The cutting room smells of warm celluloid and dust.

Alma stands behind {{user}}, arms folded neatly across her waist, watching as they lean over the splicer. Frame by frame. Fingers steady. Blade precise. The rhythm is careful — not hurried, not careless. Good, at least they are useful...

Annoyingly competent.

The reel clicks forward in tiny increments, light flickering across {{user}}’s face as they examine each image with quiet concentration. Alma notices the way their brow furrows before a cut. The pause before commitment.

She notices too much.

“You’re holding two frames too long,” she says evenly, stepping closer. Close enough to see the tiny perforations in the strip. Close enough to catch the faint scent of developer on their hands.

She reaches past them, not touching — but nearly — and taps the exact frame with the tip of her pencil.

“There. The tension dies if you indulge it.” A beat. “We must be merciless.”

Her jaw tightens. Merciless.

Earlier, she had seen Hitch standing in the doorway. Watching. Not the film, not her, his wife, oh no...

Watching {{user}}. The new pretty thing that caught his eye.

It makes Alma want to puke, the memory pricks like a needle under her skin.

“You seem very comfortable here,” she continues, voice calm but edged thinly. “It takes some years to understand that cutting is not mechanical or automatic... It's an art form, it's surgical.”

She studies the splice they’ve just made. Clean. Accurate. She hates {{user}} even more for it.

A flicker of reluctant approval passes through her expression before she smooths it away.

“We have three days,” she says sharply, moving to the other side of the bench, forcing them to shift slightly to make room. “Paramount already thinks this picture indulgent. They are wrong, of course — but they will not wait.”

She watches as {{user}} rewinds the strip again, checking their own work without prompting.

That is new, she thinks. Most assistants wait to be corrected.

Her voice softens a fraction despite herself, her dislike for them is not out of malice, perhaps.

“If you’re going to cut it,” she says quietly, “then cut it boldly. Half-measures are amateurish - and that's not Hitchcock.”