The hospital hallway smells like lemon disinfectant poured over bad coffee.
I sit in a chair outside room 412 with my shoulder pressed into the cold wall, the bruise pulsing in time with the beeping monitor inside. The floor is that glossy, never-quite-clean linoleum that reflects the ceiling lights in watery stripes. Through the small wired-glass window in the door, I can see the foot of the bed, the metal rail up like a guard.
Marcus stands in front of me, blocking my view, thumbs flying across his phone. The screen glows blue-white against the faint tan line at his wrist where his watch usually lives. Today he’s bare, stripped down, which should make him look less like a fixer and more like a friend. It doesn’t.
He pockets the phone and gives me the withering once-over he usually reserves for red carpets and first meetings with showrunners.
“You look tired,” he says. “Which works. Honest concern reads better when you’re not fully polished.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not in the mood to be fully polished.”
He exhales through his nose, a tiny laugh with no humor in it, and pulls a folded sheet of paper from the leather portfolio under his arm. The Silverline logo gleams at the top in tasteful navy.
“Okay,” he says, tapping the page. “Last run-through. Then we go in, we’re present, we’re warm, and we are not on the record.”
“I know,” I say. “You texted me the bullet points.”
“And you’re going to forget them the second you see her.” He glances toward the door and corrects himself. “Them. Background performer. We don’t gender where we don’t have to.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The air conditioning hums overhead, the same low steady drone I hear on Stage 14, like the whole building is breathing through a ventilator.
“Just say it,” I mumble. “Let me hear it from you once and pretend I’m a talk show host.”
He brightens, like I’ve finally spoken his love language.
“Great. So.” He straightens, slipping into coach mode. “You walk in, you make eye contact, you say their name. You ask how they’re feeling. You can say you’re shaken, that you hate that anyone got hurt on your watch. That’s all fine.” He lifts a finger. “What you will not say is ‘I’m so sorry I almost got you killed.’ Or ‘I saw the rope.’ Or ‘I think someone is doing this on purpose.’”
The word “rope” hits my shoulder harder than the sandbag did. I shift against the wall, the hospital gown rustle from inside the room brushing the edge of my hearing.
“I didn’t say I think someone is doing this on purpose,” I say.
He gives me a look that reminds me he’s watched me grow from feral teen to professional liar.
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “Your face did. And if your face does that in there, Legal will have a stroke. So—” He softens his tone, smoothing the edges. “Concern, not culpability. Got it?”
“What about sabotage?” I ask, before I can swallow the word. “Are we just…not acknowledging that?”
He sighs and glances up at the ceiling, where the fluorescent light flickers in a way that would never pass a union inspection on set.
“If there’s a safety issue,” he says carefully, “there are protocols. Investigations. Reports. All of that happens through the proper channels.”
“So we’re not acknowledging it.”
“We are not speculating,” he says. “And you are definitely not giving anyone language that gets you dragged into a negligence suit. Nobody needs that on top of a bruised shoulder and an injured background player.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, twisting it around my finger until the fabric bites into my skin.
“It wasn’t just ‘injured,’” I say. “The bag hit them full-force. They could have died.”
“But they didn’t,” he says quickly. “They’re stable. Which is why we’re here today instead of me sending flowers.” He flips the sheet over, shows me a line highlighted in yellow. “You can say ‘I’m relieved you’re okay.’ You can say ‘I care about safety on set.’ You can even say ‘If there’s anything you need, I want you taken care of.’ All of that played great with test audiences in past situations.”
I look at the words on the page, handiwork of some crisis consultant who has never tasted fake smoke or watched a sandbag swing.
“You have test audiences for apologies now?” I ask.
“We have data,” he says. “And the data says you being sincerely concerned but not guilty is the sweet spot.”
The DM image flashes behind my eyes—Lila on the mill stairs, blood tracking down her face, my hand hovering in the frame. “Do you remember what you did here?”
I swallow against the dryness in my throat.
“What if I actually am guilty?” I ask, half to him, half to the wired-glass window, where my reflection splits and reassembles in the mesh.
He studies me, eyes narrowing a fraction.
“You’re guilty of showing up to work and trusting the people whose job it is to keep you safe,” he says at last. “Nobody wins if we muddy that.”
He folds the paper crisply, slides it back into the portfolio, and pastes on the gentler version of his managing face.
“Ready?” he asks.
No.
“Yes,” I say.
He knocks twice and pushes the door open without waiting for an answer.
The room feels colder than the hallway. The air smells sharper, iodine and plastic and the faint copper tang of blood that even antiseptic can’t fully erase. A monitor beeps in a steady rhythm to our right. Sunlight squeezes in around the edges of a drawn blind, a thin strip of hazy LA brightness fighting the fluorescent wash.
The background extra—her name is Kayla, I remind myself, I learned it from the call sheet—rests propped up on pillows. One arm is bandaged from wrist to elbow, the skin underneath mottled and swollen. A bruise blooms along her collarbone in the shape of the sandbag’s corner.
A woman in a navy suit sits in the visitor chair, tablet balanced on her knee. Her studio badge hangs on a lanyard: Risk Management in small, neat type.
“Ms. Hayes,” she says, rising smoothly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Nora, please,” I say automatically. “Hi, Kayla.”
Kayla’s eyes widen a little, either from pain or surprise at hearing her name. Her hair is pulled up into a messy top knot, a few curls stuck damply to her forehead with sweat. She smells faintly of hospital soap and vanilla lotion.
“Hey,” she says, voice hoarse. “Wow. You didn’t have to—”
“Of course I did.” I step closer, close enough to touch the bed rail but not touching it. “I was there. I saw… I saw what happened.”
Marcus shifts at my shoulder. I hear fabric whisper as he folds his arms.
“You gave us all a scare,” he says lightly. “How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”
“Uh.” Kayla glances at the morphine pump. “With drugs? Maybe a five. Without, like…twelve.”
We laugh, and the sound lands oddly in the sterile air, like canned laughter on a single-camera drama.
“I’m relieved you’re okay,” I say, the line landing on my tongue with practiced ease. The words feel both true and pre-chewed.
Her gaze flickers to my shoulder. “You’re the one it grazed, right? They said it nicked you.”
“Just a bruise,” I say. “Craft services hurts me more on a daily basis.”
She smiles, a short flash that pulls at the edges of the bruise on her chest.
“I keep thinking about it,” she says, voice dropping. “It was supposed to be a near miss, right? Like in the script? Debris falls behind you, everyone screams, you run, cut to close-up.”
The way she says it tells me she’s a fan, or at least someone who still believes in stories that follow the pages we’re given.
“That was the plan,” I say.
“Only…” Her fingers worry at the blanket, twisting the thin cotton. Her nails are short, paint chipped. “I heard someone up there before it fell.”
My heart stutters. Marcus’s breathe hitches so quietly I wouldn’t notice if I hadn’t spent fifteen years listening to him in rooms like this.
“On the catwalk?” I ask.
She nods, eyes fixed on a point somewhere near my shoulder.
“There were footsteps,” she says. “Not the rigging guys. They had already cleared, we heard ‘catwalk clear’ on the com. Then right before the cue, I heard this…scrape? Like someone shifted their weight on metal. And then the bag dropped.”
My fingers curl around the bed rail. The cold metal under my skin dissolves into another rail, damp and slick on a Pennsylvania night. The mill’s breath flows through the memory, humid and metallic.
“Did you tell anyone?” I ask.
Marcus steps in, voice smooth, professional.
“That’s useful information,” he says before she can answer. “I’m sure safety will want that for their report. The important thing right now is that you’re okay and your bills are covered while we sort out the equipment issue.”
“It didn’t feel like an equipment issue,” she says quietly. “It felt like someone…”
She trails off, biting the inside of her cheek.
“Kayla,” the risk manager says gently, leaning forward in her chair, “whatever you heard will be taken seriously. We have internal channels for that. Right now, our priority is making sure you’re supported so you can focus on healing.”
Healing, I think. Not justice. Never justice first.
I glance at Kayla’s hand, the one not encased in bandages. It rests on the blanket, fingers slightly curled. I imagine reaching down, entwining my fingers with hers, saying, You’re right. It wasn’t an equipment issue. Don’t let them fold this into a form letter and a check.
Instead, my tongue trips over the script already loaded.
“I…hate that this happened,” I say. “I want you taken care of. If you need anything, I’m here.”
“We’re all here,” Marcus adds smoothly. “Which is why we brought some paperwork we can walk you through, if you’re up for that.”
The risk manager taps her tablet, and the printer on the counter whirs to life, spitting out thick, stapled pages. She collects them, straightens the stack, and sets it on the rolling tray table with the delicate care of someone placing an offering.
The papers slide into Kayla’s line of sight. The top page is dense with text, the only generous white space the signature line at the bottom. I catch phrases as my eyes skim: no admission of liability, equipment malfunction, full and final settlement, confidentiality.
The word “confidentiality” blurs, doubling.
NDA, my brain whispers, unhelpfully. Number two.
“This is a standard agreement,” the woman in the suit says, tone soft but practiced. “It ensures your medical expenses are fully covered, plus a lump sum for your trouble, in exchange for keeping the details of what happened between you and the company.”
“So I can’t talk about it?” Kayla asks, throat bobbing.
“You can, of course, talk to your doctors, your immediate family,” the woman says. “This is about public statements, social media, anything that might mischaracterize a complex situation while we’re still reviewing the equipment.”
“Social media,” I echo under my breath. I picture Quinn’s fans on their timelines, stringing together rumors and screenshots, inventing stories out of gaps. Lila’s tagged convention photo pops, then the DM, that suspended frame on the stairs.
The risk manager slides a pen across the tray, the tiny click of plastic on laminate louder than the monitor’s beeping for one sharp second.
“You should absolutely have time to read it,” she says. “We can step out and—”
“No,” Kayla interrupts. “I mean, I’ll read it, yeah, but…how long do I have to decide?”
Marcus smiles in what he probably thinks is a reassuring way.
“We don’t want you feeling pressured,” he says. “But the sooner we formalize things, the sooner reimbursements and support can kick in.”
Rent. Groceries. Health insurance between gigs. I watch the math flicker behind Kayla’s eyes, numbers she probably never expected to be doing from a hospital bed after a day rate on a show that isn’t hers.
“If I sign,” she says slowly, “you’ll cover everything? Like, if my arm doesn’t heal right, if I can’t lift for future jobs…”
“All outlined in the agreement,” the risk manager says. “We’re committed to making this right.”
Right, I think. Not true. Just right enough.
Kayla looks at me, not at Marcus or the woman in the suit. Her gaze lands heavy, searching.
“What would you do?” she asks.
The question spears through the air, past my prepared lines, into the soft underbelly I keep hidden under designer armor.
My first real answer climbs desperately up my throat: I would find out who was on that catwalk and I would not let them call it equipment failure. I would blow this up before it blows up you.
Marcus’s hand brushes my elbow, a touch light enough to be deniable but firm enough to feel like a leash. I taste chlorine and river water, green juice and diner coffee, all the places stories get edited into something more palatable.
“I’d make sure I was protected,” I say instead, each word measured. “And I’d let the people whose job it is to handle this…handle it. You deserve to focus on getting better, not on a fight with a studio.”
Her shoulders sag, just a fraction. She nods, the motion small and resigned.
“Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”
She pulls the papers closer, wincing as the movement tugs her sling. Her eyes skim the dense paragraphs, but her gaze doesn’t linger anywhere long enough to fully absorb the language. She flips slowly, page after page, the paper rasping under her fingers.
My hand tightens on the bed rail until my knuckles pale. The metal under my palm is dry and clean, but my skin remembers the slick cold of the mill’s wet stair rails. I remember signatures on other pieces of paper, adults talking in low voices while a seventeen-year-old version of me stared at her scabbed knuckles.
Silence swells, thick and buzzing.
“You can ask questions,” the risk manager says, voice gentle. “Anything at all.”
Kayla lifts her eyes once more, landing on mine. For a second, everything else fades—the hum of the air conditioner, the beeping monitor, Marcus shifting his weight at my side. There is only the question I pushed down and the answer I refuse to give.
Her pen hovers over the signature line.
“Will this…affect me getting work later?” she asks quietly. “If I don’t sign?”
Marcus steps in without missing a beat.
“Nobody will retaliate,” he says smoothly. “Of course not. We’re talking about a mutually beneficial resolution here. We all want the same thing.”
We do not, I think. Not really.
Kayla looks between us, then back at the paper. Her hand shakes once, a tiny tremor, before she presses the pen down and writes her name in looping letters that look younger than she is.
The monitor keeps beeping. The air keeps humming. The glass in the window throws back a faint reflection of all of us clustered around the bed, miniatures in a box.
“Thank you,” the risk manager says, relief hiding under her professional warmth. She plucks the papers from the tray, taps them into alignment, and tucks them into a branded folder. “We’ll process this right away. You focus on resting.”
“Yeah,” Kayla says, sounding like she has no idea how to do that. “Okay.”
I let go of the bed rail. My palm has left a faint, invisible print on the metal, warmth that will evaporate in seconds.
“I’ll check in on you,” I tell her, words spilling out before I can stop them. “Even if it’s just by text. If you want.”
She smiles, tired and tentative.
“Thanks,” she says. “I really do like the show, you know. I was excited to be there.”
My throat tightens around the answer I owe her.
“Me too,” I say instead.
Marcus shepherds me toward the door with a light hand at my back. The risk manager lingers to adjust the IV line and murmur something about scheduling follow-up appointments. The door closes behind us with a soft click, cutting off the steady beeping.
In the hallway, the lemon disinfectant smell rushes back, sharp enough to sting.
“You did well,” Marcus says quietly. “Compassionate, grounded. No liability.”
I lean back against the wall, staring at the wired-glass rectangle of the closed door. My reflection fractures in the mesh, then re-aligns.
“She heard someone on the catwalk,” I say. “That’s not in the paperwork.”
“That’s for safety to address,” he says. “We just made sure she isn’t ruined by medical bills. That’s a good thing, Nora.”
I picture the phrases on the NDA again—equipment malfunction, no admission of liability—stacked neatly over the memory of footsteps above my head and the hissed words, “Just like before.” I imagine the anonymous DM sitting in someone’s drafts folder, waiting.
“What happens when safety decides it was a freak accident?” I ask. “When the report lines up with the NDA and everything folds into ‘equipment failure’?”
He rubs a hand over his face, the first crack in his certainty showing at the edges.
“Then we keep everyone working and move forward,” he says. “We don’t dig up ghosts that can’t help anyone.”
I think of Lila on the stairs, my hand hovering, and the girl in the bed I just left, pen pressing down because I encouraged her to trust the system that swallowed one mill story whole.
“We already did,” I say softly. “We just paid one not to talk.”
Marcus doesn’t answer. The monitor behind the door keeps beeping, muffled by glass and policy.
I push off the wall and walk down the hallway toward the elevator, the soles of my boots squeaking on the polished floor, carrying me deeper into a narrative I already know ends in silence.