Chapter 2

Harper's POV

I didn't push the door open.

Instead, I quietly took half a step back and turned down the stairs.

Dark red drops fell onto the carpet, sinking silently into the deep pile.

Movie posters produced by Ascendant Media over the years lined the corridor walls. The most prominent was *The Soaring Blade*, the action blockbuster that had earned Chloe the Best Action Actress award three years ago.

On the poster, Chloe was suspended in mid-air holding a sword, her robes fluttering, her gaze fierce.

Only I knew that the person who dove headfirst from a ninety-foot tower and pulled off a continuous 720-degree spinning thrust through a bamboo forest was me. After that scene, I battled a high fever for three days and had two syringes of fluid drained from my swollen knees. Chloe hadn't even touched a harness buckle. Yet right after the awards gala, she tearfully released a press statement accusing me of being jealous and maliciously framing her for using a double.

What had Ethan told me back then?

"Harper, Chloe is fragile. She can't handle public backlash. Don't release your original action storyboards just yet. Once the storm blows over, I'll produce a female-led action flick just for you. You'll take center stage, fair and square."

I had believed him.

For that single promise, I bore the stigma of being a bitter copycat and an envious stunt double, retreating from the spotlight to the shadows, swallowing everyone's scorn.

Turns out, from the moment his fingers brushed the back of my neck, the first pawn in his nine lethal traps had already been played.

Around the corner on the first floor was the crew's makeshift medical room. Mike, the set medic, was crouching by his first-aid kit when he looked up. Seeing me walk in covered in soot with half an arm dripping blood, he nearly dropped his bottle of antiseptic.

"OMG! What happened to your arm? Sit down, now! That cut is way too deep, you need to go to the ER for debridement!"

"I'm not going to the hospital." I pulled out a chair and sat down, resting my right arm flat on the disposable paper sheet covering the table, my voice flat. "We have night shoots later. Stitch it up right here."

"I can't just stitch this up! There's rust and soot trapped inside that need to be scraped out! Besides, I only have standard lidocaine here, local infiltration takes time to kick in—"

Before he could finish, I used my left hand to twist off the cap of the medical hydrogen peroxide and poured it straight into the gaping wound.

*Sssss—*

Dense white foam instantly bubbled up from the raw flesh.

Mike gasped, his stomach turning.

I didn't even flinch.

My face was pale as paper, but the left hand holding the bottle remained dead steady.

"It's flushed," I said, setting the empty bottle down and looking up at Mike. "Use the tweezers to pull out the metal shavings, then stitch it."

With trembling hands, Mike picked up the forceps, probing the torn muscle fibers to pluck out two charred fragments of jagged iron. With every tug, the veins on my forearm bulged, but I locked my jaw and didn't make a sound.

After cleaning the wound, Mike hurriedly prepped a local anesthetic. Just as he was about to wait five minutes for it to numb the area, I urged, "Do it now. I'm on a clock."

The curved needle pierced my skin, pulling the surgical thread taut inch by inch.

The anesthetic hadn't had a chance to work. With every pass of the needle, the agonizing tug of torn flesh being forced together was horrifyingly sharp. One stitch, two stitches, three... Seven stitches in total, knotted and clipped, before he wrapped it in thick sterile gauze.

From start to finish, my eyes remained completely dry. Not a single tear fell.

Just as the bandage was secured, the door flew open and Kai burst in. "Harper! How are you? Word just came from Unit A—they said Ethan and Mr. Hayes already left. They told you to call a cab home after you're patched up..."

As Kai spoke, his voice trailed off, his eyes reddening as his fists clenched tight. "Harper, that mannequin wasn't a mix-up by the prop department! I just checked the pyrotechnics call sheet—there were no explosion scenes scheduled for the east side of the third floor this afternoon! Those three blast points were added last minute! They did this on purp—"

"Kai." I raised my hand to cut him off, using my left hand to throw my jacket over my shoulders. "Keep your mouth shut. Bury everything that happened today in your gut. Don't mention a word to anyone."

"But Harper, you almost lost your arm! Stunt performers rely on their bodies to survive! They're trying to kill you!" Kai's voice trembled with fury and panic.

"I know." I patted the shoulder of the kid who had worked under me for two years, my tone eerily calm. "Stay sharp on set these next couple of days. Keep your eyes open when checking the rigging and blast points. As for the rest, I've got it handled."

Walking out the studio gates, the biting eleven o'clock night wind cut straight through my collar.

Stepping away from the heat and the stench of blood, my frayed nerves suddenly loosened.

I walked over to the curb under a streetlamp and reached into my pocket for my phone, only to realize my entire right arm and hand were shaking violently.

With a sharp *clack*, the phone slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the asphalt. The screen lit up with an international incoming call.

Squatting down, I picked it up with my left hand and swiped to answer.

"Harper, still on set?" Marcus Vance's booming voice came through the line. "Our project down in New Zealand, *Edge of the Abyss*, locks down next Monday. We're missing a lead stunt coordinator, and I've held the spot for you until now. Today's the deadline. Are you coming or not?"

Marcus was a top-tier action director. Three years ago, when the industry turned on me, he was the one who encouraged me to transition behind the camera.

Over the past two years working abroad, Marcus had invited me to join his core team three times.

The first two times, unable to tear myself away from Ethan, I made excuses to stay.

I looked up toward the brightly lit soundstage in the distance. The fire on the third floor was completely out now, floodlights washing the night sky as bright as day.

"I'm coming. The sooner, the better."

Marcus went noticeably silent for a moment. "You... serious? You refused to leave twice because of that kid, Ethan. You're really walking away?"

"That was then," I said with a faint smile. "The show's over."

Marcus paused for two seconds before responding, "Good! I'll have the producers send your contract tonight. Five days from now, Friday morning on the 8:00 AM flight. Once you land in Auckland, you head straight into a closed set. Three years of filming, completely cut off from the outside world. Can you handle that?"

"I can," I replied. "Thank you."

The call ended, leaving three short beeps in my ear.

I sat straight down on the freezing curb, digging out an old tablet from my canvas bag with one hand.

Waking the screen, a password-protected folder sat right in the center of the desktop, labeled [ETHAN-28].

In four days, Ethan would turn twenty-eight.

To support the gritty action film he was banking on to pivot his career this year, I had pulled three consecutive all-nighters. Relying on eight years of risking my life as a stunt performer, I had hand-drawn and calculated every single frame, creating an original "High-Altitude Long-Take Stunt Choreography Blueprint." It meticulously mapped out thirty-six harness load-bearing points and blast-evasion paths.

I pressed my left index finger against the folder, dragged it over the trash can icon, and hit [Permanently Delete].

Then, I emptied the bin.

A single tear splashed onto the cracked phone screen. Raising the back of my left hand, I wiped it away.