MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

The studio tour guide is enthusiastic in that performative way people get when they are showing off expensive things. She gestures at equipment that probably costs more than most people make in a year, rattles off technical specifications I already know, and smiles like we are all friends here.
I am not here to make friends.
“And this is where the magic happens,” she says, opening a door to a soundstage that is empty except for a single camera on a tripod. “This is your stage for Fatal Script, Mr. Millers. State of the art, custom built for the project’s unique requirements.”
“Unique requirements,” I repeat, my gaze sweeping the space. The walls are lined with sensors I recognize from military surveillance tech. The ceiling has tracking systems that map three dimensional space with precision. This is not a soundstage. It is a data collection facility disguised as one.
“Director Rostova wanted to ensure we could capture every nuance of performance,” the guide says. “The technology is revolutionary.”
Revolutionary. That word keeps appearing in all the Fatal Script materials, carefully positioned to sound exciting rather than sinister. Revolutionary usually means someone has found a new way to exploit something.
“When do I meet my co star?” I ask.
“She’s scheduled to arrive soon for a preliminary session. Should be on set next week for calibration if all goes well.” The guide checks her tablet. “Claire Davis. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”
I have. Everyone in the industry has. She was a brilliant actress who committed career suicide by going after Helios Entertainment. The blacklist was swift and absolute. I respected that, actually. Most people fold when corporations threaten them. She went down fighting. This makes her presence here both fascinating and troubling.
“I thought she was blacklisted,” I say carefully.
The guide’s smile does not waver. “People deserve second chances. Director Rostova believes in recognizing talent regardless of past complications.”
Past complications. That is one way to describe destroying someone’s career.
“I’d like to see the control room,” I say. “Where the feeds are processed.”
“That’s restricted access, I’m afraid. Only essential technical personnel.”
“I’m the producer. Seems pretty essential.”
Her smile becomes slightly strained. “I’ll need to check with Director Rostova about authorization. Security protocols are very strict for this project.”
Of course they are. Helios is not going to make this easy, though they have been surprisingly careless so far. My application barely got scrutinized, and my references were accepted at face value. Either their security is overconfident or they want me here. Neither option is comforting.
“Show me the rest of the facility,” I say. “I need to understand the full scope before production begins.”
We continue the tour, and I memorize every detail, including exit locations, security camera positions, and restricted door access points. The facility is locked down tight, designed to control information flow completely. Getting evidence out of here will require more planning than I anticipated. But that is fine. I have spent two years preparing for this, building my cover identity, establishing credentials that would get me past Helios security. This is not just about exposing one show. It is about bringing down the entire corrupt system they represent.
The guide leads me to a meeting room where I am supposed to review preliminary scripts. “I’ll leave you to familiarize yourself with the material. If you need anything, just call extension 4477.”
She leaves, and I am finally alone. I examine the scripts on the provided tablet, but I am more interested in the device itself. Helios would not give me unsecured access to their network, but people make mistakes. IT departments get lazy. Someone always forgets to patch a vulnerability. The tablet is locked down tight, though. No external network access, everything routed through encrypted channels. Professional paranoia at its finest.
I focus on the scripts instead. They are strange, more like emotional scenarios than traditional screenplays. They present character moments without context, intimate scenes that feel extracted from longer narratives. The dialogue is sharp but incomplete, like they are waiting for something to fill in the gaps. Or someone.
The door opens without warning, and a woman walks in. She is around my age, with dark hair and sharp eyes that assess me in a glance. There is something about her presence that fills the room immediately, an intensity that most actors spend years trying to cultivate.
Claire Davis.
“You’re Cal Millers,” she says. It is not a question, just a statement.
“And you’re my ten o’clock,” I reply. “I was just reading your scenes.”
“They’re not scenes,” she says, her voice controlled but with an edge to it, something raw beneath the professional surface. “They’re provocations.” She moves closer, scanning the tablet screen. “Emotional scenarios. No plot structure, no character development. Just manufactured intimacy.”
“That bothers you.”
“Everything about this bothers me.” She looks up, meeting my eyes directly. “Why are you here, Cal? You have a reputation for independent work, for fighting studio systems. Fatal Script is the opposite of that. It is corporate control taken to an extreme.”
Smart. She is asking the same questions I would ask.
“I’m here because the project is revolutionary,” I say, using their word deliberately. “Because I want to be part of something that changes the industry.”
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her intelligence working behind those sharp eyes. She does not trust me. Good. Trust would be dangerous for both of us.
“You’re lying,” she says finally. “I do not know why yet, but you are definitely lying. Nobody like you accepts a corporate leash unless they have their own agenda.”
I should deflect, should maintain my cover identity as the ambitious producer looking for his big break. But something about her directness makes me reckless.
“And nobody like you walks back into Helios unless they are desperate or suicidal,” I counter. “So which is it, Claire? Desperation or a death wish?”
Her jaw tightens. “Survival. Simple as that.”
“Nothing about this is simple.”
“No,” she agrees. “It is not.”
We stand there in tense silence, two people who have just admitted they do not belong here without actually admitting anything. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. The door opens again, and the tour guide returns with an anxious smile.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Director Rostova would like to see you both. She is ready to explain the full scope of the project.”
Claire and I exchange a glance. In that moment, I see her fear and defiance mirror my own. Whatever Fatal Script really is, we are both walking into it with our eyes open. And we are both caught in something neither of us fully understands yet.
“Lead the way,” I say.
As we follow the guide through the corridors, I am acutely aware of Claire walking beside me. The tension between us has not dissipated. If anything, it has intensified, like we are two opposing forces being pushed together by circumstances neither of us controls.
The algorithm is going to love us. And that thought terrifies me more than anything else about this place.