Except I’m thinking about it now. And I know exactly why I’m doing it.
The scents.
They’re overwhelming me. The sound tech's coffee breath makes me take an involuntary step back. It’s like my nose has suddenly developed superpowers.
I pause by the monitors, checking the schedule one more time. Twenty-two people moving in a coordinated sequence, three different set pieces being repositioned, two costume changes for the leads. It’s complex but not crazy—the kind of transition we’ve done a dozen times since production started.
But as I watch the crew begin to move into position, my chest tightens. The warehouse suddenly feels too small, the ceiling too low. Everyone is talking at once, calling out instructions, askingquestions, coordinating their movements. The sound builds and builds, pressing against my eardrums.
And the scents—they’re getting stronger, layering over each other until I can’t separate them anymore. It’s just a wall of smell hitting me from all sides, too much to process.
“Collins, where do you want the security desk?”
I turn toward the voice, but the movement makes my head swim. The set blurs at the edges, the people around me suddenly too close.
“We need to confirm the—“
“Has anyone seen the—“
“The director wants to know if—“
The voices pile on top of each other. I open my mouth to answer, but my throat closes up, the tightness in my chest making it hard to pull in a full breath. I‘m hot all over, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across my skin despite the warehouse’s aggressive air conditioning.
Someone moves past me, close enough that their arm brushes mine. The contact sends a jolt through me, like touching a live wire. I stumble back, bumping into a camera stand. My vision blurs, then clears, then blurs again.
I can’t think. Can’t speak. Can’t move.
The voices keep coming, questions piling up. I see mouths moving, faces turning toward me, but the words don’t make sense anymore. They're just noise now, voices blurring togetheruntil I can't separate one from the next. The scents are worse, crowding in from every direction, and suddenly all of it feels like too much.
The crowd shifts.
A path opens.
And Elias Stone steps into my field of vision.
He doesn't look at me. He simply turns his back to the crowd, creating a buffer between us and the press of people before he starts answering questions.
“The security desk goes in the northeast corner. We’ll need two guards visible in the background. Props, the handcuffs are in the green room, bottom drawer of the cabinet. Director wants the transition done in under three minutes. Everyone, positions.”
His voice is low and controlled, nothing like the chaos of a moment ago. And somehow, everyone listens. The questions stop. The crowd disperses, moving to their assigned locations with new purpose.
Just like that, the crisis is averted. The transition continues. And I'm standing here watching as Elias directs the flow of people away from me without ever mentioning my name.
He turns, finally meeting my eyes. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his gaze makes me want to step back. The look lingers just long enough to make me wonder how much he noticed.
“Collins,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “You should sit down.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, the words coming out rough.
His eyes narrow slightly. “You’re not.”
Before I can argue, he’s moving away, continuing his circuit of the set. But I catch him looking back twice over the next minute, each glance brief enough that I almost convince myself I imagined it.
I force myself to take a deep breath. The tightness in my throat eases slightly. My vision clears. I can think again, can focus on the task at hand instead of the overwhelming press of sensation.
But I’ve lost my place in the transition. I check my tablet, trying to remember where I was in the sequence, what still needs to be confirmed.
“That was weird.”
