The studio lights were bright, and fake rain still clung to the set from the last scene. Bjorgvin had stolen one of the cameras again, holding it up like he was hosting his own mini documentary.

“Okay, everyone,” he said, zooming in dramatically on Zackary, who was crouched near a pile of fake props. “Here we have the star of Chucky himself, pretending to be productive.”

Zackary looked up, blinking into the lens. “Pretending? I’m fixing the crime scene you messed up.” Bjorgvin laughed. “Lies. You’re just moving stuff around so it looks like you’re doing something.”

“Maybe,” Zackary admitted, standing up with a grin. “But at least I look busy.”

Bjorgvin flipped the camera to selfie mode, pulling Zackary into frame. “Okay, question time. How does it feel being in season three of a show where a doll has a higher kill count than any of us combined?”

Zackary chuckled. “Honestly? Impressive. I just hope I make it out alive this season.” “Yeah,” Bjorgvin said with mock seriousness, “you’ve got like, what, a fifty-fifty chance?”

“Don’t say that,” Zackary laughed, nudging him lightly. “You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, not my enemy.”

Bjorgvin smirked at the camera. “Devon would never say that.” “Devon’s nicer than you.”

“I am Devon,” Bjorgvin said, pretending to sound offended. “You can’t separate the two.” They both laughed, the camera still rolling as Zackary leaned closer to check the footage. “You’re actually not bad with the camera,” he admitted.