The booth door settled behind us - a soft click and the red tally above the lens woke. Sound blankets ate the room and gave it back as a hush that made every breath count like money.
SLATE. Victor lifted the clap with a little flourish only the tired appreciate. The camera blinked once - awake.
"Name for the record," a producer said from the dark just beyond the light. The voice had smile in it and deadlines under it.
"Maya Quinn," I said.
"Date," the voice said.
"Tonight," I said. "Live block plus booth."
Victor touched the cable at my collar to convince it to behave. "Say a line for me," he murmured. "Wind is your friend if you don't whisper."
"Names, not vibes," I said.
"Pretty," he said.
The producer cleared paper I couldn't see. "Let's get you centered. Look into Camera C. Don't talk to me unless I call it." A beat. "You're comfortable addressing the rumor cycle."
"I'm comfortable addressing work," I said.
"Good," the voice said, and made it mean we'll see. "Question one: Why step into a dating show designed to make you a villain?"
"Because I can advise on camera," I said. "Advice is allowed by the show's own rules. I'm here to keep people bigger than the stories about them."
"Question two: Do you feel you owe an apology to any women you may have hurt - knowingly or not - by taking up screen time tonight?"
"No," I said. "I owe clarity. I won't make other women the joke."
A small pause - a note being written or a jaw being set. "Question three: There's chatter that a certain A-list heartthrob is pairing with America's sweetheart. If that's true, do you support their connection - given your history?"
"I don't comment on other people's pairings," I said. "I comment on how we treat each other on set. No humiliation beats."
The producer smiled with their teeth in their voice. "Question four: How do you define harm."
I didn't blink. "I advise - on rule - to avoid harm. For harm, I use the contract."
The sentence sat between us like hardware you could not pretend was decor. Victor's eyes flicked to me - not approval, exactly - recognition that the take had landed.
"Say that again," the producer said, like a person asking to move a goalpost.
"I advise - on rule - to avoid harm," I repeated. "For harm, I use the contract."
"Which contract," the voice said too quickly, as if the second throw might catch.
"The one that governs our work," I said. "My counsel can speak to specifics."
Rita's reflection hovered in the black glass off to my right - just her shoulder and a pen moving, the ghost of paperwork.
The producer shuffled something. "Question five: Some viewers believe certain contestants deserve a good cry to reset the narrative. Thoughts."
"If tears arrive on their own, we hand them water and let them sit," I said. "We don't harvest people."
A longer pause - the kind a control room uses to decide whether to cut or lean in. The tally stayed red and patient.
I leaned a fraction, enough to shift the weight of the jacket so the lapel didn't shadow my mouth. "Victor - rule sheet B-roll, please," I said, and kept my eyes on the lens, not the producer.
Victor nodded on the last word, like he'd promised in text. A PA hand appeared with the laminate. He framed it tight at knee height - no faces - just the plastic and the print and a fingernail that told the truth about work.
The lens kissed the paragraph where the sentence lived.
Contestants may advise peers during decision periods, provided advice does not include slurs, threats, or explicit instructions to sabotage production.
The word advise sat there plain enough to embarrass anyone who cut around it later. Victor held two beats, three, let the autofocus breathe, then slid the laminate out like a card dealer who'd been allowed to keep his knuckles.
"Back to you," the producer said. The smile had a new line under it. "Question six: Rumor sites say you 'don't photograph well'. What does that mean to you."
"That someone bored with their own face needed a sentence," I said. "If the camera hates me tonight, it can file a complaint."
Victor coughed like he swallowed a laugh.
"Question seven: Hypothetically - if an A-list actor has a secret marriage, should fans feel betrayed."
"I don't play hypotheticals that use strangers' personal lives as scratch cards," I said. "Fans aren't stupid. They can tell the difference between a product and a person."
The producer let that sit. Then - softer, coaxing - "Last question. What did you protect."
"My work," I said. "Other people's work. And my home when I could."
"What is your home," they asked, trying to find the path through that hedge.
"A place with clean rules," I said.
"Cut," the voice said, at last. Their chair creaked like someone remembering their spine. "Good. Very good. One more clean bite - say your name and your intention for the night."
"Maya Quinn," I said. "I advise - on rule - to avoid harm."
"Copy," the producer said. Paper noises again - put away, not thrown away. "We're clear on the booth. Thank you."
The tally dimmed to that patient ember that means the camera will never die even if you do. Victor's hand landed light at my shoulder - not a touch, exactly - and then left before it could be misread.
"Operator nod achieved," Rita said, low and satisfied. Her pen clicked once - file it. She lifted her phone and the screen flashed white for the redacted header she'd queued. Header:Addendum — Morals Clause; visible phrase:legal spouse; everything else asleep under gray.
"Posting," she said. Her thumb pressed. "7:02."
"Screenshot," I said.
She took it and sent it. RITA → AISHA:Done. The little delivered dot did its job.
"Walk," Boone's voice said on Rita's other side - he hadn't entered; he didn't need to. Doors behave for him at a distance.
Victor unplugged the idea of me from the board with two careful clicks. "You kept wind where it belongs," he said, proud of the physics more than the politics.
"Thank you," I said, and rose.
Rita held the booth door an inch for me. The hallway air felt colder than the car had - less human, more machine. A PA with a clipboard smiled the bland smile of an organism that eats chaos for rent and gestured us toward a dotted line on the floor that meant confessional queue. We did not join it. Boone's palm lifted in a small no that the hallway respected.
Rita's phone pinged - Aisha:Header received. Timeline pinned. If a doctored cut drops, text "Go."
We moved - four steps, then three - toward the service turn where the posters on the wall had decided they were tired of being smiled at. That's where he was.
Nolan, in a PA badge he didn't deserve and a lanyard that looked borrowed from a more honest neck, leaning like he belonged to the paint. Sandals with a suit - a man who thinks rules live in other people's shoes.
"Off the record," he said, voice as low as the hum behind the lights. "Babe - we already have your ring."
Boone was between us before I finished the inhale. He didn't touch Nolan - he touched the idea of him and moved it six inches. "Credential," Boone said.
Nolan tipped the badge like a card trick. "You don't need to be rude," he said, sideways to me. "I'm making you interesting."
"My left hand is not your story," I said, curling the fingers the way we'd planned and keeping my head up.
"Where is it then," he asked, soft as poison. "We love a bank box on a Friday."
Rita's pen stopped moving. Her voice didn't. "You want a quote," she said, conversational as a grocery list. "Names, not vibes. Publication and editor on tape or we keep walking."
He smiled with three teeth and no mouth. "You already gave me a quote in there," he said, tipping his chin toward the booth like the walls were gossipy. "Confessionals are fair use if you hear them right."
"Confessionals are copyrighted work product," Rita said, sweetest glass. "Step back from the door."
Nolan let his eyes skate over my jacket like the lapel might change its story if he stared. "Don't worry," he murmured. "If we don't get the ring, we'll make a ring. That's how TV works."
Boone didn't change tone. "Credential," he said again.
Nolan finally flipped the badge so the light caught the font. Wrong. Cheap laminate. A name that did not belong to the face.
Boone leaned, only his breath moving. "Exit - that way," he said, and the hallway believed him. Nolan let the lanyard go like it had burned his fingers, smiled the way a man smiles at a door that just remembered it has a lock, and peeled off.
Rita exhaled a note that lived somewhere between relief and a book closing. "7:04 Nolan posts," she said, already swiping. Her screen caught blue italics. Villainess breaks down off camera; ring rumor confirmed by set sources. A nothingburger plated like a feast.
"Archive. Time stamp. Ignore," I said.
"Copy," she said. Her thumbs moved. The no humiliation email sat starred under it like a small obedient dog.
Boone listened to the building again with his hand on the wall. "Service corridor clear," he said. "We'll route you to Stage for Scene Three."
As we walked, my phone vibrated with a message that made my stomach give that tall inhale again.
EVAN:Where do you need me.
I read it once, let it sit, slid the phone back. Not yet. Paper, then person.
We took the corner. The booth light went patient behind us. The hallway opened toward the set where string lights pretended to be stars and the hedge pretended to be a boundary and where I had a job.
"Next," the floor manager called. "Keep the goat."
D) Self-Edit Check + Alt Last Lines
Continuity: Booth hinein → on-camera Qs → core line delivered → rule sheet B-roll → tally dimmt → durch den Korridor → Nolan-Störung → weiter Richtung Stage; eine durchgehende Sequenz ohne Zeitsprung.Spezifik:advise-Zeile on record; rule sheet Laminate in B-roll; redacted header gepostet 7:02; Aisha Done; Nolan mit falschem PA-Badge; Boone's Credential check; phone text von EVAN.Voices: Producer glatt; Maya präzise, unbiegbar; Rita juristisch höflich; Victor ruhig, handwerklich; Nolan schmierig; Boone minimal, unverschiebbar.Rhythm: Taktile Details + knappe Dialoge; - Beats, -- nur wenn nötig; Ende auf Bewegung/Ereignis, kein Fazit.