The Star's Unfading Light

Thirty million gulden had safely been deposited into Flat Sharpendora's account, and a full month plus twenty-nine days had passed. This was Dimension 12, encircled by the vast Oceanus River that stretched like an endless sea. At its heart stood Olympus Mountain, home to the gods of the twelfth dimension—Flat's destination.

"How many years has it been?"

Gazing at his reflection in the cable car's glass window, beyond which loomed a massive sign on the mountainside, Flat murmured to himself with a wistful expression. Through the window, he could see the twelve cities perched on the peaks of Olympus Mountain, thousands of meters above sea level. The one he was heading toward bore ten letters forged in gleaming white metal: Laurel Tree, the cinematic holy land ruled by the god of arts, Apollo.

"Nothing's changed here."

The cultural capital of Olympus, drawing ever closer, looked much as Flat remembered it. Laurel Tree was a small city—even all eleven other peak cities combined could barely rival a major metropolis in Dimension 6-2. Yet countless people dreamed of living here, idolizing it, driving land prices sky-high year after year. It was a haven for successful film industry folks, wealthy heirs, artists, and retired sports stars. The epicenter of commercial cinema, host to the most prestigious awards ceremony across all dimensions.

"……."

As he stared at the Laurel Tree branch, long-forgotten memories from his past flooded back to life in Flat's mind, fresh and vivid. The city of laurel trees, where immense opportunity and deadly temptation danced hand in hand. Here, in this cratered peak, he had enjoyed an early heyday. Back then, Flat possessed an innocence befitting his age, separate from his acting prowess. The boy, orphaned of his mother, honed his craft single-mindedly to make his sole guardian—his father—proud. His father supported him wholeheartedly, allowing the prodigy to focus entirely on performance. And bloom he did.

'You're a star. No matter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠where you shine, people will find you.'

Those words from his father, before debut, after Flat's third audition rejection at age nine, became an unerring compass. While peer child actors succumbed to temptations and lost their way, Flat stayed devoted to acting and studies. His skills and presence grew daily. The boy stunned industry insiders, etching his name into the end credits of masterpiece after masterpiece.

Flat's father, without a wife, took boundless joy in his son's fine upbringing. He gave the child every good thing, devoting his time to the boy's healthy pursuits and education. His only wealth: a few suits and watches bought with money earned as the child's sole protector and manager, maintaining dignity. The house had long been deeded to his son; all funds sat in accounts under Flat's name. He even adjusted shooting schedules so the boy could live a normal childhood.

Father and son had secured a fulfilling life. Flat had started acting to ease family finances, but soon found pride and fulfillment in the profession—his father delighted in this. It was a life wanting for nothing.

That happiness didn't last—the fact dawned on his father when Flat turned fourteen.

'Pancreatic cancer.'

The terminal diagnosis from the doctor he kept secret, to spare his son worry. He began seeking someone to care for Flat in his stead. Surprisingly, a candidate appeared swiftly: a homemaker with acting experience, perfect as a spiritual pillar for the boy. Seeking a nurturing wife for after his death, Flat's father quickly decided to remarry. At minimum, she seemed kind, unlikely to trap the young Flat for the family's wealth.

'With this marriage vow and declaration of consummation, you are now fully wed. Groom, kiss your bride.'

Flat gained a stepmother. Soon after, he lost his father.

'The deceased was a proud father and faithful saint—'

On ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the day his fourth lead role film premiered to massive success, his father breathed his last before Flat's eyes. The kind stepmother shed her mask, revealing her true face. Her homemaker act had been pure performance. She colluded with her husband's lawyer, fabricating evidence to seize Flat's fortune in a lawsuit. It emerged then: the father's deathbed anxiety from the prognosis had clouded his judgment.

Flat lost most of his wealth overnight; the stepmother vanished. Much later, he learned the doctor who diagnosed his father was her acquaintance.

Flat left Laurel Tree, wandering dimensions aimlessly. His pre-debut home with his father remained, but he lacked courage to return. For the first time, he dove into debauchery. Trauma from his stepmother kept women at bay, but alcohol filled the void. Even after losing most assets, enough remained to cover endless drinks. The pure boy of the silver screen adapted to shadowed life. His round, cute face sharpened through puberty into a moody young man's piercing gaze. New fake identity, tattoos—running with gangs, unrecognized. Everything flowed downward across dimensions; Flat didn't resist. Pushed by his stepmother, he plummeted toward the festering bottom.

For eight long years of self-abandonment, ironically, another woman pulled him to the surface.

'Ever thought about acting?'

'Scram.'

'With eyes like that, why not?'

'Shut up.'

'Wasting away in this backwater's a shame. You've got an aura, real talent.'

'I said don't follow me.'

A cat-eared woman claiming amateur director status. Born a Persian catfolk with beef against Dobermans, she dogged Flat relentlessly, pursuing him all day.

'What do you think? New script I wrote. Who wrote it? No budget for a screenwriter, so I racked my brain myself.'

'I see.'

Unable to withstand her tail-wagging daily assaults with scripts, Flat went aggressive.

*Rip!*

'What the—! That's the original!! I haven't even copied it yet—'

'What you wrote ain't a script, it's trash, idiot.'

'Even so... *sniff* ...you didn't have to rip it up....'

Undeterred by his cold rejection, she returned next day, and the next. Finally, at twenty-two, Flat couldn't refuse the fearless amateur; he stood before her 8mm film camera.

'I've told you, that's a frame-out. Moron.'

'Sorry! But you said no acting experience—how do you know so much?'

'…….'

'Answer when people ask!'

'...Redo it. That scene didn't convince.'

'Why? It was good.'

'Fix the lines I marked in three minutes, or I burn the film.'

'Eek!!'

Primitive set, no proper gear or crew. Experienced Flat suffered under the passion-driven director. Yet somehow, those days grew enjoyable.

'Found this.'

'Ice cream? Perfect, it's hot... CinemaScope 35mm film camera?! Where'd you—'

'Jimmy jib arrives tomorrow—no running around with that camera yourself.'

'Why make me handle this too...'

'Do it right. Drop it, and you're dead.'

For the first time since leaving Laurel Tree, Flat's savings served a meaningful purpose. Eight years' gap, but trials added maturity to his acting. The director, under his tutelage, blossomed too.

Their film won best short at a small festival—no one twigged Flat's identity. First taste of success. The director kept making indies with him; four features to date. Flat rejoiced in their achievements sincerely.

'You're a star. No matter where you shine, people will find you.'

Father was right. Flat was found—and found another shining ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠star. By observing each other, they claimed their places. At last, Flat found happiness. Perhaps greater than with his father.

Stepping off the cable car, Flat pulled his wallet, gazing quietly at the photo inside: him, the director, their daughter between. The family beamed happily.

"Now I get it."

Sticking to unprofitable indies wouldn't gift his family opportunities. Like his father, he wanted to give his wife and daughter a brighter future.

'You're a star. The brightest in Daddy's eyes.'

Whispering those words—echoing his father's to newborn Flat—he realized.

"So this is what it feels like to be a father."

True to his father's words, Flat never lost his light, even at rock bottom. People noticed: his wife and daughter, festival judges, even the loan officer.

"……."

Without those who saw him, their support, he couldn't have reached here. Burning fat in six weeks for the indie role to reclaim his prime looks. Torching the trauma-haunted childhood home. Revealing his real name to his wife. Borrowing from the bank for an audition half a year early. All to announce his return to Laurel Tree, renewed.

"Daddy's off to work."

Flat kissed his wife and daughter in the photo. For his beloved family, he could become the star shining highest. No trace of loneliness in the man walking spotlight-bathed sunlight. Flat Sharpendora: proud son, devoted husband, loving father.

[A person can be happy with just one pizza. Even as an adult, probably.]

The film A Miraculous Pizza Gift from 7th Street ended with that final line. My eyes welled up watching the quiet music and scrolling end credits.

"Thought it was some B-grade Xmas flick from the title...."

Even among seasoned actors, Flat's performance shone brightest. Every sentimental line he delivered exploded my tear ducts.

"How does someone with that talent end up needing 30 million gulden from a bank?"

The world—not Flat—bore responsibility for letting it happen.

"God, I hope Flat passes the audition...."

I'd binged his four recent films borrowed from Senior Fred, then rewatched his debut A Miraculous Pizza Gift from 7th Street. All director's cuts, digitally remastered, naturally.

"Ah, already 6 PM. Can't doze at the counter."

No sleep from all the crying. Work soon—disaster.

"After shift, one more watch? Nah, two all-nighters straight might be overkill...."

Savoring the afterglow, I showered, changed. Even eating and commuting to the dorm, gem lines echoed in my head. Surprising this dimension celebrated Christmas, but no one could deny it was the perfect holiday movie. Stellar script, nuanced acting, vibrant direction. Dying to gush about it with Fred later.

Flat's child star era stole the show. Totally different look now, but his acting claimed over 40% of the film's impact on me.

Come to think, two months since Flat's loan. Audition results due soon. If he retained that kid genius, passing wouldn't be hard. Sixteen-year hiatus might bar leads, but solid roles could rebuild fame.

Not just 'cause he's my first loan client. A genius like that failing? I'd despair at the world. That's why I rooted for him. Supporting such talent was the bank's social duty too.

...Gotta admit, half's pure fandom.

"Hm?"

Arriving at West Podoks Branch—ten-minute walk from dorm—I spotted an unusual sight. Broadcast vans lined the boulevard. Not here, surely—some scoop nearby? I slipped in via staff entrance, dodging nosy reporters.

"Senior, know what's up outside?"

"Dunno. Arrest maybe?"

Quiet neighborhood, decent security—still, buy a crime-prevention spray? Shelving worries, I prepped cash checks, opening routines. Under deputy manager's lead, we reviewed monthly sales targets; clock hit 9 AM. Business open.

Okinda Section Chief, back briefly last month, took sick leave again for chronic issues. Back to loan counter for me. Fleeting worry it'd be dead like before—

*Ding-dong*

Early customer today.

"Customer B-012, please proceed to Window 4."

Calling the number, a sharp-suited sunglasses man and baggy-T dwarf with glasses strode up, sat.

"Welcome. Kim Jian handling your loan consultation today."

Suit guy quietly removed shades. Doberman-handsome straight from a movie. Every woman's gaze in the bank—staff and clients—locked on him. Dwarf his business partner?

"How may I assist?"

"Here to repay a loan."

"Repay?"

Had this guy borrowed? Not my case. Fred or chief's maybe. Tilting head, he chuckled heartily.

"Don't remember? You helped me with the app here."

Here? Me? Just two months in, few loans mine. One Doberman client: frumpy fat middle-aged actor—

"...Huh?"

Then it hit: that familiar voice, ears twitching welcomingly.

"Jian, you okay? What's—"

Fred noticed the vibe, approached—but froze stiff seeing the man.

"B-B-B-Berge...nev Masterhand Director...."

Senior paused like hit pause; excusing myself, I asked:

"Famous?"

"Huge."

His mosquito-whisper confirmed; phone search yielded flashy filmography. Awards, box office—Earth's producer-director hybrid celeb.

*Crash-tumble!!*

Bank doors flew open; reporters with cams and mics stormed the lobby. Dwarf exchanged looks with Doberman handsome, stood casually waving to press. Flashes nonstop. Del Monte Branch Manager emerged from office, eyeing the commotion.

"What the hell?"

Fred whispered; I stayed silent, clueless myself.

"Good enough. Nice shot."

Basking in camera fire, Bergenev Masterhand Director? muttered, kicked off shoes, climbed chair. Arm around Doberman, turned to me:

"Without this bank's help, the world wouldn't have seen Flat Sharpendora's new side. Bergenev Masterhand thanks the Dimensional Credit Vault and loan officer Kim Jian sincerely. When all banks refused, only Jian ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠extended a hand to Flat. You gave him this chance."

Stunned, I glanced at my phone screen:

Lifting head, Flat—slimmed in two months, radiating actor poise—extended hand.

"Told you. I'd repay."

Gripped it. Reporters swarmed, shutters clicking. Glancing aside, Del Monte thumbs-upped me.

...Means I can speak, right?

"As a mere banker, I just did my job. Dimensional Credit Vault puts clients first. With that in mind..."

"In mind?"

"Before processing repayment, a personal favor or two?"

"Name it."

"Autographs, if okay? A few sheets?"

"Bigger ask welcome."

Bergenev grinned boldly. Yeah, I did big. Autographs fair.

"Then I won't hold back."

From debut day learning Flat's child prodigy past from senior, I'd prepped drawer stack for this. Fanned them like paper fan.

Signing reflects straight to my quota.

"Autographs, please?"

"……."

"Director too, if okay?"

"……."

"Staff deposits transferred here? Ideal."

"……."

Lobby plunged silent, prior heat a lie.

"Fountain pen over ballpoint?"

Ah, why no signing.