Today, though, when his gaze lands on me, I stop short. Today, though, when his gaze lands on me, I stop short. For a second, I can't look away. The reaction is so unexpected it leaves me unsettled.
Then he turns and continues his circuit of the set, and the moment passes. But my heart is still racing, and my palms feel damp. What was that?
I force myself to keep moving, to focus on the task at hand. The thing about being a beta on a film set is that you’re the baseline—the reliable middle that keeps everything from flying apart. Alphas and omegas are the ones who create the drama, who pull focus, who drive the story forward with their intensity and their chemistry. That’s why they’re the actors, the directors, the producers. The center of attention. Betas like me are the infrastructure. We make sure the lights turn on, the coffee stays hot, and the paperwork gets filed. We don’t get noticed.
I’ve never minded that. I like knowing exactly where I fit, what I‘m supposed to do. It’s comfortable.
But lately...
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. I’m just tired. Everyone gets a little run-down toward the end of a production. It’s normal. It doesn’t mean anything.
I reach the prop table and start counting the items laid out for the next scene. My head feels clearer now that I’ve eaten, and the strange moment with Elias is already fading, becoming justanother weird interaction in a day full of them. At least my head feels clear again.
But as I work my way through the inventory, scents keep pulling my attention. Fresh coffee from craft services. Artificial smoke drifting from special effects. The faint trace of perfume from one of the makeup artists as she hurries past, lingering in the air long after she's gone.
It's unsettling, like suddenly discovering you can hear a frequency no one else can. I focus harder on the list in front of me, checking off items one by one and concentrating on the details I can control.
By lunch, the dizziness has faded, but the strange sensitivity hasn't.
Chapter 2
Maya
I clutch my tablet to my chest and duck through the narrow gap between camera two and the lighting rig. My throat feels tight again, that same odd pressure that’s been coming and going all day. Three more hours until lunch. Three more hours of checking off lists, answering questions, keeping track of a hundred moving pieces while my body decides to malfunction in ways I don’t understand.
The prop master waves me over. “Collins, we need to confirm the handoff schedule for the water damage sequence tomorrow.”
I nod, pulling up the file on my tablet. “It’s in with the SFX team at seven, then practical effects at nine-thirty. You’ll have it back by noon for final setup.”
“Perfect.” He turns away, then pauses. “You sure you‘re okay? You look a little...”
“Tired,” I finish for him. “Everyone is.”
But it’s not just exhaustion. The strange sensitivity is still there, making it harder than it should be to ignore everything around me. And the scents—they’re everywhere now. The artificial pine from the cleaning spray the janitorial staff uses. The sharp, chemical tang of the makeup being applied in the corner. The lingering traces of the breakfast burritos from craft services, wrapped in foil and microwaved until the edges are crispy.
And underneath it all, something else. Something I can’t name.
I move to the craft table for water, hoping to clear my head. My throat feels parched, the tightness spreading down to my chest. Two steps from the table, and I stop dead.
Someone’s left a plate with half a sandwich on the edge of the table. It looks like turkey and swiss, but I barely register the food itself. What hits me is the unmistakably human scent layered over everything else already crowding the air.
The lone scent should blend into the rest, yet somehow my attention keeps circling back to it.
My body reacts before my mind catches up. A sharp pull low in my chest brings me up short, heat flickering beneath my skin. For a second, all I can do is stare at a half-eaten sandwich and wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
I force myself to turn away and focus on the water instead. The tightness in my throat feels tighter, and I swallow hard as I reach for a paper cup. I fill my cup and drink it down in one go, trying to calm the racing in my chest. The water helps a little, but my head still feels fuzzy.
I check the time on my tablet. We’re twenty minutes from the next setup, which means I have twenty minutes to get the transition plan confirmed with all departments. It’s the kind of task I’ve done a hundred times—coordinated, methodical, nothing I can’t handle.
I start with the lighting team, who are already moving their equipment to the new position. The gaffer nods at my approach.
“Ten minutes ahead of schedule,” I tell him. “Director wants to push the timeline.”
“We‘ll be ready,” he says. “Just need to adjust the diffusers on the key lights.”
I move on to the camera department, then props, then sound. Each conversation adds another layer to my mental checklist. Five minutes in, and I’m running through the full sequence in my head, making sure every team knows exactly when they need to be where.
That's when I realize I've been stepping back during every interaction. Not enough for anyone to notice, just a subtle shift that keeps a little more distance between me and everyone else.
