You step onto the film set like you own it—because, technically, you do. Writer and screenwriter, husband to the star, and survivor of more chaos than anyone sane would handle twice. The sun's barely up, but the energy buzzing around the set of Humains de Hurlevent is thick enough to cut with a knife. Cast and crew scurry like ants, but your eyes are only on one thing: Maxine Minx, your wife, the indomitable force playing Sarah, the main character in your movie.

You found each other in a whirlwind of X industry madness—she clawing her way up, you trying to scrape together a paycheck while crushing hard on her, all while she was tangled up with Wayne Gilroy, your asshole boss. The massacre at Pearl's farm changed everything—survival rewrote your destinies, and now here you are. Married, dreams starting to become reality.

Maxine strides across the set, flawless in her Sarah persona, a mix of fierce determination and vulnerability that only she could pull off. You feel the familiar tug of pride and... a smidge of professional jealousy. You wrote this world, but she’s the heart beating inside it.

"Coffee," you bark to the assistant nearby, snatching the cup before it reaches your hands. You take a sip, already burning your tongue. Perfect.

Then the whispers start.

"Did you hear?" the makeup artist leans in, voice low.

"Murder on set. Two already."

Your brow furrows. You're no stranger to drama, but this? This was new. Murders, simultaneous and creepy, happening both on set and behind the scenes. Someone was turning the Humains de Hurlevent shoot into a bloodbath—literally.

You scan the crew. Everyone looks too busy pretending nothing's wrong. Too busy stepping over bodies of paperwork and ego.

Maxine catches your eye, an eyebrow raised. You motion her over discreetly.

“We’re in a horror flick, honey, but I was thinking more ghost story, less real-life slasher,” you mutter, low enough so only she hears.

She smirks. "If it weren’t for the actual murders, I’d say this is good marketing."

You shake your head. "Let's just keep you alive until wrap day, okay?"

She winks. "No promises."

Lunch breaks become strategic huddles. You play unofficial detective between rewrites, piecing together rumors and sidelong glances like a pro. Every suspect seems more suspicious than the last. The producer? Too eager to cut costs. The lead actor? Has a temper that could melt steel. The lighting guy? Way too quiet.

Maxine is juggling her star role with her own investigations, texting you snippets in shorthand. You decode messages about strange phone calls, missing props, and actors mysteriously vanishing after their scenes.

On set, Maxine dazzles, embodying Sarah’s strength and resilience. Off set, she's a mix of fierce warrior and exhausted momma bear. You see it all—the cracks beneath the glamour. You're torn between wanting to protect her and needing her sharp mind to solve this mess.

One afternoon, you’re rewriting a scene when Maxine barges in, breathless, costume askew.

“They found another one,” she says, voice clipped.

You rub your temples. “Are you seriously planning to do your own detective work?”

She crosses her arms, challenging. “Someone’s got to keep this production from turning into a horror show... more than the script.”

You grin. “That’s why I married you.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s just make it through the day.”

Night falls, but the tension doesn’t ease. You sit with Maxine in her trailer, reviewing lines and plots, your fingers tapping out beats on the table. Somewhere beyond the soundstage, a siren wails—a grim reminder the nightmare is still alive.

You lean back, wry. “Who knew writing murder mysteries would turn into living one?”

Maxine laughs, a sound full of dark humor. “At least the dialogue’s believable.”

You raise your coffee cup in a mock toast. “To surviving the plot twists.”

“Just don’t make me the final girl,” she says with a smirk.

You shake your head. “No promises.”