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.
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, asking questions, 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 together until 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.”
I look up to find Adrian Wells standing a few feet away, watching me with concerned eyes. He’s changed into his third-act costume—dark jeans and a gray Henley. His hair is mussed, like he's been running his hands through it.
“What was weird?” I ask, though I know exactly what he means.
“You just... stopped.” He takes a half-step closer, then pauses. “For a second there, it was like you weren’t even here. Your eyes went all...” He trails off, clearly searching for the right word.
“Distant,” I supply. “I’m fine. Just got a little lightheaded. Long morning.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because—“
“Collins!” Sebastian Kane appears at Adrian‘s side, his usual grin firmly in place. “What the hell was that? One minute you‘re running the show, next minute you’re looking like you’re about to pass out. Very dramatic. Very on-brand for someone who never breaks character.”
“I‘m not breaking character,” I say, fighting to keep my voice calm. “I don’t have a character. I’m just the production coordinator.”
“Assistant production coordinator,” Adrian corrects automatically.
“Thank you,” I say dryly.
“See?” Bash grins. “That’s what I mean. Even when you’re about to collapse, you‘re still the most together person in the room. It’s impressive. Also a little concerning.” His smile fades slightly. “You really okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time. “Just need to get back to work.”
They exchange a look I can’t quite interpret.
“We’re heading to makeup,” Adrian says. “But if you need anything...”
“I’ll let you know,” I finish for him. “Thanks.”
They move away, but not before Bash shoots me another concerned glance over his shoulder.
I watch them go, a strange warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with whatever‘s happening to my body. It’s the way they checked on me—not out of obligation, but because they noticed. Because they cared.
That doesn’t happen. Not to me. Betas are the background, the steady support. We don’t get noticed.
Except apparently now I do.
I turn back to my tablet, pulling up the next item on my list. I’ve lost at least five minutes with whatever just happened. I need to make up the time, get things back on track.
“Okay, what the hell is going on with you?”
Nadia appears at my side, her arm linking through mine as she steers me toward the relative quiet behind the monitors. Her voice is low but intense, her eyes fixed on my face.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say, but even I can hear the weakness in it.
“Bullshit.” She stops us in the shadow of a lighting rig, turning to face me directly. “You’ve been off all week. You’re jumpy. You‘re distracted. And just now, you completely froze in the middle of a transition. That is not you.”
I shrug, trying for casual. “Everyone gets run-down toward the end of a production. You know that.”
“This isn’t run-down.” She leans closer, her voice dropping even further. “Your scent is changing, Maya. It’s stronger. Different. And the way those alphas are watching you...” She shakes her head. “Something‘s happening. I know it.”
The word sends a jolt through me. Alphas.
Of course that's what they are. Suddenly a few things click into place. The way they command attention without trying. The way people naturally make space for them. The intensity of their focus when it lands on you. And the way my body is reacting to them, like it’s responding to some signal I can’t consciously detect.
But that doesn‘t explain why it’s affecting me. I’m a beta.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. “And I really need to get back to work. We’re behind schedule.”
Nadia’s eyes narrow. “This conversation isn’t over,” she says. “But I’ll let you go for now. On one condition.”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll tell me if it gets worse. If anything else happens. No more pretending you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”
I hesitate, then nod. “I promise.”
She studies my face for a long moment, then sighs. “Okay. Go save the production. But we’re talking tonight. My trailer, after wrap.”
I don't argue. She's right. Something is happening, and pretending otherwise isn't working anymore.
But I can’t deal with it now. Not when there’s still half a day of filming to get through, a hundred details to track, a thousand problems to solve. So I push it down, lock it away, and get back to work.
For the next few hours, I’m careful. I keep my distance from the crowds. I breathe through my mouth when the scents get too strong. I focus on the lists, the schedules, the endless stream of tasks that need my attention, rather than on the strange symptoms.
By the time we call wrap, I’m exhausted—not just the normal end-of-day tired, but a bone-deep weariness that makes every movement an effort.
My head feels stuffed with cotton, my thoughts moving sluggishly.
But I’ve made it through without another incident.
Without anyone else noticing that something’s wrong.
As I’m packing up my tablet, I catch a glimpse of Elias across the set. He’s watching me again, and the intensity of his attention makes it hard to look away. And for a second, I’m sure he can see it—whatever’s happening to me.
I look away first, hurrying to finish my closing tasks. I need to get out of here, to somewhere I can think clearly. To figure out what’s happening to me before it gets any worse.
Because one thing is certain now: this isn't just exhaustion.
I don't know what it is, but it's not going away.