By the time the sun burns over the San Fernando Valley, I already know I’m going to hate this job.
The Skyline Protocol set sprawls across the old airfield like a military occupation: cranes clawing at the sky, wind machines sleeping like beasts, wires strung in brutal, precise geometry. Everything smells like hot metal, coffee, and fear masquerading as adrenaline.
My kind of church.
I step out of the production van, tugging the brim of my ball cap low. No logos, no name. Just another body in black cargo pants and a faded tee that could belong to wardrobe, rigging, or a stray PA. That’s the point.
Anonymity is armor. No face, no fame, no fallout.
“Lane!”
Jonah’s voice cuts through the morning clatter. I spot him by the main rig, clipboard in hand, headset around his neck, a coffee that probably qualifies as a war crime in his grip. He looks like every stunt coordinator I ever apprenticed under and somehow nothing like them; broader through the shoulders, softer at the eyes.
“Morning, boss,” I say as I cross the tangle of cables, sidestepping a dolly track.
He snorts. “Don’t call me boss when I just watched you talk a second unit director into rewriting a car flip because it was ‘stupid on every conceivable axis.’”
“It was stupid,” I point out. “Also, the axis was off.”
He clamps a hand on my shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to ground me. “You sure about this?”
We both know he isn’t asking about the car.
I scan the rig towering above us—fifty feet of steel scaffolding crowned with a narrow platform. The wire team is checking harnesses, their movements economical and bored. Professional boredom. The kind you earn.
“Am I sure about hanging off the side of a fake skyscraper pretending to be a man whose face is on eight different billboards between here and Burbank?” I ask.
He arches a brow.
“Yeah.” I blow out a slow breath. “I’m sure.”
The lie sits bitter at the back of my throat. I’m sure I can do the stunt. I’m not sure about anything else.
Jonah follows my gaze to the tower. “Vivian pulled every string to get you here, you know. Studio doesn’t like bringing in outsiders mid-shoot. Especially not…” His mouth twists. “Ghosts.”
“That’s the compliment of the day,” I say lightly, even as my fingers curl around the strap of my gear bag. “I haunt, I don’t star.”
He hesitates. “Just remember the rules, Mira. You’re the ‘additional stunt coordinator,’ nothing more. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.”
He. As if there’s only one he in Hollywood.
But there is. Here, on this set, today, there’s only Ronan Blake.
Posters of his face paper half the sound stages in this city. Square jaw, impossible eyes, the kind of smile that dares you not to forgive him for whatever he’s about to do. I’ve watched his movies from dark theater corners, counting camera cheats, spotting the doubles, cataloguing the lies that built his legend.
And now I’m the lie. The invisible scaffolding holding up his empire.
A production assistant in a neon lanyard jogs over, nearly colliding with a grip. “Uh, Jonah? Vivian’s looking for you. And she wants Mira Lane in video village in like, five.”
Jonah grunts. “Of course she does.” To me, he adds quietly, “Last chance to run.”
