“Kanin! You’re on set in ten.”

Shit. I scarf down the last lump of half-frozen burrito, and it slides down my throat in a spiteful ball of cold rice and processed cheese. At least the next scene involves a lot of grimacing. I toss the wrapper away, and it bounces off the rim of the trashcan.

So, it’s going to be one of those days, huh?

I make the basket on my second shot, then snatch my script from atop the microwave and jog toward the main set. As I go, I flip through the pages to double-check my lines, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got it all down. It’s not exactly prime-time television. That said, I absolutely intend to bawl at all the emotional bits and flex my delts in every shirtless shot.

Don’t judge me. It’s my first lead role, and everyone’s gotta start somewhere.

The set is a bustle of pre-filming action as I stop by the producer. “I thought I wasn’t up until this afternoon.”

Patricia doesn’t even look at me as her fingers dart across her phone. “Larry can’t make it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Got somewhere more important to be?”

“Got the flu,” she says. “Been shitting his brains out all morning.”

That explains my abbreviated lunch break. “Then we’re skipping to one of my scenes?”

“Nope.” She drops her phone into her purse and gestures sharply for me to follow. “You’ll be standing in for Larry.”

I blink, and Patricia is halfway across the room before I think to catch up. “Uh, but he’s my stunt double. He’s supposed to stand in for me.”

She waves me off. “If you’re able to drag him off the toilet, be my guest.”

“We can wait until he’s back,” I suggest. “Shoot my scenes in the meantime.”

Patricia holds out her hand, and someone deposits a coffee into it like magic. “You already know the scene. The lines. And you can do a breakfall, right?”

“Well—”

“We’re on a deadline, Kanin,” she interrupts with a flat look. “And the network won’t be waiting for us. If you’re passionate about employment, then the show must go on.”

“We really don’t have backups or anything?” I know I’m grasping at straws.

Patricia snorts. “Who do you think we are, Disney? Look, it’s very simple, Kanin. This is a tiny-ass show with a tiny-ass crew, and you’re going to play your own character in an extremely simple stunt scene, or we’re fucked.”

I rake my fingers through my hair, and one of the stylists gasps. I can’t let my show die before it’s even had a chance for the critics to tear it apart—not to mention my career!

“Alright,” I say with a sigh. “What do I need to do?”

Patricia smiles like an eel. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

She beckons me over to the set, where the final touches are still being added to the scene.

“The choreography is pretty basic,” Patricia says. “Most actors don’t even use doubles for stuff like this.”

Feeling a little judged, I puff myself up. “Can’t risk damaging the face of the show, right?”

Patricia snorts, as if I’d made some kind of joke. Before I can clarify my sincerity, she hands me the prop gun I’ll need for the scene, and then moves onto laying out all the rolls and breakfalls I’ll need to do. And honestly, she’s right—it does seem pretty basic. Probably a minimal risk of messing up my hair. Hey, if I pull this off, maybe I can become one of those actors who do their own stunts. Fans love that stuff.

“Alright, that’s enough stage direction. You get the pic.” Patricia claps her hands and raises her voice. “Let’s go, people! Time is money.”

The stage lights beat down with a stifling and familiar heat as I find my mark and wait for everyone else to file into place. My feet are only inches away from the Cliffs of Despair—which is to say, a two-foot drop onto a padded blue mat. Beyond that the illusion of the set dissolves into the dimly lit studio, where a flurry of human noise and motion wisps through the dark.

“Hey Kanin,” Doug says, finding his mark as well. He’s all decked out in his extremely villainous vampiric makeup, causing his eyebrows to arc dramatically. “Wasn’t this scene supposed to be with Larry?”

I shrug. “He’s sick, so I’m filling in. But don’t count on me sticking around for the explosion scene,” I add as a joke.

“Oh yeah,” Doug agrees, straight-faced. “Wouldn’t play to your strengths.”

I tip my head. “Acting?”

“Being a pretty face.” Doug winks. “Careful not to singe that perm.”

“Hilarious.” Your stand-up career will never pan out, Doug. “But I’m pretty sure they cast me for my acting.”

Although, being hot certainly doesn’t hurt.

Doug is saved from conceding defeat when Patricia claps her hands and everyone rushes to find their spots. She folds her arms.

“Let’s shoot the rehearsal.”

Ah, fuck. Probably wants to use the practice take as a substitute for more film time. Can’t really blame her, given the time crunch, but I’d rather not have my first attempt at breakfalls and pretending to wield a gun immortalized.

Hollywood, for ya.

“Final touches,” Patricia calls as she settles into her chair.

“Finals done.”

I turn my back to Doug, focusing on the scene. My lines. I soothe all Kanin thoughts away and become Jack Stone: Cryptid Hunter.

“Camera ready?” Patricia asks.

“Ready.”

“Quiet on set.” She waits for the last rustle of papers to die away. “Roll sound.”

“Sound speed.”

“Scene 4, rehearsal.”

There’s a snap as the clapperboard clacks shut.

Silence. The gun feels heavy in my grasp. Dozens of lights blink in my peripheral. The set and everyone backstage are equally frozen, like some kind of liminal space, the moment between inhale and exhale.

And then Patricia calls, “Action!”

I spin and point the gun at Doug (or Count Fang) and he smacks it away with a defiant laugh.

“You think such primitive weapons would work against a being like me?” the vampire snarls. “You’re out of your depth, Hunter.”

I grimace, throwing a fake punch at the Count, who blocks it with ease. He delivers a return blow, and I dive to the side in an exaggerated roll. My shoulder hits first with a stabbing pain, but I roll to my knees to strike a defiant pose. Ow! This is why Larry gets paid for this shit.

“You won’t get away with this,” I say, tossing my hair out of my eyes so the camera gets the money shot. “I’m going to free that fairy orphanage from your tyranny. Do you know why?”

Count Fang sneers. “Do enlighten me.”

I glance to the fallen gun, just inches from the cliff, and Count Fang looks, too. I look back up at him and smile, withdrawing a silver bullet from my pocket to display for vampire and viewer alike. “Because you don’t know Jack.”

I dive for the gun. Doug hisses in fury (a bit much, in my opinion) and jumps for the weapon as well. Our hands close over it at the same time, dramatically wrestling for control. I appear to win for just a moment, pulling the gun away, but Count Fang knocks it from my grasp, where it falls back to the ground.

Count Fang sneers, placing a hand on my chest. “It appears you didn’t understand the gravity of our situation.” And with one final, fake shove, I go stumbling back.

This is the moment—just got to tuck my chin in and fall into the waiting arms of a slightly uncomfortable drop pad. I plaster on my most surprised face—then let out a gasp as my foot comes down on something unexpected that slips beneath my shoe, turning my fake stumble into a real one. The prop gun skids away as I take another step back—and this time, there’s nothing beneath me. My stomach lurches as I fall from the Cliffs an unexpected step too soon. I’ve rolled too far back. No time to brace myself. Impact—

Darkness.

I blink against the sudden black. Shit. Had the stage lights gone out? Did I trip over an extension cord in my failed attempt of a stunt? Patricia is not going to like this. We’ll have to reset everything and start from the top. Assuming Electric can fix it. If this delays the schedule even further, a sick stunt double will be the least of my worries. Crap, I hope this won’t be a problem with the network…

I pause. Why is everyone being so quiet? We aren’t still rolling, are we?

Guys? I call. Or, I try to. My mouth doesn’t open. I try again, but my attempt is met with silence. Confused, I blindly try to climb to my feet. But my legs won’t move, and neither will my arms. And my body—

Oh god, my body. Where is my body?

Static numbness permeates my mind. There’s nothing. No sight, no sound, no sensation—just unending black.

What the fuck. What the fuck is this?

Fear bubbles up in an unrealized scream. Horror and disorientation wash over me in waves. Everything is numb, and there’s nothing—nothing—I can do—

“...help! Somebody help!”

…Doug? The sound is so faint. Where is it coming from? Which direction? Does this place even have directions?

The voices seem to get a little closer.

“Call an ambulance! Shit—”

Patricia. What happened? Where are we? But if I can hear them, then maybe they can hear me.

Guys, I try again, but I can feel my thoughts swallowed up by the dark. I’m here! I’m right here.

“…Oh my god, Kanin…” Patricia cries.

What? I ask. What is it?

“It wasn’t my fault,” Doug says. “He just tripped—I can’t lose my job over this!”

Fucking Doug.

Something flickers past me. I snatch at the scrap of sensation, and my coworkers’ voices vanish even as the light sharpens into focus. It’s a… shooting star? That doesn’t seem quite right. There’s something more to it—something deeper—like shapes beneath the surface of moving water, their meaning just out of reach.

Oh, hey! the star says, and I jump. I thought I was alone in here.

Hello? I ask. Can you hear me?

Of course! the star says. Well, as much as anything can really hear in this place, I suppose.

Relief sweeps through me. Someone else to talk to. I’m not alone. Or maybe I am alone and just going insane, but if that’s the case, at least this is a more comforting delusion.

Where are we? I ask.

Well, I’m not really sure how, but it sure seems like Between to me, the star says.

Between? I repeat. Between what?

Everything, I think. The star sounds thoughtful. The space between worlds. Between dimensions, maybe even between time. Between states of matter, life and death. At any rate, it’s not a place you’re supposed to linger. I mean, that’s what they say, anyway. I’m no wizard!

Alarm bells start going off in my head. The star’s ramblings shouldn’t be making any sense, but…

Between life and death? I repeat. No. No, that can’t be right.

Between everything, the star says. I was on my way to Miasmere, myself. Never used a telepad before, but Rezira assured me they were safe. So much for that, ha ha! The star seems to sober a little. Although I do hope I’m not stuck here forever. When I get back, that orc will never live it down…

I’m hardly listening. Snippets of my coworkers’ conversations float through my head, and they’re starting to make terrifying sense. Patricia was calling an ambulance. Doug didn’t want to be blamed. I try to think back to the last thing I can recall before the darkness: I was falling.

Head-first. I remember the ground rushing up to meet me, and then—

Even though temperature doesn’t seem to be a thing in this place, I suddenly feel very, very cold.

I’m dead, I say quietly, and the star stops its rambling.

Sorry?

I’m dead, I repeat, and this time the sadness hits me.

Because I know it’s true. Because even if I hadn’t felt the impact, even though I can’t remember any pain, somehow, some part of me just intrinsically understands the tragic reality of it:

I’m dead as a doorknob, and my last meal was a frozen cheese burrito.