Hollywood paperwork is a circle of hell Dante forgot to mention.

By the time I finish signing my name on no fewer than seventeen separate lines—each one assuring the studio that I will not sue them if a light falls on my head, or if I trip, or if I combust spontaneously from sheer embarrassment—my hand is cramping and I've forgotten how letters work.

"Is this even legally binding?" I ask Kara, holding up a page where my signature has devolved into something that looks like a seismograph during an earthquake. "It just says 'Jnnn Vgga.'"

"Close enough," she says. "If you bleed on the set, your soul belongs to the production anyway. Welcome to showbiz."

"Reassuring."

She grins, the tired kind. "Look, we haven't killed anyone important yet. You're probably safe."

"Define 'important.'"

She doesn't answer. Just claps me on the shoulder and moves off to yell at a grip about something to do with sandbags.

The throne‑room scenes wrap just before dawn. Crew members peel away in layers; the gaffer disappears into the lighting truck, set dressers swarm in to reset candles and straighten fabric, someone in wardrobe chases a background extra holding a cloak like it's contraband.

I down a second cup of terrible coffee and briefly consider writing a will on the back of my call sheet.

"Vega!"

The shout comes from across the soundstage. It's not Kara this time; it's a different voice, higher, with an accent I can't place. I turn to see a man speed‑walking toward me with a tablet, a harassed expression, and a safety vest that says STUNTS in big reflective letters.

He is, in fact, weird, just like Kara promised.

His hair is a floppy, undefined brown that seems to have lost a fight with both gravity and a bottle of gel. He's wearing cargo pants and knee pads, and one of his shoelaces is untied. His eyes are bright green, the exact color of cartoon toxic waste, and currently locked onto me like I'm a problem he's been hoping to solve all morning.

"You're the new reader," he says. It's not a question.

"Juno," I say. "Designated sacrificial lamb. And you are?"

"Eli." He shifts the tablet to his other hand and offers the first one to me. His grip is warm, calloused. "Stunt coordinator. Jagged edge of liability avoidance. You sign your waivers?"

I hold up my stack of paperwork. "Signed, sealed, delivered, probably condemned."

"Good." He nods, satisfied. "Then I get to throw you down some stairs."

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Not real stairs." He gestures vaguely toward the far end of the soundstage. "Well. Real enough. Come on."

Every survival instinct I have screams no, absolutely not, go back to bed. The part of my brain that is chronically curious and easily peer‑pressured stands up and stretches.

"What kind of stairs?" I ask as he leads me past the main set toward a side area I hadn't noticed before.

"We're blocking a chase for episode seven," he says. "Elara runs from Darius—uh, Lucien's character—and he follows. She trips, rolls, bruises her dignity, and gets back up. They haven't cast the new Elara yet, and we need to set camera positions. Mae says you're a stand‑in with a mouth, so congratulations, you're also a crash test dummy."

My stomach does a slow, nauseous flip. "Is this... safe?"

Eli's laugh is quick, surprised. "You think they let us break the new toy? Relax. We'll pad you up. You'll go over a low step, take a controlled roll on mats. I'll spot you. Worst case scenario, you get a bruise and a cool story for your friends who still think film is glamorous."

I do not have time to decide whether this is a good idea before we arrive.

The "stairs" are a modular wooden structure, maybe five steps high, currently half‑dismantled. Thick blue mats are stacked at the bottom like someone is preparing for a gymnastics meet. A camera is already set up on a low dolly, pointed up the steps at a dramatic angle.

"I thought you said not real stairs," I say faintly.

Eli follows my gaze. "We'll build a smaller run for you. This is hero height; you're not doing that today." He eyes me up and down, assessing the distance from my head to the ground like he's doing physics in his head. "Tomorrow, maybe."

"Wow," I say. "I feel so... valued."

A wardrobe assistant materializes at my elbow with a padded vest and kneepads. Between her brisk efficiency and Eli's matter‑of‑fact tone, my protest dies in my throat. Apparently, I am Doing This.

They gear me up. The vest makes me feel like a turtle. The kneepads make me feel like a child about to rollerblade for the first time and immediately eat pavement.

"Okay," Eli says, hopping lightly up onto the lowest step to demonstrate. "It's a simple half‑fall, half‑roll. You run, you catch your toe on the edge—" He flicks his foot in an exaggerated trip. "You let your momentum carry you forward, you tuck your shoulder, and you roll onto your back. No flailing, no trying to catch yourself with your hands. Think low, round, fluid. Like you're a human wheel."

"People aren't wheels," I say.

"Today they are." He hops back down. "We'll do it in one step first. You'll be fine."

"What if I break something?"

"Then we get a break, and I finally get to go home before noon," he says cheerfully. "Kidding. You won't break anything. Promise."

He offers his hand again, this time to help me up the small run of steps they've reassembled: two steps high, with a mat at the bottom that looks suddenly very far away.

I take his hand. My palm is sweaty. He doesn't comment.

At the top, I turn, looking down. The mat looms up at me like a blue ocean.

"Okay," Eli says, positioning himself at the bottom, hands up, ready. "When I say go, you run down, fake your trip on the first step, tuck, roll. I'll be right here. Worst case, you bump into me and we both look stupid. Ready?"

"No," I say. "But also yes."

"That's the spirit." He steps back to give me room. "And... go."

I run.

It's more of an enthusiastic jog, really, because my legs have decided they don't trust me. The edge of the first step comes up faster than I expect. I do what Eli showed me: flick my toe forward, pretend it catches, let my body pitch.

For one weightless second, I am suspended between oh this is fine and oh no this is terrible.

Then gravity grabs me by the spine and yanks.

I forgot everything Eli said about tucking. My arms flail. The world flips sideways. There is a split‑second where I am ninety percent sure I am about to face‑plant in front of the entire stunt team and whatever poor souls are watching.

Something slams into my lower back.

Not the mat.

Hands.

Strong ones.

They catch me mid‑fall, redirecting my momentum, twisting me in the air. Instead of my face hitting foam, my shoulder hits something solid and warm—someone's chest. We crash down together, his body taking the worst of the impact, rolling us so the mat gets the brunt and I end up on top.

It all happens in a blink, a blur of movement and noise and the iron tang of adrenaline in my mouth.

I lie there, stunned, heart pounding, staring up at the ceiling rigging. A boom mic drifts into view like a curious cloud.

"Wow," Eli says from somewhere above my head. "That was... not how I planned that."

The chest under my shoulder rises and falls in slow, controlled breaths. A voice rumbles through it, low and dry.

"You call that spotting, Eli?"

I freeze.

I know that voice.

I look up, very slowly.

Lucien Vale gazes down at me from about six inches away, hair slightly mussed, one eyebrow raised. His arm is wrapped firmly around my waist, holding me in place like he absolutely meant to lie down on a mat with me in front of half the crew.

My brain blue screens.

"Oh my god," I say. "I killed the star."

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. "Not quite. Though if you insist on falling at my feet, we'll have to work on your form."

Someone nearby coughs loudly. There's a nervous ripple of laughter.

I become aware of exactly how this must look: me sprawled across Lucien like a rom‑com poster, his hand splayed over the small of my back, our faces much closer than HR would probably prefer. If we were in costume, someone could slap a tagline on this and call it a season promo.

"Are you two okay?" Eli asks, hovering on the edge of the mat, looking equal parts concerned and fascinated.

"I'm fine," I say quickly, pushing myself up. Lucien's arm tightens for a second—as if bracing to stop me from bailing—then releases. I sit back on my heels, heat flooding my face. "Sorry. I panicked. Gravity and I have a complicated relationship."

Lucien sits up more slowly, dusting off imaginary lint. Not a hair is out of place. Of course.

"You didn't tuck," he says mildly. "You went stiff."

"Story of my life," I mutter, then immediately want to crawl under the mat and live there forever.

His mouth twitches. "I'll resist the obvious comment."

"How gallant," I say weakly.

Mae appears at the edge of the mat, arms folded. "Well," she says. "That was dramatic."

"It was unsafe," Eli says, guilt flickering over his face. "I should've been closer. She over‑committed on the trip. That one's on me."

"No," I say, scrambling to my feet. "It's on me. I forgot the tuck part. I just went... full ragdoll."

"Like a fainting goat," someone from lighting offers.

"Great," I say. "Exactly the brand I was going for."

Mae pinches the bridge of her nose, the way she did earlier with Lucien. "Okay. New rule: no throwing our writer down anything before she's had at least three safety briefings and an entire pot of coffee. Eli, adjust the stunt so the actual Elara doesn't die when we cast her. Juno, maybe don't audition for Jackass today."

"Noted," I say. My knees wobble. Adrenaline is starting to ebb, leaving a shaky aftertaste.

Lucien stands, offering me a hand. I hesitate for a beat, then take it. His grip is strong, cool.

Cooler than it should be.

A chill skates up my arm, like I've grabbed a metal railing in winter. It's not unpleasant, exactly—just wrong. My brain catalogs it, stamps it with a brightly colored Post‑It that says Something Is Off, and files it in a mental folder growing thicker by the hour.

"You're light," he observes as he pulls me up. "That made it easier."

"Great," I say. "Put that on my headstone. 'She was light. It made throwing her down stairs more convenient.'"

His eyes glint. "Duly noted."

Mae gestures toward the edge of the stage. "Take ten, people. Juno, you good to sit for a bit? Get some water. If you're concussed, I need to know before I rewrite my schedule around you having a brain."

"I'm fine," I say automatically.

My vision chooses that moment to do a little zoom‑in, zoom‑out thing. I sway.

Lucien's hand comes to my elbow, steadying. "You'll sit," he says, tone brooking no argument.

"Bossy," I mutter.

But I let him guide me to a nearby apple box. Someone presses a water bottle into my hands. I sip obediently, focusing on the feel of the cool plastic, the taste of chlorine, and the studio tap.

Lucien stands in front of me, arms loosely folded, watching my face like he's looking for micro‑fractures.

"You scared me," Eli says, flopping down on the mat a few feet away. "Don't do that. I already have anxiety. It doesn't need siblings."

"Sorry," I say. "I'll try to fall less dramatically next time."

"Or you could not fall," Lucien suggests.

"That's boring," I say. "Also unrealistic. Falling is kind of my thing."

He tilts his head. "Is it?"

"Metaphorically and literally," I say. "There was this one time in eighth grade when I tripped on the auditorium stairs during the spring musical and took out the entire front row of the ensemble with me. We looked like a human slinky."

Eli snorts. Lucien's lips quirk.

"Well," he says. "At least you're consistent."

"I aim to please."

"Please aim somewhere other than the floor," Eli says.

We sit there for a minute, the sounds of the set swelling and receding around us. People move gear, call out times, and argue about framing. Somewhere, someone laughs too loud, the manic, hysterical laugh of a person who's been awake for twenty hours straight.

The world feels a little unreal, edges too sharp, colors too bright. Adrenaline crash. That's all. Totally normal.

I glance at Lucien.

He looks... fine. Not a speck of dust on him, not a hair out of place. If anything, he seems more alert, eyes brighter, like the near‑collision gave him a hit of something.

"Are you okay?" I ask, squinting. "You hit the mat pretty hard."

"I've had worse," he says.

"Doing stunts?"

"Doing life," he says. "The mat was soft. I've fallen on less forgiving things."

"Like stairs?" I say.

"Like people."

There's something in his tone that makes the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck stand up. A memory, maybe. A regret.

"Okay," Eli says, clapping his hands once. "Break's over. Juno, you're banned from falling for at least... two hours. I'll fight anyone who says otherwise. Lucien, thanks for the save. Try not to make a habit of it; your insurance rider gives Accounting heart palpitations."

"Noted," Lucien says.

He looks at me one more time, something unreadable in his gaze.

"Try to stay upright, Vega," he says softly. "The night is long."

"Is that a poetic way of saying we're working overtime?" I ask.

"You'll see," he says.

Then he's gone, swept back into the organized chaos, swallowed by wardrobe and makeup and blocking.

I watch him go, something tight and electric coiling in my chest.

"He moves fast," I say.

Eli follows my line of sight, shrugs. "You should see him when the cameras are actually rolling. Dude's like a panther on Red Bull. I don't know how he does half that footwork."

"Practice?" I suggest.

"Maybe," Eli says. "Or maybe he's secretly a vampire."

I choke on my water. "What?"

He laughs. "Kidding. Kind of. There's a whole subreddit about it. Haven't seen the conspiracy threads? 'Lucien Vale: Timeless or Time Traveler?' 'Proof Our Favorite Vampire Is Actually a Vampire.' People have way too much time."

"I mean," I say slowly. "It's called Nightfall. The marketing writes itself."

"Exactly." He pushes himself to his feet. "Anyway, don't die. I like you. You punch up my dialogue without making the actors hate me."

"I'll try to stay alive just for you," I say. "And also for my student loan servicer, who would be very upset if I stopped making payments."

He salutes and jogs off.

I sit for another minute, letting my heart settle into something like a normal rhythm.

Lucien caught you, my brain whispers. And he wasn't where he was supposed to be.

I replay it, as much as my frazzled neurons will allow. Eli was at the bottom of the steps. Lucien was... where? I hadn't seen him nearby. One second I was falling, the next I was in his arms, like some kind of cliché damsel in distress in a slow‑motion music video.

Except there was no slow motion. It was instant. Too instant.

Maybe he was closer than I thought. Maybe I just missed him in my peripheral vision. Maybe—

"Stop," I tell myself out loud. A passing extra gives me a weird look and hurries on. "You are exhausted. You are hopped up on caffeine and residual embarrassment. You are not going to invent superpowers for your co‑workers."

But the image lingers: his cool hand on my arm, the way the world had seemed to stutter around us for a heartbeat. The weird, not‑quite‑right reflection in the coffee urn earlier. The way the lights flickered.

Coincidence. All of it. Random crap my brain is sewing together into a pattern because that's what it does.

"Juno!"

Kara's voice snaps me out of my spiral. I look up.

"Yeah?"

"Wardrobe wants to see you," she calls. "If you're going to be on camera more than once, you need a look."

"A look," I repeat. "Like... a look look?"

"Yeah. You get to be an influencer now," she says. "Congratulations."

I groan and drag myself upright, my muscles protesting. Wardrobe is across the lot, in a trailer that smells like fabric softener and high stress. The idea of someone picking my clothes for me feels both luxurious and deeply invasive.

As I shuffle toward the exit, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out.

Group text: FAMILY.

Mom: How's the first day???
Tía Rosa: Take pictures! Not one of you falling though. Be careful mija.
Little brother (saved as Demon Spawn): If you meet Lucien Vale and don't get his autograph for me I'm disowning you.

I stare at that last one, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat.

Too late, kid, I think as I type back.

JUNO: Haven't met him. Definitely did NOT almost crush him to death. Everything is fine. Will call later. Love you all, tell my loans I died bravely if I don't make it.

I hit send before I can second‑guess it and slip the phone back into my pocket.

As I push open the heavy studio door, stepping out into the bleary, washed‑out light of early morning, I glance back over my shoulder.

Through the sliver of space between door and frame, I see him.

Lucien, standing in the middle of the soundstage, alone for once. No makeup artist, no PA, no director hovering. Just him, under the dimmed set lights.

He lifts his hand.

For a second, I think he's waving. Then I realize he's holding something: my script binder.

I must've dropped it when I almost became a human bowling ball.

He looks down at the binder, thumb brushing over my name scrawled on the cover. The cheap plastic creaks.

The overhead fluorescents flicker.

His eyes, even at this distance, seem to darken, pupils swallowing gray. He tilts his head back, like he's listening to something only he can hear.

Then, as if sensing me, he turns.

Our gazes meet through the narrow gap.

My breath catches.

He smiles. Slow. Deliberate. A secret, aimed like an arrow.

The lights go out.

Total black, for half a second.

When they snap back on, he's gone.

The binder sits alone on the mat.

The door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing in the quiet morning.

"Okay," I say to the parking lot. "Not creepy at all."

The air is cold on my sweat‑damp skin. I hug myself, sudden goosebumps racing down my arms.

I am tired. I am overdramatic. I am prone to seeing patterns where there are none.

And yet.

As I cross the lot toward the wardrobe trailer, a thought curls in the back of my mind, stubborn and sharp.

If the devil is an actor, he just picked up my script.

And I have no idea what part he's planning to rewrite.