The archives never smelled like glamour.
They smelled like dust and cold air-conditioning and the faint, metallic tang of old film canisters. Safe smells. Invisible smells. I had built a whole life around them.
So when my extension rang at 7:12 a.m. sharp—twice, then three times, like whoever was on the other end had never been told not to bother the basement—I already knew it was going to be a bad day.
“Archives,” I said, tucking the receiver between my shoulder and ear as I re-labeled a box. “This is June.”
“Ellis.” The voice was clipped, female, and absolutely not familiar. “You’re on Stage Six in fifteen minutes.”
I froze mid-stroke. A drop of black ink trembled at the tip of my pen and fell, a tiny comet hitting cardboard. “I think you have the wrong—”
“June Ellis, employee ID 47-392, archives assistant, contract addendum filed last quarter. You’re on my list.” A beat, like she’d pulled the phone away to check something. “And Victor Hale does not like people being late.”
My mouth went dry. “Victor… you mean—”
“Yes.” She didn’t bother to hide the impatience. “Stage Six. Wardrobe is expecting you.”
The line clicked dead.
For a full five seconds, all I could hear was the hum of the fluorescent lights and my own pulse starting to pound in my ears. Wardrobe. Stage Six. Victor Hale. None of those words belonged in my basement.
I set the pen down carefully, because my hand had started to tremble.
“Milo,” I called, even though he had his headphones on at the far table, half-buried under a mountain of digitization reports.
He didn’t hear me.
“Milo.” Louder this time.
He jumped, tearing his gaze away from the monitor. “What? Did they greenlight Archives: The Musical? Because I have notes.”
I almost laughed. Almost. “I just got a call. I’m supposed to be on Stage Six in fifteen minutes.”
His eyes went comically round behind his glasses. “That’s Rowan’s stage.”
I already knew that. Everyone in the building knew that. Stage Six was practically a myth, the soundstage they draped in blackout curtains when they didn’t want the world peeking in on franchise gold.
“It’s a mistake,” I said quickly. “Obviously. I’ll go up and tell them. Then I’ll come back and finish the Hale rotation boxes and we’ll never speak of this again.”
Milo’s chair squeaked as he stood. “You’re not going up there alone.”
“Milo—”
“June.” He frowned. “You’re pale. Paler than normal, and your normal is Victorian ghost.”
I exhaled through my nose, fighting the instinct to just… disappear between the shelves. It had worked for years. Keep my head down, move boxes, log footage, stay away from cameras.
But the call had used my name and my ID number and Victor Hale. My contract addendum.
The one I’d signed last quarter for a modest raise and some vague language about ‘flexible duties as needed by production.’ The one HR had assured me was standard.
My stomach twisted.
“I’ll be fine,” I lied. “It’s probably a misdial. Or some intern’s prank.”
“Executives don’t prank,” Milo muttered. “They ruin lives with paperwork.”
I grabbed my lanyard and wrapped it around my fingers like a worry bead. “If I’m not back in half an hour, assume I’ve been eaten by the Marvel machine and avenge my death on your blog.”
