I watch. From the craft services tent, coffee cup in hand, drip of cream still unmixed. The scent: hot caf fumes, spilled sugar, the faint acrid tang of smoke from last night’s shoot. The monitor screen in front of me is paused on my worst take: myface frozen in fear, the fake reactor flickering. I glance down at Pepper racing away, the inducer hum faint beneath her ear.
The inducer holds. Today. The green light glows steady. But I know—just like every day—I know it’s only a matter of time before it falters in public. A camera, a paparazzi drone, a crow’s eye view from above. Someone will see something. Someone will decode the flicker. Someone will ask:Why is her child’s eye row flashing silver?Who is this man watching her?Why is there a Reaper in her life?
And then the press explosion. The Interplanetary Human Council (IHC) investigation. The studio backlash. Gyon dragged back to wherever the hell he came from. Pepper ripped from my arms. That little girl clutching her jam pouch is banking on me protecting this secret. I made the contract. I accepted the clause. I promised safety. But right now I feel like I’m teetering on the ledge of a volcano and the tremors are starting.
I walk to the trailer parking area after lunch. The lot smells of warmed concrete and engine oil. Pepper rides on Gyon’s shoulders, helmeted stunt-gear in hand, laughing at something the stunt-kit guy said. Gyon’s grip around her is easy, protective. He tilts his head and she giggles, bites her lip. A perfect tableau.
I turn away, swallowing. I hear someone call my name—assistant wardrobe looking for an adjustment—but I don’t answer. I walk back inside, to a quiet corner, and pull my phone out. I scroll through the contract files.Disclosure avoidance clause.Image indemnity.Alien heritage liability. My fingers hover over the “Penalties” section: deportation, child removal, scandal. I swallow.
“Mommy?” The voice. I jump. Pepper’s standing at the trailer door. Jam smudge on her cheek. “You gonna film again?”
I blink. “Yeah, baby. In ten minutes.”
She skips off. I hold her gaze for a second. Then I breathe out. The studio lot fades behind me. The engine hum, the light rigs,the scripts—they all grind into the background. It’s just me and the secret.
Back inside, Gyon is reading the revised script—his contract-copy. His armor jacket rests on the chair. He doesn’t see me though I know he senses me. We don’t speak. I shouldn’t speak. Because the words—Pepper is yours—are still locked in my throat.
I step in. I clear my throat. “Gyon—I need the scene with Pepper tomorrow. She nails it.”
He looks up. “Okay.”
Short. Efficient. But his eyes flick to mine. Something in them probing. Something unknown. My heart leaps. I nod and turn away.
When filming resumes, the chaos wraps me in its cloak: lights blaze, props clang, cables run like snakes. The smell of smoke machines, the taste of dust in my mouth. I run through a take where we escape the collapsing Maze—again. I feel the old fall inside me. I fall. I hit the mat. I taste grit. I gasp. But then I see Pepper in the monitor, cheering. I rise. I block. I move through the scene, give her the reaction. Fear. Relief. Union.
After the take, Gyon stands beside me. He doesn’t speak. But his presence is heavy. He whispers, “You did good.” The words quiet, but they echo in the empty studio. My body stills. The fabric of my costume kisses my skin raw where it rubs. I close my eyes.
The lunch bell rings. I can’t breathe.
That night, I lie awake in the apartment—sterile overhead light, sound of the hovercar engine two apartments down humming through the thin walls. Pepper sleeps. I watch her chest move. The inducer hums. I sit at the edge of the bed. The duvet smells of detergent, screens soft-glow from the set-footage footage I should be editing for tomorrow.
I type again. “Pepper, you are what holds me…” Delete. “Gyon, you are the anchor I refused…” Delete. My fingers ache. The cursor blinks like a heartbeat skipped.
I close the laptop. I lean forward and press my forehead to my knees. The rug is scratchy against my cheek. I smell jam again—her hair. I taste leftover caf cream on my lips.
I whisper to myself: “Tell him tomorrow. I will.”
But I don’t.
Because if I tell him—everything changes.
And if I don’t—everything already changed.
I wake early next morning, too early. The city hum is softer in dawn light, but it still pulses. The lot is buzzing by 6 a.m. for early-call scenes. The freezer café smells of steam and stale doughnuts. I walk in, grab a black coffee. I stir it. The sugar granules crunch in my teeth.
I see Gyon across the room. He sits alone at a table. Armor jacket on his chair, script open. He reads. He looks up when the barista sets my coffee down. We lock eyes for a second. I nod. He nods back—an acknowledgement of shared morning, nothing more.
I carry the coffee to the monitor bank and glance at the feed. Pepper is running around the set again, giggling. She stops by the monitor and waves at me. I wave back. She turns and runs into Gyon’s arms. She wraps around him like a vine.
My chest contracts. I taste the steel tang of panic.
Gyon looks up at the monitor, sees me watching. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t break the embrace with Pepper. Instead he holds her higher, brushes her hair back. She leans into his neck. His fingers rest at the nape of her jacket.
I feel a shift. Something moving inside me. Guilt isn’t a static weight—it’s fluid, crawling, burning.
The director yells: “Ready, cameras rolling!”
I step into the light. The scene begins. I act. I emote. I lie. But this time, it feels like reality. Gyon moves in beside me during the scene—not scripted—but allowed. The prop set shakes, lights flicker, dust falls. My character reacts. Gyon’s Reaper character shields me for real.
