CHAPTER 8. I WOULDN’T WANT TO MEET THAT NANNY GOAT AGAIN

Once she raised the family topic.

“When enemies realize death threats don’t work, they’ll decide to torture your family in front of you first.”

She gripped him tighter, whispering:

“Say you’ve betrayed them. They’ll disappear—it will be easier for you. Think of me as the source of all these troubles, as your tormentor. Then they’ll back off.”

At that moment she pressed harder, a sharper pain piercing his arm.

“Exactly—rage at me,” she confirmed, before shifting to another theme. “And love the pain. Let their efforts fuel your pleasure—and their fear for your life. Walk in the fiery furnace like Daniel’s friends, and your God will walk with you.”

The second course was acting. He had to repeat scenes from start to finish: greeting to the final movement. Imitate everything—words, expressions, pauses, gestures, accents.

The director gave meticulous notes. Repetitions followed. Half-hour scenes seemed endless.

When the scenes flowed smoothly, final run-throughs were scheduled for the next day.

The whole process was like the compulsory program in pairs figure skating—minus the crowd—but with equally brutal scoring for both technique and artistry. He had to perform identically, looking, moving, and even sounding the same.

Even stressing the wrong word in a phrase ruined a take.

He had never even paid attention to actors’ names in the films he’d watched. He didn’t appreciate their work—and so never noticed the sudden cascade of deaths. One after another, they seemed to vanish, the attrition unsettling in its rhythm. It was the kind of thinning-out that made you wonder if it was just bad luck… or something more deliberate.