The iron rungs of the fire escape shuddered beneath Mireia’s boots as they hit the ground floor of the Marante backlots. The midnight air carried an acrid, sharp reek—vinegar, camphor, and chemical lacquer. "Nitrate," Bastian said, the syllable hard as flint. His stride was long, overtaking Timo’s sprint. "She went for the archival vault in Stage 4." "The heavy sliding bolts are chained shut from within," Timo wheezed, waving a pair of rusty iron shears he had grabbed from the prop shop. "I heard the chains clanking while I was packing the light filters. The entire second unit camera crew is trapped near the orchestra pit!" Soundstage 4 rose before them like a black monolith against Cinta’s smoggy sky. The massive soundproof doors held fast, secured by thick steel cables threaded through the external latch handles. From the small square viewing glass, an eerie yellow glare flickered against the soundproofing foam. Bastian threw his shoulder against the iron, wood rattling, but the barrier failed to yield an inch. "Zita! Unlatch this door!" Through the wall-mounted brass intercom grill beside the jamb, a voice rasped out. It had no trace of the velvety, melodic hum that had enchanted the nation for a decade. It sounded dry, cracked, like parched reeds rubbing together. "Stay outside, Bastian," Zita hissed through the speaker. Static fizzed behind her breathing. "Take one more swing at that panel and I drop this phosphorus fuse straight into the storage bins. You know how quickly forty thousand feet of fresh stock turns to ash. Three minutes. That’s all your precious crew gets before their lungs melt." Inside, the muffled shriek of an assistant cameraman echoed through the vents. "Zita, stop this," Mireia shouted, stepping toward the brass plate. She remained steady. The haze of self-doubt that had clouded her days among the wardrobe racks was gone, burned away by the cold reality of the danger inside. "What do you want?" "You, you insolent little seamstress," Zita spat. A hacking cough rattled in the woman's chest. "Alone. Through the upper catwalk access on the north chimney. Bring the trinket around your neck. The heirloom. Step inside, hand it over to me, or I turn your sweet little friends into charred bone. Five minutes. The clock is ticking." The intercom clicked off with a dead snap. Bastian’s hand gripped Mireia’s forearm, his palm burning through the linen of her blouse. "You are not walking into that furnace, Mireia. We find the studio fire brigade—" "The fire brigade is stationed across the canal, Bastian," she interrupted softly, meeting his dark, drawn gaze. "They need twenty minutes to clear the back gates. The crew has five. She wants me. She wants this." Her fingers grazed the small filigree pendant resting over her collarbone. "Mireia—" "Trust me," she murmured, her voice steady, stripped of all former hesitation. "I am done apologizing for existing. Watch the lower doors. If you hear me shout, break through however you can." Timo pointed with his shears toward the rusted ladder clinging to the exterior wall. "The ventilation hatch on the catwalk level has a loose latch. Be careful up there, kid. It’s an eighty-foot drop to the concrete." Mireia did not hesitate. She caught the first rung and pulled herself upward into the dark. The crawlway opened onto the iron scaffolding suspended directly beneath the rafters of Soundstage 4. Heat surged against her face in rolling swells. Below, the cavernous room was a labyrinth of half-built sets: faux cobblestone avenues, cardboard facades of grand salons, and, dominating the center floor, towering metal racks stacked with open canisters of nitrate film. In the orchestra pit, four crew members sat bound to heavy wooden sawhorses, gagged with stage tape, their eyes wild with panic. Five paces away stood Zita. Mireia stared down, her collar growing tight at the sight. The woman below was barely recognizable. Zita's lustrous raven hair was gone, replaced by thin, wiry tresses of pure chalky white that hung limp around her shoulders. Deep trenches carved her cheeks, her spine was crooked beneath an emerald gown that hung loose over hollow ribs, and her hands shook violently. In her left hand, a long match sputtered with blue flame, hovering mere inches above an exposed ribbon of yellowed cellulose. "I’m here, Zita," Mireia called down, her voice ringing off the steel trusses. Zita's head snapped up. Her bloodshot eyes locked onto the girl perched on the narrow iron catwalk. "Come down the spiral stair," Zita wheezed, her mouth twisting into a grotesque sneer. "Slowly. Show me your palms!" Mireia descended the iron corkscrew steps, each metal clang reverberating through the vast room. She reached the stage floor, stopping ten paces away from the trembling woman. Up close, the transformation was terrifying. Zita smelled of dried parchment and sour sweat. "Look at me!" Zita screamed, her voice cracking as she thrust her free hand toward her withered face. "Look at what you did! Every smile from you, every pitiful little praise from the papers, it carved another piece out of me! The metronome never stops! It's ticking in my skull! It tells me I'm rotting because of you!" "Nobody made you rot, Zita," Mireia said, keeping her tone measured, her posture upright and unyielding. "You chose this poison. You chose to tear dresses, to cut water lines, to steal scripts. You had everything this city could offer, and you traded it for spite." "You know nothing!" Zita shrieked. With a feral snarl, she dropped the match—not onto the film, but into a bucket of sand—and lunged toward a nearby weapons rack. She snatched a broad, heavy prop broadsword, its edge dull iron but its heft fully capable of crushing bone. "The metronome demands its wage! Give me the silver! Give me the girl's luck!" Zita swung the heavy steel in a wide, vicious arc, aiming straight for Mireia’s ribs. Mireia moved on instinct. Months of hauling heavy bolts of brocade and maneuvering cumbersome mannequin stands gave her reflexes the pampered star lacked. She dropped low, the blade whistling through the empty air above her scalp, slicing a lock of her brown hair. Zita stumbled forward on brittle knees, thrown off-balance by the momentum of the swing. She wheeled around, gasping, raising the sword again with both trembling arms. "Give it to me!" Mireia offered no plea. She offered no retreat. Backing toward the edge of the faux-theater set, her shoulder brushed against the thick, crimson velvet folds of a floor-to-ceiling stage drape. "You wanted a performance, Zita?" Mireia said, gripping the heavy fabric with both hands. As the older woman charged forward, screaming a broken, ragged curse, Mireia violently wrenched the weighted hem of the velvet curtain upward and outward. The massive expanse of heavy cloth billowed like a collapsing sail, smothering Zita’s head and torso. Zita shrieked, thrashing blindly within the suffocating folds, the prop sword clattering uselessly against the concrete floor. Mireia swiftly wrapped the fabric tight around the woman's arms, pinning her limbs to her sides. But Zita, driven by pure hysteria, threw her entire body weight backward, tearing free from the velvet with manic strength. Her claw-like fingers tore through the fabric, raking violently across Mireia’s chest. A sharp sting burned Mireia’s throat. Zita’s knuckles caught the fine chain. Metal links snapped with a high, crystalline pop. The silver pendant tore free from Mireia's collar, tumbling into Zita’s grasping, frantic palm. Zita stumbled back against a nitrate canister, clutching the locket against her hollow breast, laughing through bloody gums. "I have it! I have the anchor! It's mine!" A hollow, mechanical chiming reverberated through the soundstage, deep and metallic, vibrating the concrete floor beneath their feet. [Primary Anchor Acquired.] [Eclipse Protocol Overridden: Forced Karmic Siphon Engaged.] [Transfer initiated.]

The Soundstage Siege