Familiar Ceiling
"Ah"
She woke with a yelp, pain dragging her back like an anchor.
Her whole body throbbed, every inch sore, like she'd been hit by a truck.
Above her, the cracked, mold-stained ceiling blurred in and out of focus.
"Annie? You awake?"
A familiar face appeared—Sally, blonde hair a little messy, eyes wide with worry.
"...Sally?"
Her voice was hoarse. Even saying the name felt like pulling it through fog.
"It's me." Sally nodded, her tone light but cautious.
"You scared the hell out of me last night. Didn't know you were a sleepwalker."
"Sleepwalking?" Annika blinked at her.
"Come on, that's not—"
"You got up around midnight. Just stood up and walked straight out, still in your pajamas. I tried to stop you, but you weren't there—like you were dreaming with your eyes open."
She exhaled, trying to stay calm.
"Christian helped me get you back. Took both of us."
Annika tried to sit up, but a sharp ache in her side made her wince. Sally gently pushed her back down.
"Don't. You looked... gone last night. He said to let you rest. He's covering for you this morning—some long shots, no makeup needed."
Annika sank into the pillow. Her thoughts slowly started to click into place.
Christian. The director. Right.
She was the makeup artist on Wrong Turn, a low-budget horror flick with big ambitions. Christian Booth had taken over as director halfway through pre-production.
Not exactly seasoned, but he knew how to light a scene and had a frustratingly sharp eye for detail. He'd been riding the crew hard, especially her.
Maybe it was just stress. Sleepwalking made no sense, but nothing else did either.
She glanced at Sally, still hovering nearby. Beautiful, like she always was.
That kind of natural screen presence you didn't teach—just happened. Sally had been a background extra until the lead actress bailed.
Overnight, she was front and center. Some people just landed on their feet, even in chaos.
Annika looked away, jaw tight.
She remembered when Christian was just a set designer.
Quiet, quick with his hands, always muttering to himself about shot composition or prop weight.
They'd worked together a few times. Back then, he kept to himself—now he was giving orders and rewriting scenes on the fly like he'd been born in a director's chair.
The shift didn't sit right. Not with her. Not with any of it.
In Annika's eyes, Christian Booth had always been a talented artist—sharp with his designs, quick with a brush—but morally, she'd found him questionable.
She still remembered that night at the bar, watching him juggle two conversations with two different women, switching charm like it was a trick of the light.
It had rubbed her the wrong way.
As a mother—and someone with more than a few old-fashioned streaks—she'd found it disgraceful.
So when Christian took over the director's chair and gave Charlize the lead role, Annika couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
It felt...convenient.
This was Hollywood, after all.
She'd worked on enough sets to know how things worked behind closed doors.
Roles didn't always go to the best performers—they went to the best players.
Gender, preference, ethics—it all blurred in the spotlight.
But after a few days under Christian's direction, something started to shift.
First, the man himself had changed. The brash, flirtatious set designer was gone. In his place stood someone quieter, more focused.
He didn't smoke anymore. Didn't drink either—at least not on set.
Instead, he carried around a bottle of some dark, bitter-smelling drink that reminded her of rye bread.
Kvass, she'd heard someone say. The transformation was so complete it felt unnatural.
Second, Charlize—who'd landed the lead like lightning out of a clear sky—didn't act like someone with special access.
If anything, she kept her distance. Polite, professional, always ready for the next take. They barely spoke unless they had to.
That distance told Annika more than rumors ever could.
The gossip had already started, of course. Erica and Vivienne, the supporting actresses with more ambition than screen time, whispered constantly about a supposed affair between the director and his new star.
Annika didn't buy it. She'd started talking more with Charlize herself—small things at first, a shared coffee, a comment on the script—and over time, something resembling trust formed.
And the more she observed, the more she realized Charlize hadn't schemed her way to the top.
She'd just...gotten lucky.
Not that luck was enough, usually. Beautiful unknowns didn't just land lead roles in horror flicks. But Annika had seen worse.
Charlize's performance was stiff here and there, but she held her own.
Given her age and experience, she was better than most who relied only on their face and a seductive smile.
Annika remembered Petunia—an actress she'd met on the set of some ridiculous low-budget monster flick called The Killer Orangutan.(T/N: Penny from Big Bang Theory)
Petunia had a bright smile and a bubbly attitude, but no idea what to do once the camera rolled.
If she didn't learn fast, she'd be playing background characters for the rest of her life.
"Annika? Hey, Annika!"
The voice snapped her back. Charlize stood in the doorway, already half turned to go.
"I've got to get back to set. You okay?"
Annika looked around the room. A splash of dark red paint covered the wall beside her—blood for one of the scenes.
On the windowsill, a jar of fake teeth gleamed in the morning light, too realistic for comfort.
"Yeah, go on. I'm fine."
She gave Charlize a thumbs-up and watched her disappear down the hall.
Alone again, Annika sighed and glanced around the room, already bored.
The director had forbidden anyone from moving the props.
"Continuity," he said, like it was sacred.
Never mind if it meant sitting next to severed limbs and plastic gore for hours on end.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook.
"Guess I'll write in that damn diary," she muttered.
"Doctor's orders, after all."