Chapter 162 – The premiere of Buried
There was a restless stir inside the theatre. Even though the lights had already dimmed, the rustling and murmuring still hadn’t faded. For the audience, no one had expected the premiere of Buried to be this lively, nor had they expected the theatre to be packed—there were even a few people left standing outside, unable to get in. For an independent film with almost no marketing or gimmicks, this was truly rare, and everyone was just a little bit excited.
Rodrigo couldn’t help but become irritated. He knew very well that the film would enter its stride from the very first shot; if people kept making noise, they were going to miss something important. Nervousness, anxiety, and anticipation tangled inside him. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and finally couldn’t hold back—he shot to his feet and shouted, “Quiet! Please keep quiet! The movie is about to start, so could you all please be silent?”
After barking that out, Rodrigo sat back down again, his heart pounding wildly against his ribs. That had been far too bold. But surprisingly, the commotion in the theatre actually began to settle—Canadian politeness, it seemed, was not a myth after all.
Gavin watched the opening credits carefully, only to realise he didn’t recognise a single company name—really, he didn’t hear of any of them. This was independent filmmaking through and through. When the credits ended, the screen fell into complete darkness. Gavin adjusted his posture, ready to watch. Ten seconds passed—silence. Twenty seconds—still nothing. Thirty seconds—no change at all…
Gavin glanced around. Had the reel malfunctioned? Was there something wrong with the projector? Thirty whole seconds after the opening with absolutely nothing—not even movement—just a completely black screen. It had to be a projection error. How could that happen?
Sure, Buried was an indie film—but for the organisers to treat it so carelessly, even having a playback accident? That was just unfair.
Gavin felt wronged on the film’s behalf. The audience remained quiet, but he could clearly sense their doubts spreading. Heads turned left and right, clothes rubbing against seats, filling the darkness with tiny noises, agitation slowly eroding everyone’s immersion.
“Huuh.”
A soft breath sounded somewhere in the screening room—quiet, suppressed, almost strained.
Gavin’s first thought was that one of the journalists around him had noticed something. He looked to both sides, only to find everyone else was also glancing around. Then that faint breathing sounded again, right by his ear—as if someone was leaning in close. Heavy, struggling, pained. Gavin froze, muscles tightening. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head toward the unmoving screen—was the sound coming from the surround speakers?
The breathing turned more frantic. Muffled coughing mixed with the anxious gasps gripped Gavin’s attention. Not just Gavin—everyone in the room had fallen completely silent. In the pitch-black darkness, only that desperate breathing could be heard. The darkness itself felt like invisible ropes binding each person to their seat, muscles locked tight, eyes wide open, staring hard at the screen, trying to find even the slightest clue hidden in the endless black.
But they found nothing.
Amid the panicked breaths came thudding impacts—someone’s body hitting the walls around them, dull and heavy, like a demon fighting against confinement. Gavin felt as if his heart was gripped in a fist, slowly tightening, tighter and tighter. A deadly fear crawled up his ankles, chilling and cold, making him shiver uncontrollably. He tried to move, but found he couldn’t—as though he too was trapped in that suffocating darkness, inside a narrow space where struggling only led to more pain. In his mind, frightening imagery began to form in sync with those terrified, rapid breaths.
Thirty seconds. A full thirty seconds. Gavin stared wide-eyed, frozen in place, as if time itself had stopped for him.
Click, click.
The sound of a lighter scraping sparked Gavin to hold his breath. A tiny flame flickered to life, illuminating a single desperate left eye—panic, fear, hesitation, confusion, dread—blinking in the wavering glow, tightening around Gavin’s throat like a vice.
His pulse pounded against the frantic breathing. The flame pushed back against the darkness, bleeding light outward bit by bit. Then the audience finally saw: a mouth gagged with filthy cloth, hands bound stiffly behind by coarse rope, both hands awkwardly gripping the lighter—driving away the darkness and revealing the world within frame:
A wooden box.
A box the size of a coffin.
A cramped wooden prison holding a man trapped inside.
The man began slamming his elbows against the wooden boards, ramming the walls with his shoulders—his entire body thrashing in desperate struggle. The faint flame of the lighter shook with every violent movement, and that sense of life hanging by a thread made Gavin’s insides twist in terror.
Suddenly, the flame went out. And with it, Gavin’s breath—and every last sound inside the theatre—was abruptly cut off.
In panic, the man fumbled several times before finally sparking the lighter again. Then he threw himself against the box with every part of his body, trying anything, everything, to get out. Only now did he come to his senses enough to tear the cloth away from his mouth, leaving a deep red welt across his cheek. “Cough… cough…” He tried to speak, but it was as if he had lost the ability to form words. In the end, all he could force out was a single syllable:
“Ah!”
He cried out—calling for rescue, for help, for… someone, anyone, like him.
“Ah!”
He couldn’t even manage the word help. Like a newborn child, blind and frantic, he screamed and smashed about, stripped back to primitive instinct—an animal battering against its cage. And the more he fought, the more it emphasised his helplessness and agony. Every ounce of strength spent, yet achieving nothing—making all that effort seem painfully, cruelly ridiculous.
Gavin stared at the screen, dumbstruck, not even remembering to blink. He could only watch as the man on-screen fought for his life on the edge of death. The terror crawled from his ankles upward, as if even his blood had turned to ice. But he couldn’t move—pinned to his chair, eyes locked on the screen, terrified of missing a single moment, even a single breath.
No dialogue. No extra plot. Just the brutal close-up of a cramped, suffocating space and a man’s emotions laid bare beneath a microscope. That choking pressure, that chaotic panic, that hopeless despair—all burst forth in the flickering firelight, gripping every nerve in every viewer. Gavin could no longer think. The only thing left on his mind was:
Help him. Someone, save him!
The man finally regained a shred of rationality. Using a nail he found in the corner, he sawed through the rope binding his hands and freed them. Then he used the lighter to slowly illuminate the space around him, trying to understand where he was.
A coffin. A rough, makeshift coffin.
He began straining upward with all his might, trying to push the lid loose with his shoulder—but it was useless. The coffin didn’t budge at all. His effort was like an ant trying to topple a tree.
When rage reached its limit, when pain reached its limit, when despair reached its limit—the flame died again, plunging the world back into darkness.
In the dark, he roared and screamed, kicking and punching at the walls, pouring out every ounce of grief and terror—but when anger finally drained away, helpless despair rushed in. He even laughed, a hollow, broken laughter that soon dissolved into sobs. He bit into his lower lip, trying to choke it back, but the trapped, muffled weeping echoed through his chest.
Chanel’s pupils spread wide in utter shock. Her heart seemed to stop; she couldn’t even feel her own blood flowing anymore. She just sat frozen, staring blankly at the pitch-black screen—there was no visible shape, no silhouette—but she could feel every twisted emotion as if she was trapped inside that coffin too. Horror tangled with fear, hopelessness with bitterness, and that crushing realisation that even bleeding and broken, there was no escape—dragging her down into the abyss.
She had wondered, been curious, imagined what Buried would look like as a finished film. But the truth was right here: not even ten minutes in, just darkness shifting into darkness, no dialogue beyond screams and the terrifying authenticity of a life on the verge of ending, shattered every defence she had. She couldn’t even react.
A film like this, she couldn’t afford to miss a single second.
The buzzing of a phone shattered the silence within the darkness. A faint blue glow flickered on and off, blinking weakly as the phone vibrated tirelessly by the man’s feet. It startled not only the man who had already lost all hope, but every single audience member in the theatre as well.
In that instant, everyone straightened in their seats at the same time, staring at the screen with curiosity and desperate anticipation. Why was there a phone down there? Could this be the man’s chance to survive? Who was calling him now? What direction would the story take from here?
The man struggled to reach the phone, but since it lay by his feet, it was far from easy. After exhausting every ounce of strength, he finally managed to flick it upward with his toes and snatch it into his hands. It was an old-style brick phone, clearly outdated. He lit up the screen—and froze.
Because the display was in Arabic.
Arabic?
T/N – I am aliveeee.
T/N – If you like this novel, please give a review or rating on Novel Updates