Godzilla enters the room

Day Two.

It was time for the big scene — the one we’d been preparing for.

Godzilla’s grand entrance.

We had the extras running, screaming, falling over themselves. The miniatures were set.

All that was left… was destruction.

But Shinji?

He was missing.

I stood by the camera rig, impatient, arms crossed.

> “Where is this guy?” I muttered to one of the crew. “Every day he’s late. How are we supposed to put him in that damn suit if he never shows up on time?”

The crew member didn’t answer at first.

He just looked… uneasy.

> “He took it,” he said finally, voice low.

> “Took what?” I blinked.

> “The suit,” he said, eyes not meeting mine. “After the shoot yesterday. Never took it off. Just… walked out. Some folks say they saw a creature roaming the streets last night.”

I laughed at first. Nervous.

> “You’re joking, right?”

He didn’t laugh.

And suddenly, the weight of what he said sank in.

Shinji didn’t just wear the suit…

He became it.

Took it home like it belonged to him.

People saw something —

A creature.

Not a man.

My stomach turned.

This wasn’t a film anymore.

It was turning into something else.

And then…

he entered.

The massive doors creaked open.

There he was — Shinji — still in the suit, grunting, roaring, even cuddling with the crew members he liked like some kind of overgrown, affectionate beast.

People laughed nervously.

I didn’t.

I should’ve paid more attention.

But instead, we called action.

The scene began.

Godzilla — our Godzilla — emerged from the water tank we’d built in the corner of the warehouse. Foam waves crashed. Lights flickered like lightning.

Shinji stomped forward with terrifying power,

crushing the miniature bridge,

ripping through cardboard buildings,

screeching with a voice we swore we didn’t program into the suit.

It was perfect.

No… it was too perfect.

That wasn’t the actor we trained.

That wasn’t rehearsed.

It was real rage.

Real energy.

Everyone cheered.

Masao stood there… beaming.

But I saw his face.

A twisted, disturbing smile — one that almost hurt to look at.

The kind that made your skin crawl.

Like a proud father watching his child kill for the first time.

And between shots — between the chaos and resets — I caught them.

Masao and Shinji.

Just… staring at each other.

No words. No cues. No director’s calls.

Like they had some silent, unspeakable bond.

Like creator and creation were finally thinking as one.

I was just watching it all happen.

If I had any sense, I would’ve walked away.

Dropped the camera.

Packed my bags.

Got on the next flight out of Tokyo.

But I didn’t.

> I stayed.

And I wish I hadn’t.

> I wish I left that job then and there.

I could’ve reported it.

To the producers. To the police. Hell, to anyone who’d listen.

There were signs. Too many.

The way Shinji moved. The way Masao looked at him.

The things happening off-camera that no one wanted to talk about.

But I didn’t say a word.

> Why?

Because a part of me… wanted to know.

To understand what was really happening.

I told myself I was helping. Documenting. Investigating.

But deep down, it was just curiosity.

And curiosity, I’ve learned, is just a polite word for invitation.

I thought I was in control.

Thought I could walk away whenever I wanted.

But by the time I realized how far I’d sunk...

> It was too late.

Even if I wanted to leave,

I couldn’t.

Whatever this was… it had already wrapped its claws around me.

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