My Boss Locked Down Soundstage 4 After a Celebrity Broke My Late Wife's Cane — The Brass Key Inside Soundstage B-17 Exposed a 40-Year Studio Lie
The next evening, I was home, the 1981 blueprint spread across my kitchen table. I was cataloging its details, trying to reconcile the Clara I knew with this hidden compartment, when my phone rang. It was an urgent call from a junior archivist.
“Mr. Pendelton, your workshop. Something’s wrong. I heard noises.”
I didn’t wait for another word. I grabbed my keys, Buster already by the door, sensing the urgency. The drive back to the studio felt agonizingly long, the hum of the engine a dull thrum against my rising dread. My prop workshop, tucked away in an older part of the lot, was more than just a storage space; it was my sanctuary, filled with forty-four years of my meticulous personal records.
When I pulled up, the workshop door was ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling onto the cracked asphalt. Smoke, faint but unmistakable, curled from the chimney of the old studio incinerator across the lot—the one used for burning old scripts and damaged sets. My stomach dropped.
A figure burst from my workshop, moving with an athletic grace that was instantly recognizable. Brody Jax. The hotheaded actor, Julian Kross’s star. He sprinted past my truck, a bulky duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his face a mask of panic and something like triumph.
He didn’t even glance my way. He just ran.
I pushed open the workshop door. Papers were scattered, shelves had been pulled from the walls, and the air smelled faintly of cologne and disturbed dust. My personal archive ledgers, the ones detailing every prop, every film, every significant studio event I’d documented since 1979, were gone. These weren’t just inventory lists; they held my handwritten notes, my observations, my cross-references. They were my memory of the studio, a memory I now realized Julian was desperate to erase.
I stared at the empty space where my ledgers should have been, then at the distant incinerator chimney, still exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke into the night sky. Brody Jax, that arrogant fool, had been played like a pawn. Julian Kross hadn’t just ordered a theft; he’d orchestrated an act of historical arson. He was using his star actor as an unwitting accomplice to literally burn my past, and by extension, Clara’s. The sheer audacity of it, the cold calculation, made my hands tremble. My wife’s secret, whatever it was, had to be monumental for Julian to risk this.
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