The field opened up, wide and golden, the late afternoon sun brushing everything in warmth.
The tall grass swayed, whispering under a lazy breeze.
The crew had been at it since dawn. Lights got positioned just right, reflectors angled to grab the last bit of sunlight, camera tracks smoothed out over the stubborn bumps in the ground.
Leo crouched by the van, his hands quick and sure as he coiled cables.
Sweat clung to his neck, even with the air cooling down.
All around him, people moved in a kind of quiet dance. They knew the job, knew the rhythm they'd fall into without even thinking.
The director's voice snapped through the chatter, sharp and urgent. "Alright, people! We're losing light. Let's make this count. Positions!"
Everyone froze.
Alex and Hana took their places, costumes streaked and ragged—post-battle, post-chaos. Alex's shirt hung torn at the shoulder, Hana's hair loose and wild. They looked like survivors.
