As the ten-minute mark approached, the tension on set palpably heightened. Director Villeneuve's authoritative voice reverberated through the electronic loudspeaker, commanding the attention of all departments, signaling the imminent start of shooting.
In the cozy rest area, the stylist meticulously scrutinized Martin's appearance, ensuring every detail aligned with the character's essence before stepping back with a nod of approval.
Draped in a sleek gray sports coat, Martin made his way to the set, settling onto the worn-out sofa with an air of quiet anticipation.
Meanwhile, Payne, the prop master, initiated a brief distraction by flicking on the TV, broadcasting a lively hockey game to momentarily ease the atmosphere.
Villeneuve's piercing gaze swept across the set, landing on Martin. With a questioning arch of his brow, he sought confirmation, "Martin?"
A silent nod from Martin affirmed his readiness.
As the camera smoothly glided along its track, Villeneuve's eyes flicked to the monitor, signaling the impending action with a terse, "Get ready."
With the recorder diligently jotting down notes, the scene unfolded seamlessly as Martin executed his rehearsed movements with practiced precision.
Grasping the beer bottle, Martin deftly tapped it against the low table, eliciting the satisfying pop of the bottle cap and a frothy eruption of beer that splattered against his hand.
Quickly dabbing away the foam with a handful of tissues, Martin's gaze fell upon an inconspicuous iron box nestled beside the tissue packet. Curiosity piqued, he retrieved the box, revealing a plastic bag filled with mysterious powder. With eager anticipation, he sprinkled a portion onto a nearby piece of white paper.
As the camera zoomed in for a close-up of Martin's expression, a sense of urgency emanated from his demeanor. Abruptly, he halted the scene with a resounding, "Stop! Stop shooting!"
The sudden interruption drew the collective attention of the crew, each member turning to face the unexpected disruption with furrowed brows and questioning glances.
With a sense of urgency, Martin sealed the plastic bag and grasped the iron box tightly, his instincts signaling something amiss.
Bruce, ever the vigilant partner, approached Martin with silent concern etched upon his features, murmuring in a hushed tone, "What's wrong?"
Martin directed Bruce's attention to the seemingly innocuous white paper, silently conveying his apprehension.
Bruce leaned in, his senses on high alert as he detected a faint, unmistakable scent. His expression grew grave as he confirmed Martin's suspicions, whispering urgently, "It's not vitamins. It's the real deal."
Martin's gaze darted across the set, searching for any indication of foul play, but found none.
Director Villeneuve swiftly closed the distance, his authoritative presence commanding the attention of the gathering. "Martin, what's the situation?"
Pointing towards the suspicious powder, Martin voiced his concern, "These were supposed to be vitamin props. How did they end up being real?"
Villeneuve leaned in for a closer inspection, his experienced eye discerning the gravity of the situation. Rising to his feet, he issued a decisive command, "Props team, front and center!"
In response to Villeneuve's summons, Payne hurried over, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. "Director?"
Villeneuve's pointed question cut through the tension, "Did you arrange these props?"
"No," Payne responded, his voice tinged with apprehension. "I instructed the purchase of vitamin tablets, but after procurement, I delegated the task of grinding them to Brandon."
Villeneuve's voice cut through the tension like a blade, demanding answers. "Where is Brandon?"
Silence hung heavy in the air, each member of the crew exchanging uncertain glances, but none daring to speak up.
The director of the security department, a stalwart figure amidst the chaos, swiftly approached Bruce with a sense of urgency. "I've alerted the producer," he informed, his tone edged with concern.
Despite Villeneuve's authority as the director, it was evident that Martin, as both actor and producer, wielded considerable power. In this pivotal moment, Bruce's influence proved more potent than the director's.
Nevertheless, Villeneuve couldn't afford to appear passive. As the head of the crew, it was imperative for him to assert control, especially given the alarming revelation that the supposedly fake vitamins were, in fact, genuine, posing a potentially lethal threat to the actors.
"This is serious," Villeneuve declared, his voice firm. "We need to find Brandon immediately."
With a sense of urgency, Payne dashed off to rally his colleagues in the search for the missing crew member.
Bruce exchanged a knowing glance with the security director, a silent understanding passing between them. Together, they mobilized a team to scour every inch of the studio in search of Brandon.
Meanwhile, Martin entrusted Bruce with the iron box, his expression a mixture of concern and frustration as he retreated to the relative safety of the rest area, flanked by a retinue of security personnel for added protection.
Despite Villeneuve's relative inexperience as a Hollywood director, he possessed the necessary skills to command a set. With practiced efficiency, he swiftly directed each department to resume their positions, imposing a temporary lockdown to prevent anyone from leaving the studio premises.
Graham, the studio's office manager, arrived on the scene, his expression grave with concern. "Should we involve the authorities?" he inquired, his voice laced with urgency.
Martin shook his head firmly. "Let's find him first. He couldn't have gotten far."
Graham's features tightened with apprehension, realizing the severity of the situation. This wasn't just a potential poisoning; it was an orchestrated attack, with Martin as the intended target.
As the search intensified, Villeneuve approached Martin with a somber expression. "We're still no closer to finding him," he informed, his voice tinged with frustration.
Despite the bright lights illuminating the studio, Brandon remained elusive, his whereabouts shrouded in mystery.
Bruce took charge, methodically leading his team in a thorough sweep of the premises. Doors were flung open, inquiries made to every soul present, and even the neighboring buildings were scrutinized for any sign of the missing crew member.
Finally, their search led them to the men's restroom. Bruce's instincts honed in on a closed stall door, his hand instinctively drifting towards the holster at his waist.
With a resolute nod, Bruce signaled for the door to be forcibly opened, bracing for whatever awaited them on the other side.
Seated on the toilet, lost in a haze of thoughts, Brandon remained oblivious to the commotion outside, his prop bag and two small plastic bags scattered at his feet.
The security director, his voice tinged with concern, remarked, "I might have knocked a bit too hard."
Brandon, barely conscious and drooling, offered no response to the flurry of activity around him.
Bruce wasted no time, swiftly capturing photos and videos of the scene before him, sending a snapshot to Martin. Almost instantly, Martin's urgent voice pierced through the chaos via phone call, "Get him to the hospital. I want you by his side the whole time. We can't afford any casualties on set."
"Understood," Bruce acknowledged, his hand coming to rest reassuringly on Brandon's shoulder. With practiced efficiency, Bruce assessed Brandon's condition, confirming that while he had ingested an excessive amount of drugs, his life was not in immediate danger. With careful precision, Brandon was gently carried out and transported to a nearby hospital.
Drawing upon their wealth of experience in handling such incidents, the medical team swiftly administered treatment, gradually stabilizing Brandon's condition.
Responding promptly to Bruce's request, the hospital arranged for Brandon to be placed in a private room, where Bruce remained steadfastly at his side.
Two security personnel stood vigil outside the ward, ensuring Brandon's safety as he remained unconscious.
Meanwhile, back at the studio, the unexpected turn of events forced the temporary suspension of filming, casting a shadow over the crew's morale.
Martin instructed for the video footage and props from the scene to be preserved, while Graham issued a strict gag order, prohibiting any discussion of the incident.
Villeneuve, with a heavy heart, announced the one-day suspension of filming, acknowledging the gravity of the situation.
Graham offered a semblance of solace, "Thankfully, your quick thinking prevented a tragedy."
Martin, solemn-faced, scrolled through his contacts, locating the Boston Police Department. "It's not luck," he admitted, his voice tinged with resignation. "It's the nature of our industry. I've seen enough to know how dangerous it can be."
Graham nodded in understanding, acknowledging the pervasive toxicity within their circles.
As Martin's phone buzzed with an incoming message, he glanced at the screen, his expression tightening. "He's waking up. Let's go see Brandon," he declared, leading Graham and Villeneuve out of the studio.
The trio hurried to the hospital in a commercial vehicle, their apprehension mounting with each passing moment.
At the entrance to the ward, the security director approached them with a solemn expression. "Brandon is awake, and Bruce is with him inside," he informed, his voice laden with concern.
Martin strode into the ward, flanked by Graham and Villeneuve, their imposing figures casting a shadow over the room.
Against the stark white backdrop of the hospital ward, Bruce stood sentinel, his gaze fixed intently on Brandon lying motionless on the bed.
As Martin approached, Bruce murmured quietly, "He's still in the dark about what happened."
Meeting Martin's gaze, Bruce conveyed a silent message of readiness, his fingers poised over the recording device.
Brandon, startled by the arrival of the trio, hastened to speak before anyone else. "It's my fault this time. I accept any punishment the crew sees fit. I swear I'll never bring those substances onto set again or cause trouble."
Bruce wasted no time, his camera already rolling as Martin posed the first question. "Did you bring those substances onto the set?"
Brandon, unable to evade the truth, admitted reluctantly, "Yes, they were in my prop bag. I didn't mean to, but I forgot to remove them."
Graham's voice cut through the tension, sharp and accusatory. "Just today?"
Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering with guilt. "No," he confessed, "I've had them with me since filming began."
Villeneuve, mindful of his position, remained silent, aligning himself with the two producers.
Martin's icy glare bore into Brandon, his silence more condemning than words.
Faced with Martin's unwavering stare, Brandon's panic surged. "I swear, I didn't intend for this to happen," he pleaded frantically, slapping his forehead in frustration. "I marked the bag of vitamins, so I wouldn't mix them up. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake!"
Graham's tone remained unyielding. "Can such a grave error be justified?"
Desperation etched across Brandon's features as he scrambled to explain. "It was a mistake, I swear! I rushed to the restroom to dispose of them before filming began. If I hadn't realized in time, I might have taken them myself!"
While Brandon's explanation seemed plausible, Martin, plagued by paranoia, remained unconvinced.
Graham's verdict was swift and final. "You're no longer fit for this crew. I'll arrange for your agent and agency to be notified."
"But Mr. Graham—" Brandon's protest was swiftly quashed by Graham's stern rebuke. "This is a serious matter!"
As the weight of his actions sank in, Brandon's complexion paled. In an industry where reputation was paramount, his future prospects now seemed bleak.
Martin handed his phone to Bruce, signaling the end of their discussion, before silently exiting the ward.
With Martin's departure, Bruce wasted no time in contacting the authorities, his voice firm as he relayed the details of the incident to the police.