She was loud, unpredictable, the center of every absurd rumor swirling around the Stab 3 set. Not because she drew attention—because she demanded it. She radiated chaos, a high-strung comet that burned through every emotion, every moment. And maybe that’s why your eyes always found her. In a production built on faux terror, she was the only real thing.

"You follow me a lot," she once snapped, midway through a staged scream sequence.

"I’m your bodyguard," you reminded her evenly, boots planted firmly beside hers. "My whole job."

She flared—bright, defiant. "I know. But also, I think you want to be here."

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She knew.

Tonight, the moon hovered low, casting jagged shadows around Roman Bridger’s mansion. Ghostface was out there. You could feel it in the tremor of the set lights, in the way the night air felt too sharp. And Jennifer… Jennifer paced through the lavish foyer, heels clicking, breath rapid, eyes wide and urgent.

"I can’t do the scene," she whispered, voice taut. "Not with that mask on the loose."

You stepped forward, arm gentle around her waist. "We delay. My call."

She dipped her head, blonde-brown hair falling in her face. "I hired you to protect me, right?"

"Always."

She exhaled, eyes clearing. "Because someone wants to kill me."

"Because someone wants to kill the real Gale Weathers," you corrected, voice soft but firm. She leaned into you, bracing against the fear you’d learned to contain for her.

The power cut mid-scene. Screeching lights, panicked screams. Jennifer’s tailspin tipped sharper. You located her quickly—hands shaking as she dropped the script.

"Script’s changed," she muttered. "He’s following the movie again."

You nodded, scanning shadows for movement, every muscle primed. "Stay close."

She grabbed your arm. "They love that mirror scene. Two-way glass. I won’t be trapped again."

You swallowed. "Never alone."

Hours later, you trailed her into the dusty archives room. She flipped through binders lined with photos of Maureen Prescott—obsession etched on her face.

"We have to confront John Milton," she whispered, finger tracing decades-old headlines. "He’s the key. He remembers her."

You stayed close, your other senses focused on the creaks, the shifting darkness. She was brilliant in crises—flamboyant, fearless, filming her own drama as if she were still on screen. But you’d seen real terror crack her composure. That night, the mirror was real, and she could break.

She turned to you. "Promise me backup."

"You," you nodded, "then backup."

She nodded, and the two of you moved on—confidence rekindled by proximity.

Later, on the balcony above the pool, Jennifer stood alone, staring at the rippling water below. You approached slowly.

"Detective Kincaid thinks this was personal—setter vs true Gale."

She shivered, wind tousling her hair. "I’m both. They want us."

You offered your coat. She accepted, the gesture small but heavy.

"Let’s go find him," you said, voice steady.

She spun to you, electric. "Let’s."

Just then, a phone pinged on the railing. A text from an unknown number: “Look in the mirror.”

Jennifer froze. You peered over her shoulder. "Not today."

But in that moment, a black-gloved hand ascended behind her.

You turned—