THE 20TH TAKE

It had been weeks since we started shooting.

And if you looked at the footage — just the footage —

You’d say we were making history.

The action? Breathtaking.

The drama? Intense.

Masao’s vision? Unstoppable.

Honestly, there were moments we believed…

We’d outdone the original.

That our Godzilla would be the one future generations remembered.

That the 1954 classic would be labeled as the "copy."

And sure, we all noticed the weirdness —

That unnatural bond between Masao and Shinji.

The stares.

The strange whispers during breaks.

The fact Shinji hadn’t taken off the suit in days.

But we ignored it.

Because the movie looked too damn good.

> We kept filming.

Everything… went well.

Until...

That happened.

The final scene.

Godzilla’s last march through Tokyo.

Roaring. Destroying. Facing off against fighter jets in the sky.

Masao called it “the closing crescendo.”

A goodbye. A legend’s last breath.

And Shinji?

Despite everything — the twitching, the stares, the obsession —

He still felt human.

He signaled when he needed help.

He laughed on set.

Even gave us bloopers that had the whole crew chuckling.

He improvised lines. Gestures. Emotion.

And somewhere deep inside…

We believed.

> Maybe he could come back from this.

Maybe it was all just... deep method acting.

That gave us hope.

That made us keep going.

That made us lower our guard.

But we were wrong.

So, so wrong.

Because when the cameras rolled for the last time…

When the smoke rose and the jets flew in…

> Shinji didn’t signal “cut.”

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t miss a beat.

And that was the day we learned—

> The monster didn’t need a script anymore.

The final shot.

Tokyo in ruins. Fighter jets screaming overhead.

Cameras rolling. Everything on schedule.

At first, it was going well.

Shinji was in character — too in character. Roaring, stomping, flailing like the monster had truly taken over.

And then…

> CLANK.

A sharp metallic snap echoed across the set.

Like something heavy slammed shut.

Shinji froze.

Mid-roar. Mid-motion.

Just… stopped.

At first, we thought it was part of the act.

Until the silence dragged.

And the footage kept rolling.

Still no movement.

No signal.

No "cut."

Everyone was staring, unsure.

We didn’t even realize it came from the suit.

But just when we started to panic —

Shinji moved again.

Back to roaring. Back to acting.

Like nothing had happened.

We tried to brush it off.

But it happened again. And again.

Nineteen times.

Each time, the same sequence:

> CLANK.

Freeze.

Silence.

Then... return.

We joked about it.

Called it his "robot reboot glitch."

But under those laughs… we were uneasy.

Then came the 20th take.

The final one.

> CLANK.

He froze.

But this time…

He didn’t come back.

Five minutes.

No movement.

No sound.

Just that towering figure standing there — lifeless, yet somehow still alive.

One of our crew members — Jun — finally stepped forward.

Nervous, he reached out to help remove the suit, whispering, “Hey, Shinji, you okay?”

His fingers barely grazed the armor—

And Shinji SCREAMED.

A scream that cut through the studio like a blade.

A scream full of agony — not fear, not acting — pure excruciating pain.

He collapsed to the ground, thrashing.

Like he’d been stabbed.

Like someone had shoved a thousand needles into his body.

And then…

We saw it.

The suit wasn’t coming off anymore.

It was digging in.

It wasn’t a costume anymore.

It was becoming part of him.

That was the real closing crescendo.

Not for the film.

Not for us.

But for Shinji.

Because what we saw rise from that floor…

What stood up inside that suit after the scream faded…

That wasn’t him.

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