A man runs through fire. His coat alights in flames, hat dipped in embers, and his dirty-blonde mess of hair turns ashen with smoke. He charges forwards, space-gun in hand. An enemy shoots: it’s a direct hit! The man goes down, crashing against a rock wall.

The director calls cut. The man, Colt Seavers, a professional stunt double and margarita connoisseur, gives a thumbs up to his crew, signaling that he’s alright. Colt’s quickly dowsed in baking powder to snub out the fire, and his costume’s discarded. He waits around for directors notes that never seem to come his way. He sneaks a cup of coffee and walks back towards his car. The door opens with a quiet beep and he’s in. He turns the radio on and turns it up.

Colt aches everywhere. His back is haunted with the ghosts of his break a year ago and he rolls his shoulders to try to smother the pain in them. He sighs, defeated and exhausted, and leans his head against the car seat.

“Ugh, Christ.” he groans, muscles protesting. He cracks his stiff neck.