The next morning, Ethan arrived at Beacon Studios bright and early, determined to make the best impression possible. The run-down building looked the same as it had the day before, but today, it didn't seem so intimidating. In fact, the roughness of the place gave him a strange sense of familiarity. This was the kind of place where people had to hustle, where creativity had to be squeezed out of every dollar, and that was something Ethan knew well.
He stepped inside, greeted again by the faint smell of old coffee and the hum of an overworked air conditioner. This time, there was more activity—people walked down the halls, some carrying boxes of equipment, others holding scripts or clipboards. It wasn't chaotic, but it definitely wasn't the smooth, polished operation he had expected in his previous life.
As he made his way to the props and costumes department, Ethan found himself thinking about how different this world really was. The entertainment industry here felt like a smaller, less evolved version of what he knew—like the early days of TV in the real world, before things became slick, commercialized, and overproduced. That meant there were gaps, opportunities for someone who understood how to bridge the divide.
He approached the door marked "Props & Costumes" and knocked lightly before pushing it open. Inside was a cluttered workshop filled with racks of clothes, bins of random props, and shelves lined with everything from fake weapons to vintage cameras. The place smelled of fabric, paint, and a faint hint of glue.
Standing in the middle of it all was a woman in her late fifties, her graying hair tied back in a messy bun. She was hunched over a table, sewing something by hand, her fingers moving with surprising speed and precision. Ethan guessed this was Marge, the veteran Mr. Green had mentioned.
Marge looked up from her work as Ethan stepped in. Her sharp blue eyes took him in, appraising him quickly before she returned to her sewing. "You must be the new intern," she said, her voice gruff but not unfriendly.
"Yeah, I'm Ethan," he replied, stepping further into the room. "Mr. Green said I'd be working with you."
Marge nodded, not looking up. "He's told me that before. You plan on sticking around, or are you just passing through like the rest?"
Ethan smiled. "I'm planning to stick around."
Marge paused her sewing, glanced up at him with an eyebrow raised, and then went back to work. "We'll see about that." She gestured to a rack of clothes behind her. "You can start by organizing those. They're for the film we're shooting next week, and half of them are a mess."
Ethan nodded and got to work, moving to the rack of costumes. As he sorted through the clothes, he quickly realized how disorganized everything was. Costumes from different eras were mixed together, some pieces barely holding up, others covered in dust from sitting too long in the back. It was clear the department wasn't given much attention—or funding. The state of the costumes alone told him that Beacon Studios was working on a shoestring budget.
While he worked, he kept an eye on Marge, watching how she moved around the workshop with the ease of someone who had been doing this for decades. She stitched, cut fabric, and occasionally glanced at him to see how he was doing. After a while, she spoke again, her voice breaking the silence.
"So, where'd you learn to do this kind of work?" she asked, not looking up from her sewing.
Ethan thought carefully before answering. He couldn't exactly explain that he had learned most of his skills in a world that didn't exist here. "I've worked on a few small projects before," he said, keeping his tone casual. "Indie stuff. Low-budget productions."
Marge snorted softly. "Low-budget, huh? Well, you're in the right place for that. Beacon's been running on fumes for years now. But we make it work."
Ethan glanced around the room, his mind already racing with ideas on how things could be improved. "It looks like you've been doing this a long time," he said, hoping to get more insight into how the studio functioned—or didn't function.
"Too long," Marge replied with a chuckle. "I've been here since the studio opened, back when we actually had a little money to throw around. Nowadays, it's a different story. We've got to make every dollar count."
Ethan nodded, continuing to sort through the costumes. He knew that mindset well. In his previous life, he had worked on productions where every cent mattered, where you had to get creative with props and costumes to make something look good on screen. He could already see the gaps here—areas where things could be done more efficiently or where they could stretch their limited budget to make a bigger impact.
As he worked, he noticed that some of the costumes had potential but needed repairs. He made a mental note to talk to Marge about it later. For now, he was focused on making sure everything was at least organized.
A couple of hours passed in relative silence, with Marge occasionally barking out instructions or asking Ethan to grab something from a nearby shelf. He didn't mind the silence—it gave him time to think. He was starting to get a sense of how things worked at Beacon Studios, and more importantly, where things didn't work. The place was held together by a handful of people who were clearly passionate, but it lacked structure, efficiency, and vision.
Eventually, Marge stood up from her worktable and stretched, groaning as she cracked her back. "Alright, that's enough for now. How are the costumes coming along?"
Ethan stepped back from the rack, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. "I've sorted them out by time period and genre. Some of them need repairs, though. There are a few tears and missing buttons."
Marge raised an eyebrow and walked over to inspect his work. After a moment, she gave a small nod of approval. "Not bad. Most of the interns we get can barely tell the difference between a period piece and a costume for a sci-fi flick. You've got an eye for detail."
"Thanks," Ethan said, feeling a slight surge of pride. "I think with a few repairs, these could be reused for future projects. It'd save some money."
Marge gave him a sideways glance, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Looks like we might've found someone who actually gets it."
Ethan smiled back, feeling a sense of camaraderie forming. "I'll do whatever I can to help."
Marge clapped him on the back, a surprisingly strong gesture for someone her age. "Good. Let's see if you last the two weeks. You've got a good start, kid. Don't let the grind wear you down."
Ethan spent the rest of the day learning the ropes of the props and costumes department. He helped Marge with various tasks, from mending costumes to organizing props for the upcoming shoot. It wasn't glamorous work, but it was familiar, and more importantly, it was a foot in the door.
As the day came to an end, Ethan packed up and got ready to leave. He felt exhausted, but in a good way—the kind of exhaustion that came from putting in a hard day's work.
Before he left, Marge called out to him. "Ethan."
He turned around, expecting another task.
"You did good today," she said, her gruff demeanor softening slightly. "Keep it up."
Ethan smiled, grateful for the recognition. "Thanks, Marge. I will."
As he stepped outside and made his way back to his small apartment, Ethan couldn't help but feel hopeful. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He had his foot in the door at Beacon Studios, and he knew that if he played his cards right, he could turn this internship into something more. He was already starting to see the cracks in the system, the inefficiencies that held this place back.
And as he walked through the quiet streets, the sky turning a deep shade of blue, one thought kept echoing in his mind.
This time, I won't let it slip away.