal smile.

My name was called.

I walked onto the stage, handed my script to the panel of local film teachers and critics.

This script wasn't my award-winner from the first life.

This script was garbage.

A predictable teen romance, riddled with clichés, wooden dialogue, and technically impossible camera directions. I' d written it last night, after the shock of rebirth wore off, fueled by cold anger.

I gave a brief, unenthusiastic summary.

The judges read. Frowns appeared. One stifled a yawn.

Olivia watched from the wings, a small, almost imperceptible frown on her own face. She was expecting brilliance. She was expecting something worth switching.

I saw her hand subtly move to her pocket, where I knew she kept the Script Switcher.

A faint shimmer, almost invisible to the naked eye, but I knew what it was.

She' d used it. The first charge.

The head judge cleared his throat.

"Emily," he began, his tone gentle but firm. "This is... not quite up to your usual standard."

"The dialogue feels forced," another added.

"And the plot, well, it' s rather derivative, wouldn't you say?"

Criticism after criticism. They weren't wrong.

I nodded, looking down. "Yes, I understand. It was a bit of an off day. I appreciate the feedback."

I walked off stage.

Olivia was next. She presented "her" script – my terrible, cliché-ridden one.

The judges were baffled.

"Olivia, this is... surprisingly weak," one said, clearly confused after her usually mediocre submissions. "Very similar in its flaws to Emily's, in fact."

Olivia stammered, her face pale. "I... I don't understand. I worked so hard on it."

She looked genuinely distressed. Good.

She' d wasted one switch on pure trash.

I kept my expression neutral, offering a sympathetic glance.

Inside, I was calculating. Two switches left for her.

My plan was just beginning.