After the intensity of the fight scene, I braced myself for the next one, channeling every shred of detachment I had. I was supposed to return to my master now, reporting back like the obedient weapon I was expected to be.
The makeup team touched up my bruises, added a new layer of fake blood to my cheek. I barely glanced at my reflection, keeping my focus cold and narrow. Feelings had no place here—not in the character, and certainly not in my life.
As I took my place on set, I glanced across at the actor playing my master, seated in a dark room filled with candles and shadows. This was the man who raised me, trained me. The man who, in the story, had given me a mission: take down the princess. Layla.
The director called for silence, and a hush fell over the room. The tension built up in my chest, and I let it brew as the scene began.
