Mireia pressed her fingers against the cold floorboards. The crude crescent moon, swallowing a star, seemed to pulse from the faded image. It obscured the face of the older girl, but the younger one, clear and smiling, was unmistakably Zita. Not just a younger Zita, but a Zita who looked... happy. Innocent. Before the glamour, before the bitter lines around her eyes. Zita’s carefully constructed composure crumbled. Her face twisted, the mask of feigned concern dropping away to reveal a raw, desperate fury. “Give that to me!” she shrieked, lunging forward, not even bothering to pretend anymore. Her hand lashed out, manicured nails raking toward the silver oval on the floor, the photograph still exposed. Mireia lunged forward, slapping her palm down over the pendant and the photograph just as Zita's fingernails grazed her knuckles. The force of Zita’s lunge sent her stumbling, catching herself on Bastian’s arm. Mireia scrambled back, pulling the keepsake to her collarbone as the sharp silver hinge bit into her skin. Bastian clamped both hands onto Zita's shoulders, hauling her upright. “Enough,” his voice was a low growl, vibrating with controlled rage. “What in the name of the Cinestars is happening here?” [PROBABILITY OF OBJECTIVE COMPLETION: 0.02%. HOSTILE TARGET ALERT. IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION RECOMMENDED.] Zita wriggled in his hold, her eyes darting between Mireia and the director. Panic, cold and sharp, flashed across her features. “She… she’s gone mad, Bastian! She’s hallucinating! That’s nothing, it’s just a broken trinket she found!” Her voice cracked into a thin, rasping hiss. Mireia kept her fingers locked over the pendant, staring down at the ink-smeared portrait. “You… you knew about this, didn’t you?” she said under her breath, speaking to the tarnished casing rather than the actress. The question hung heavy in the air, but before anyone could speak, a shrill, piercing alarm blared through the studio corridors. *”Intruder alert! Section Gamma! Repeat, intruder alert!”* Bastian’s head snapped towards the sound. “What now?” he muttered, releasing Zita with a disgusted shove. “Stay here, both of you.” He strode to the door, peering out, his brow furrowed with annoyance. “Security, what’s the situation?” Zita took a staggering step forward, her palm outstretched toward the silver oval. “Mireia, please. Just give it to me. It’s a misunderstanding.” Her voice was sickly sweet, a stark contrast to her earlier snarl. Mireia tucked the family relic securely into her apron pocket. The innocence she had once projected onto Zita had shattered. “No,” she stated, her voice surprisingly firm. “Not anymore.” Just then, the door burst open again, not with Bastian, but with Timo, a whirlwind of flailing limbs and wild-eyed panic. He skidded to a halt, nearly colliding with Zita, a thick, leather-bound journal clutched to his chest like a treasure. “Mireia! Get out! They’re after me! Security! The whole damn lot!” Timo gasped, barely able to speak around his frantic breaths. His hair was disheveled, a streak of grease across his cheek. “I got it! I got the goods!” He pushed the journal into Mireia’s hands, then, with a frantic glance at the corridor, veered sharply and sprinted in the opposite direction. “Catch me if you can, you soulless automatons!” he yelled back at an unseen pursuer, disappearing down a side passage lined with fake Parisian storefronts, a clatter of collapsing mannequins echoing in his wake. [REVENUE LOSS: 12,000 CREDITS. ACTOR MORALE DECREASED. COLLATERAL DAMAGE INCURRED. SYSTEM MALFUNCTION IMMINENT.] Zita let out a choked cry, recognizing the journal. “My diary! You little rat!” she screamed, abandoning all pretense, and launched herself after Timo, a desperate, furious blur. The sound of her fading shouts and the distant cries of studio security vanished down the winding backlots. Mireia stood alone in the editing bay, the heavy notebook in one hand, the broken pendant in the other. Bastian reappeared in the doorway, scanning the wreckage of film reels. “What in the Cinestars…?” he began, then saw the pages clutched in her grip. “What is that, Mireia?” he asked, a new note of concern in his voice. “It’s… Zita’s,” Mireia murmured, her voice barely audible. She opened the diary, her fingers trembling slightly. The parchment carried slanted, hurried ink: ‘Metronome. Ticking. Agony. Stolen. Charisma. Joy. Pendant. Break her. Ruin. Forever.’ Bastian stepped closer, his imposing presence filling the small space. He read over her shoulder, his expression darkening with each word. “What kind of gibberish is this?” he muttered, but his eyes held a flicker of dawning comprehension. Mireia looked up at him, her gaze troubled. “It sounds like… she’s been trying to ruin me.” The torn costume, the collapsed gantry—every supposed mishap aligned with the margins of the journal. Later that afternoon, the production mess hall hummed with plate clatter and crew chatter. Mireia picked at a bowl of turnip broth while Timo leaned across the bench, muttering wild theories between mouthfuls. The diary, now hidden deep within Mireia’s dressing room, haunted her thoughts. The double doors swung open with a heavy bang. All eyes turned to Zita, who entered like a queen, trailed by a phalanx of fawning assistants. Her chin lifted, gaze scanning the tables until it locked onto Mireia. A smirk played on Zita’s lips. She strode purposefully towards their table, her expensive heels clicking a rhythmic beat that echoed unnervingly in Mireia’s mind. [SYSTEM ACTIVATION. CHARISMA DRAIN INITIATED. TARGET: MIREIA CANTO. DESPAIR LEVELS CRITICAL FOR OPTIMAL TRANSFER.] Zita halted by their bench, head tilted in mock pity. The room went silent around them. “Mireia,” Zita purred, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Darling, I’m so glad I found you. You wouldn’t believe it, but my favorite lucky collar, the one set with Verdant Star emeralds… it’s vanished from my vanity. And you were loitering outside my trailer.” She paused, allowing her implication to hang heavy in the air, her gaze sweeping across the stunned faces of the onlookers. Murmurs spread across the surrounding benches. Timo leaned forward, fists braced on the wood. Mireia merely raised her chin, studying the green stones dangling openly against Zita's collarbones. It was a replica, a cheap imitation of a famous stage prop she’d worked on months ago, designed to look extravagant from a distance. “You mean the piece you are wearing?” Mireia asked, her voice calm and distinct in the silence. She pointed toward Zita's throat. “The ‘Verdant Star’ design? It’s quite charming, if you like stage jewelry. The emeralds aren’t actually emeralds, of course. They’re finely cut beryl, often dyed. And the filigree on the setting is plated silver, not solid. It’s a popular design, often found in souvenir shops near the Marante Studio gate. For tourists who want a taste of the glamour without the cost.” Her words, delivered with a seamstress’s precise, factual tone, echoed through the dead-silent commissary. Every eye was on Zita, whose face, usually so perfectly composed, had gone from triumphant smirk to a sickly shade of white. Her mouth opened, then closed, no sound coming out. Under the bright ceiling lights, the tin prongs and dull green glass were unmistakable. [CRITICAL FAILURE. OBJECTIVE COMPROMISED. CHARISMA DRAIN REVERSED. SYSTEM PENALTY: RAPID AGING PROTOCOL INITIATED. IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION RECOMMENDED.] Zita visibly flinched, a subtle tremor running through her. She clamped a hand over the costume jewelry, cheeks mottled with crimson. Hushed remarks rose from the stagehands, mocking the supposed heirloom. The veteran actress stood frozen under the scrutiny. Before she could speak, the rear entry swung open again. Bastian strode past the tray carts, grease pencil tucked behind his ear. He surveyed the quieted room, his gaze landing on Mireia, then Zita’s horrified face. A slow smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, spread across his lips. He cut straight toward the corner bench, brushing past Zita without a sideways glance. He stopped at the bench, resting one hand against the edge of the wood, his eyes settling firmly on Mireia. “Mireia Canto,” he announced, his voice ringing with authority, “You are officially off the understudy track.”

The Props Master's Gambit