Deep in the labyrinthine basement of Sunset Studios, where the air hung heavy with the scent of old paper and dust, Clara Danforth sat at her desk.
Forty-eight years old, with quiet movements and a methodical way of filing, she was a veteran archivist. Today, Marcus Oakridge had ordered her to pull the original co-creator agreement for the ‘Apex’ franchise, specifically Leo DeLuca’s late father’s file.
She retrieved the yellowed folder from a tightly packed row, the label on the tab brittle beneath her fingers. Six years had passed since the original filing, yet the details remained etched in her memory.
As she opened the folder, two conflicting stamp dates on the estate claims immediately jumped out at her. One was the original, genuine date. The other, newer, seemed to have been recently replaced, stamped over with a fresh, crisp studio legal ink.
Clara’s brow furrowed. She remembered Leo’s father, a good man, always kind to the junior clerks like she had been back then. She remembered the pressure he had been under just before his death.
Her conscience, a quiet hum for years, began to ache. She knew what this looked like. She knew what it meant for Leo.
Clara looked over her shoulder, the long, dimly lit corridor empty. Her gaze drifted to the copy machine, a bulky, ancient beast in the corner.
She slipped the original file onto the glass and made a duplicate, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. The machine whirred loudly, echoing in the silent basement.
Just as the last page dropped into the tray, she heard the heavy footsteps of studio security making their evening rounds. The sound grew closer, reverberating off the concrete walls.
Clara quickly snatched the copy, folding it once, then again, tucking it deep inside her jacket pocket. She cleared her throat, adjusting her posture just as a burly guard appeared in the doorway.
“Late night, Clara,” he grunted, giving her a brief nod.
“Just finishing up for Mr. Oakridge,” she replied, her voice steady. Her heart thumped a nervous rhythm against her ribs.
The guard moved on, his flashlight beam disappearing down the aisle of files. Clara let out a slow breath. The paper in her pocket felt like a burning coal.
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