Chapter 1
Maya
I tighten my grip on the coffee in my left hand and check the location of props on the marker sheet with my right. Call time is in ten minutes, which means the lighting crew is already on set, techs are running final checks, and somewhere deeper in the building, the director is getting her notes in order. I’ve been awake since four-thirty, running through the day’s checklist before the rest of the world decided to join me. That’s how it works when you’re the assistant production coordinator—you’re either running three steps ahead of everyone else, or you’re failing.
Two more quick sips, and I cap the coffee, dropping it into the side pocket of my bag. My eyes are starting to feel grainy from staring at the tablet screen. Four months of twelve-to-fourteen hour days will do that to you. I’ve got dark circles I stopped trying to cover up months ago. At this point, they practically come with the job.
“Collins!”
I don’t look up from the tablet. “Behind the camera three monitor, doing the prop inventory.”
“Did you confirm the backup stunt cables?”
“Yesterday at three. They’re in the green room waiting for the safety check.”
“Perfect.”
Whoever it is moves on, and I keep working. That‘s the rhythm of my life on set—questions, answers, and movement. The magic of filmmaking happens when everyone knows their lane and stays in it. I could do mine in my sleep.
I make my way around the perimeter of the set, checking off items on my list. The massive warehouse has been transformed into the interior of a high-tech villain’s lair, all sleek metal and blinking lights that will get enhanced with CGI later. Right now, it‘s just wires and hollow plastic. But I can see the finished product in my head—that’s part of the job, too.
My foot catches on a cable, and I stumble forward, bracing myself against a faux control panel. My vision blurs for a second, then clears. That’s the third time today. I rub at my eyes, hoping the director doesn’t spot me looking like I’m about to face plant.
The truth is, I’ve been off all week. Not sick, exactly—no fever, no coughing, no telltale signs of anything—but something isn’t right. My balance has been just slightly off, like my body is a half-step out of sync with my brain. I’ve been waking up with a tightness in my throat that loosens as the day goes on. And my dreams have been strange, impossible to remember once I wake up, though the unease always lingers.
I figure it’s probably just the late nights catching up with me. Production is in week sixteen of an eighteen-week schedule. We’ve all been running on fumes for a while.
I pivot to check the lighting setup and nearly run into a grip carrying a section of railing. I side-step at the last second, but not before catching the scent of the aftershave he’s wearing.The scent catches in my throat, sharp and citrusy, almost overwhelming for a second.
“Sorry,” I mutter, blinking hard.
He nods, not really paying attention, and continues past. But the scent lingers. Not bad, just unusually noticeable. I've worked with him for three weeks, and suddenly I could probably identify his aftershave in a lineup.
I shake my head, clearing it, and get back to the inventory. One prop missing—a small data chip that’s supposed to be at station three. I turn, intending to check if it’s been moved, and find myself face-to-face with Adrian Wells.
“Hey,” he says, smiling. His voice is warm. “You’re Maya, right? Production coordinator?”
“I’m just the assistant,” I say automatically, stepping back. The way he says my name catches me off guard. Like he's known it longer than the thirty seconds we've been standing here. That’s not typical. Most of the actors barely notice we’re here at all, just background noise to their performances.
“Yeah, but you’re the one keeping this whole thing from falling apart,” he says. “Seriously, without you, we’d be standing around waiting for coffee and wondering why the set isn’t built yet.”
I blink. That’s...specific. And exactly right. But how does he know that?
Adrian’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He’s wearing the first act costume—dark jeans, a white button-down that‘s been rumpled to look lived-in, and a pair of boots with dirt already worn into the seams. His sandy hair is pushed back fromhis forehead, a little longer than the clean-cut hero types usually wear it. The look shouldn't work as well as it does.
“There you are!”
The voice belongs to Sebastian Kane. He appears at Adrian‘s side, one arm slung casually over the other man’s shoulders. Bash—everyone calls him Bash, even in official communications—is the exact opposite of Adrian in almost every way. Where Adrian is steady, Bash is electric, always moving, always talking. His blue eyes are bright with mischief, like he‘s in on a joke you haven’t heard yet.
“You ready for the stunt sequence?” Bash asks Adrian. “I’ve been practicing my safe-fall all morning.”
“You‘ve been flirting with the stunt coordinator all morning,” Adrian replies. “Which is not the same thing.”
They laugh together, a comfortable sound that makes it clear they‘ve been friends for a while. I step back again, giving them space. They’re the leads—Bash is playing the cocky antihero, Adrian the more serious protagonist who’s trying to save the world from whatever disaster we‘re filming this week. They’re the center of everything. I’m just part of the machine that keeps them in focus.
Bash‘s eyes find mine, and he grins. “Maya, right? The one who found my missing watch last week?”
“It was under the craft services table,” I say. “In the napkin box.”
