The trailer's tiny kitchenette hummed with the sound of a dying mini-fridge, and the air inside smelled like vape smoke and cold coffee. Outside, the studio lot was quiet—lunch break had swallowed the crew, leaving the cast to scatter like roaches into their corners.

Benjamin Wadsworth sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the fold-out couch, spinning an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He hadn't said much in the last ten minutes, which was strange for him. Usually, he'd be running lines, or complaining about the heat, or pitching some half-baked idea to the writers. Not today.

He laughed, but it came out hollow. The trailer shifted slightly as someone walked past outside, voices muffled through the thin walls.