"You can't run forever, Sara!" the man chasing her yelled.
Sara didn't look back. She just ran. Like her life depended on it.
Because it did.
"Don't make me shoot!"
She kept running through the rain, her lungs burning, legs getting tired. She turned sharply into a dark alleyway, and with no time to think, she dove behind a pile of garbage bags, forcing herself still. Only her hands moved—quivering uncontrollably.
Sara clutched the necklace around her neck — the Heart of the Ocean. The same one from the Titanic movie, worth twenty million. Her husband had bought it for their second wedding anniversary. A week later, he was found in pieces, mailed to her in a suitcase. Stapled to his tongue was a note that read:
"Give to Caesar."
She hadn't known who Caesar was. All she knew was that someone very dangerous wanted the necklace, and probably her blood too.
Sara held it tighter, praying under her breath. She wasn't ready to die tonight.
The hitman stepped into the alley. Midnight made everything too dark to see, and the rain had eased into silence, except for Adele's Someone Like You playing faintly from across the street.
Just then — her wedding ring slipped off her finger, rolled forward… and stopped at the man's feet.
Sara froze. She held her breath, closed her eyes and waited for the sweet kiss of death.
"I've got you now, slut," the hitman growled, raising his gun toward the garbage bags.
Suddenly, Sara burst into laughter.
***
"Cut! Jesus, Claire, how many takes do you need for you to get this fucking scene?" The director asked frustratingly.
"I'm so sorry," Claire started, still laughing uncontrollably. "But the way he says 'slut!'…" she said in a hefty tone, "…just gets me every time! But I PROMISE. Last take, I swear."
"Let's take a break," Craig, the director sighed. "Five minutes, people."
Anton Graf, the twenty-eight-year-old actor playing the hitman, stepped forward and offered her a hand. Muscular, dark-haired, brown-eyed — disgustingly attractive, even when he looked exhausted.
"You've got some serious issues," he said with a chuckle.
"Slut," Claire replied, mocking his line.
They both laughed again, earning a tired groan from Craig in the distance.
As they walked over to the craft services table, still giggling, Anton said, "You know, I have no idea how you always manage to break me on set."
Claire shrugged, grinning. "I suppose some things never change. Remember our first movie? For some reason, you kept tripping over everything."
"You shattered a whole lamp with your knee!" Anton shot back. "We were disasters."
She smiled at that. This was their second major film together. Claire wasn't where she wanted to be in Hollywood yet, but Anton had made the process less terrifying. He didn't take himself too seriously. And with him, she could just be herself.
"Hey, you wanna sneak out for lunch?" he asked.
Claire replied almost immediately. "My stomach says yes, but Craig's gonna murder us."
"Worth it."
As they walked towards the studio exit, Claire's eyes landed on a man standing with the director.
He was huge—broad shoulders, black suit and dark sunglasses. He looked like a billionaire's bouncer, and the way he looked around the scene made her anxious.
"Hey, Ant," Claire murmured, elbowing him. "You know who that is?"
Anton followed her gaze. "No clue. But he looks like he eats people."
Claire chuckled absentmindedly, her eyes still on the man.
"Yo," Anton said, drawing Claire out of her thoughts. "We gotta go?"
"Right right," Claire responded still somewhat distracted. In no time, they were heading off the set.
***
"She laughs too much," the huge figure muttered.
He stood at the edge of the studio lot, arms crossed, sunglasses still on despite being indoors.
Craig, the director shifted awkwardly beside him. "She's… new. But talented. You'll see."
"She'll do," the man replied simply. Then he turned and walked away.
The director didn't breathe until the man was gone; then he pulled out a small container of pills and popped two in his mouth.
***
Following their brief lunch break escape, Anton and Claire made their way back to the set.
The scene was already buzzing with activity, with crew workers adjusting the lights and props, and the director giving some instructions to the cameraman.
"Alright, back to business," Anton remarked, flexing his arms. "Ready to nail this shit?"
Claire nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yes ma'am," she answered.
"Asshole," Anton replied with a chuckle.
Claire returned to her hiding place, while Anton stood at the mouth of the alley. Now appearing more calm, the director yelled, "Okay, everyone, let's get this right. And... action!"
They ran the scene again, and this time—Claire nailed it. The fear, the desperation, the shift into madness. The director nodded approvingly when it was over.
"Great work," he called. "Let's wrap for the day!"
As the crew scattered, Claire headed to her trailer. She was exhausted.
Then—just as she opened her trailer door—she noticed something strange.
A plain white envelope, taped to the mirror inside. How? No one should've been in here.
She pulled it open.
Inside, a single note, the words printed in clean, bold print:
You have been chosen.
Black Rolls Royce, 7FCN302. Let's talk.
– L.B.
Claire stared at the note.
No explanation. No further information.
just "– L.B."
She held it for a moment, her heart slowly starting to race.
Then she laughed to herself. Just once. Nervous. Quiet.
Something big was coming.
And she didn't know what.