"I wonder if Tony will come through," Christian muttered, dropping the phone onto the cluttered desk.
The timing and location of Alan's body turning up were a little too perfect.
Even hardened professionals like Anthony Westwood and fresh faces like Charlize were starting to whisper about fate—or something worse—keeping humanity from pushing too far beyond its place.
Superstition wasn't uncommon in the business, but this case was getting under everyone's skin.
Christian had already spoken with the producer about how Alan's disappearance could be spun.
After Alan vanished, Christian slid seamlessly into the director's chair.
The opportunity practically handed itself over.
"From an FBI standpoint," he said dryly, "it's textbook motive and suspicion."
He let out a low chuckle.
"Lucky for us, there's no evidence to match."
That was no accident. Alan and Eliza had crossed paths with something ancient—something they couldn't explain.
Christian knew the name it used: Wrath Lord.
A predator more myth than man, not unlike the old European revenants or soul-devourers that haunted medieval folklore.
Whatever it was, it left bodies drained of life in a way no coroner could parse.
Forensics came up empty—no time of death, no cause—just two lifeless shells.
But Christian wasn't innocent in this mess.
What started as a calculated move to generate buzz around a dying project shifted into something else entirely after that first meeting.
He hadn't expected Wrath Lord to be real. (T/N: Wrath Lord is the type of ghost)
And yet there it was—impossible, inexplicable, and terrifyingly effective.
He couldn't deny the potential. Americans had a soft spot for unsolved deaths and vanished stars.
If it was morbid and glamorous, they'd eat it up.
And Christian, with his itch for chaos and taste for spectacle, understood better than anyone: a little mystery sold better than truth ever could.
This wasn't going to be a Monroe-level scandal, sure.
But it was enough to market a shoestring-budget film like Wrong Turn into something people might see.
He shook off the thought and turned to the task at hand.
"Right now, post-production is the priority," he said, mentally cataloging what needed fixing.
Across the room, the Old Gun—grizzled, sharp-eyed, and clocked into the studio since sunrise—accepted a steaming cup of coffee from him without looking up.
"So what did Tony say? The Alan story's a goldmine for publicity, but what about the cut? Who has final say in the edit?"
"The producer, officially," Christian said.
"If he wants to ignore us, we're out of luck."
Old Gun nodded.
"Maybe. But we've got timing on our side. With Alan gone, the producer's going to be neck-deep in media handling. And now that Jodie Foster's throwing money into the pot, it'll get political. If we can lock in our cut before Westwood notices—"
"We've got leverage," Christian finished.
"Especially since Tony's not the type to start a war over it."
Old Gun narrowed her eyes.
"You planned this from the start? Jumping straight into post right after the shoot?"
Christian just grinned and took a sip of the coffee she handed him.
He immediately gagged and spat it back into the cup.
"What the hell is this? Did you forget the sugar?"
Old Gun smirked. "That's our 'overtime coffee.' Builds character."
Christian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Next time, just give me an instant cappuccino, yeah?"
--------
"The cappuccino here's awful. Almost as bad as Gibbs's mystery brew," Abby muttered, eyeing the third-rate tabloid abandoned on the table before her.
She stirred the cup again, as if that would magically improve the flavor, then gave up.
The place had looked cozy from the outside, but she was starting to regret her choice.
Still, it was better than microwaved leftovers.
Abby Sciuto had her own style—black nail polish, heavy eyeliner, boots with buckles.
People noticed. But under all that was one of NCIS's sharpest forensic specialists.
The goth thing wasn't a gimmick. It was just who she was.
And it never got in the way of doing her job.
With the lab quiet and no active cases on her desk, she'd taken a rare few days off.
After gaming until the early hours, she'd dragged herself out of bed sometime past noon and wandered into the café for what barely qualified as breakfast.
She sighed and pushed the cup away.
"Bad call."
Her eyes drifted back to the tabloid—usually nothing more than trashy headlines and conspiracy theories. But this one grabbed her:
"Hollywood Faces Another Bizarre Case — Director Murdered on Set, Injuries Mirror Movie Plot. Is 'Wrong Turn' Cursed?"
Abby rolled her eyes. Classic tabloid bait. Still, something about it tugged at her memory.
She leaned in, scanning the article.
Alan McElroy. That name rang a bell.
"Wait a sec…" she whispered.
"Kate dropped this one on my lap yesterday."
Now it made sense. She hadn't connected the dots at first.
But this was the same case.
Abby flipped the paper over and read the smaller print with more care.
If the injuries did match the film's storyline, that wasn't just a creepy coincidence—it was cause for concern.
Between the vague timelines and missing context, it was hard to tell what was hype and fact. But something felt off.
"Great. This might be another Black Dahlia situation waiting to happen," she muttered, already thinking about running her checks.
Vacation or not, she had a feeling she'd be back in the lab sooner than expected.
----
References-
1. Abby Shuto-Abigail "Abby" Beethoven Sciuto is a fictional character from the American television series NCIS (2003)
2. Black Dahlia- Elizabeth Short, known posthumously as the Black Dahlia, was an American woman found murdered in the Leimert Park neighborhood of Los Angeles, California, on January 15, 1947.