𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙤𝙫𝙞𝙚...? - ʀᴏʙɪɴʜɪʟʟ

ACT 1, Part 2

The Festival’s opening ceremony ended with a grand flourish—Robin’s voice drifting through the crowd like a songbird’s call at sunrise.

Boothill, still leaning against the wooden stall, tipped his hat back up as the applause faded. He figured now was the time.

Maybe—just maybe—he could sneak closer,
say something smooth, or at least stop looking like a lovesick fool on the sidelines.

He took a step forward, trying not to overthink it.

Then, the crowd surged.

“Outta my way!”

With a whoosh, the festival-goers swarmed toward the food stalls, games, and performances, sweeping Boothill into the chaotic tide of people.

His eyes widened as he was carried away, boots barely skimming the ground.

“Son of a nice lady! Not again!”

He fought against the wave of paper fans and enthusiastic festival-goers, but it was no use. Before he knew it, the cowboy was whisked off down a side street, lost in the dreamscape maze.

Back on the main road, Stelle, March 7th, and Danheng regrouped and shared puzzled looks.

“Okay,” March said, hands on her hips.
“So, we’re here to ‘act,’ but none of us knows what that actually means. What do actors even do?”

“Pretend to be other people?” Stelle guessed.

“Fight cosmic disasters?” Danheng suggested, though his tone was perfectly dry.

March gave a theatrical sigh.
“Guess there’s only one way to find out. We’ll have to talk to Mr. Reca.”

The trio made their way toward the university’s Acting Department, which—because it was part of Paperfold University—was predictably strange.

The room wasn’t so much a classroom as it was an explosion of creative chaos: rolls of paper draped from the ceiling, origami models stacked in corners, and random dream objects scattered across desks—like half-baked prop ideas that had somehow come to life.

In the center of the room, sprawled across the floor, was a massive paper script.

It was at least twenty feet long, crinkled in places, and littered with handwritten scribbles and crossed-out lines.

Sitting atop the unwieldy mess was Mr. Reca’s mechanical frog—its eyes glowing faintly as it stared unblinkingly at the newcomers.

Ribbit.

“Why is that frog judging me?”
March whispered, leaning toward Stelle.

Before Stelle could answer, the door behind them slammed open, and Mr. Reca swept in with all the grace of a gale-force wind.

“Ahhh! My stars! You’re here already? Good, good! I don’t have time to explain EVERYTHING—so listen closely.”
He clapped his hands together, sending a cloud of paper dust into the air.
“You’re going to help me with a project of the heart. A story of love, fate, and unspoken emotions!”

March tilted her head. “Wait, hold on—love?”

Reca grinned.
“Ohhh, yes. You see, there are two… very peculiar people—and by peculiar, I mean they’re terrible at hiding their feelings for each other.
And by terrible, I mean if you look at them for more than five seconds, you’ll start getting secondhand embarrassment.”