A hundred carbine muzzles gleamed in the harsh white light, each crosshair settling on Revin’s chest or Ozanira’s forehead. Ozanira measured the distance to the camera dolly, noting the uneven grease on Cengiz's lapels and the clumsy pacing of his entrance. Cengiz, radiating malevolence, stepped forward, a sneer twisting his features. “Look at the pair of you,” he crowed, his voice echoing across the silent set. “The pauper prince and his little actress. Did you truly think you could escape me? This is it, your final curtain call.” Ozanira tilted her head, a slow, theatrical smile spreading across her lips. “Oh, Cengiz. Darling.” Her voice, perfectly modulated, carried across the vast soundstage, cutting through the silence. “Please. If you’re going to deliver a villain monologue, at least try for some originality. ‘Final curtain call’? It’s so… derivative. And your projection is entirely off. Are you trying to intimidate the ushers or the lead?” Aydin shifted his stance, fingers twitching near his sidearm while his gaze flicked from Ozanira to Cengiz. Cengiz’s face purpled. He stammered, “You… you impudent wretch! You think this is a joke?” “It would be, if your lines weren’t so terribly clichéd,” Ozanira replied, her gaze sweeping over Aydin and the foreign operatives behind him. “And honestly, the motivation? So shallow. Revenge, money, power. It’s been done. Try exploring the nuances of human depravity next time. Or perhaps, just stick to corporate embezzlement. It suits your limited range.” Cengiz took a furious step, his hand raising, but Revin’s voice, calm and clear, sliced through the rising tension. “She has a point, Cengiz. It’s rather underwhelming.” Then, Revin snapped his fingers. The sound, sharp and unexpected, cracked through the oppressive quiet. On cue, a dozen feather-boa-clad 'extras' scattered throughout the set suddenly moved. Their gaudy attire seemed to melt away, revealing sleek, dark combat gear beneath. The elaborate props they’d carried—a gilded parasol, a oversized stage microphone, a bejeweled fan—transformed into silenced carbines and compact submachine guns. They moved with unnerving synchronicity, covering the mercenaries. A dozen red laser dots from their weapons bloomed on the chests of Cengiz’s private army. The standoff was no longer lopsided. Commander Aydin, caught off guard, barked, “What is the meaning of this?!” “The meaning, Commander,” Revin stated, his voice devoid of any warmth, “is that you’ve overstayed your welcome on *my* property.” Melis, appearing from behind a bank of lighting equipment, a small comms device pressed to her ear, joined them. “Prince Revin, the Karsan Police have arrived at the perimeter. They request access to the VIP Green Room to mediate the situation.” Cengiz snarled, “Police? What good are they? This is Guild business! You have no authority here, Altay! And *she*,” he jabbed a finger at Ozanira, “is under a Guild contract. A breach will see her blacklisted from every major network, globally! Her career will be over before it even begins!” He looked to Aydin. “She has no future, no leverage!” Revin merely raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something almost pitying in his eyes. “Ah, Cengiz. Always thinking too small.” He reached into the inner pocket of his bespoke suit, retrieving a thick, embossed folder. He tossed it onto a nearby prop table. It landed with a soft thump, sliding open to reveal a stack of legal documents and an official seal. “These are the deeds, registered yesterday. As of 0800 hours this morning, Altay Holdings acquired the entirety of the Vardar Conglomerate, including this *Karsan Cinematic Guild* you so adore, all its subsidiaries, and every contract within its purview.” Ozanira stared, her mouth slightly agape, the sheer audacity of it momentarily silencing her own fiery retort. The man she thought she had married to escape a contract, had *bought the entire company* to dissolve it. The irony was a bitter, thrilling taste. “You’re fired, Cengiz,” Revin continued, his voice utterly flat. “Effective immediately. Gather your personal effects and vacate the premises within the hour. Any resistance will be met with full legal action.” Before Cengiz could answer, the double doors of the soundstage crashed back on their hinges. Two Karsan Municipal detectives in charcoal coats entered, backed by tactical officers. They assessed the armed extras, the pinned guards, and Aydin's rigid posture. The lead detective, a woman with tight box braids, raised a glass tablet. “Mr. Vardar, we have a warrant for your arrest, on charges of corporate fraud, money laundering, and illegal arms dealing.” Ozanira stepped forward and pulled a data slate from her sequined pocket, sliding it into the detective's palm. “And this is the ledger detailing the foreign dummy accounts routed through Vardar Studios. It makes for lively reading.” Cengiz’s face went white. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The detective gestured toward her squad. “Take him away.” As the officers moved in, Aydin reached down and unclipped a palm-sized transmitter from his web belt. His thumb hovered over a crimson button. “You think this ends here, Altay? The home council will never let you reclaim the crown! If I cannot deliver you, none of us leave!” He drove his thumb into the housing. A klaxon tore through the rafters, accompanied by a synthetic tone over the overhead speakers: “STUDIO LOCKDOWN INITIATED. NEUROTOXIN VENTING IN T-MINUS FIVE MINUTES. SEEK SHELTER.” Pneumatic blast panels slammed down over the soundstage exits, steel grinding into floor tracks. Revin pivoted toward Ozanira, the smooth mask dropping from his features. The timer, a stark red digital countdown, appeared on every monitor in the room, ticking down to zero.

The Green Room Siege