"Yes. Baby. I'm almost there," the woman said, eyes closed, hands clenching the sheet. "Harder. Don't stop."
"You want it like that?"
"Yes, daddy. I'm about to. Daddy give it to me."
The bald man drew back as if to break the rhythm, then pressed in again, harder, giving her what she asked for.
Her eyes rolled back. The sheets scrunched under her fists. Toes curled as pleasure crested, and she cried out.
"Aah! Aah! Aah! My god."
The bald man pulled out and turned toward the woman, breath quick. He finished with a rough, passionate grunt, and she shut her eyes as if bracing for it.
White sprayed across her face and into her eyes. She squinted and shook it off, fingers fumbling until she found the rod so she could take a slurp.
Her lips met the soft tip. The bald man moaned in satisfaction as he watched his huge bulge being cleaned by the her.
The television went dark. An old man sighed in the quiet that followed, tired without wanting to admit it.
The bald man from the film was the same man standing here. Johnathan Lee Sins, older now, yes, but not washed up.
He rose from his chair and looked out across his studio. The place still lived without him.
Lights hung like small suns. Cables snaked along the floor. Crew moved with practiced impatience.
A younger pair kept filming in the next set, all skin and confidence, while a director waved hands and called beats.
John's attention drifted past them to a single flickering bulb at the far end of the grid. It winked like a nervous eye.
"That's going to ruin the next take," he muttered.
No one heard him. Everyone was busy. That was fine. He grabbed a spare bulb and dragged a ladder into place himself.
He moved fast, healthy for his age. He set the ladder under the light and started up.
Halfway, he felt a wobble. John froze. His fingers tightened around the ladder. He looked down and saw it at once.
A lock he had forgotten to hinge. He swallowed.
Still, he reached higher. The flicker was close enough now that it buzzed in his teeth.
He lifted the spare bulb, ready to swap it out. The ladder chose that moment to punish him.
The legs slipped. The frame folded with a sharp clatter. For a blink, he was weightless, then the world snapped him down.
He fell backward. The air punched out of his lungs. The floor rushed up and hit him like a truck.
His skull rang. His spine lit with pain that turned white at the edges.
'Was this it?' he thought.
Shouts erupted. Feet hammered closer. Faces leaned into his vision, warped by worry and studio light.
Crew rushed in. Even the younger actors paused and stared, still naked, their scene forgotten.
"John, don't move."
"Call an ambulance."
"Are you there? John, blink for me."
Later, the ceiling above him changed. Sterile white replaced the studio grid.
Hospital light replaced stage glare. The air smelled of antiseptic.
A doctor stood beside his bed, flipping through papers with the efficiency of a man who had seen every kind of fall.
"Jonathan, was it?"
John swallowed around the dryness in his throat.
"Yeah... yeah. How bad, exactly?"
He already expected the worst. That was what age taught you. You learned to brace before the blow.
The doctor's mouth twitched, almost a smile.
"Your exercises paid off. Slight concussion. Your back is fine. Bad bruising, that's all."
John let out a breath he had been holding since the ladder gave way. His whole body trembled with it.
The doctor handed him a paper bag and a sheet.
"Pain killers. Optional. Use them if you can't handle the pain."
"Optional," John echoed, and a little of the old pride rose in him.
They exchanged a few pleasantries that meant nothing. Then the doctor left, and John dressed himself slowly.
Outside, the day looked too bright. He squinted against it and felt the bruise along his back pulse with each step.
Hunger hit him hard. Tthe simple truth of a body that had been through a shock and wanted fuel.
He looked around for something cheap and hot. Across the road, a hotdog stand steamed under a metal awning.
The smell made his stomach twist in want. John reached for his wallet and flipped it open.
Cards. A few hundreds. No small bills. No cash that mattered in a place that lived on quick change.
"Dang it," he said, then corrected himself with a quieter curse.
He spotted an ATM near the corner and joined the line. People stood in bored silence, eyes on screens, hands on phones, shoulders hunched against nothing.
The bruise in his back reminded him he should be home.
But hunger came first. He waited.
Behind them, an engine growled. A heavy sound.
An armored car rolled up to the curb, then started driving in reverse, careless and confident as if the street belonged to it.
The steel bumper drifted toward the line. John turned just in time to see it. The bumper kissed his leg.
Pain shot up like fire. He jerked back and managed to dodge before the wheel could bite. The people around him scattered and shouted.
"Hey!" John yelled, temper flaring hot as the bruise. "Watch where you're fucking going!"
More curses rose from the line. The driver did not even look. The armored car kept reversing with the calm cruelty of machinery.
John let it go. Anger took energy. Energy was a smaller pile than it used to be.
He walked to a woman nearby and held up a hundred.
"Can you break this, just into small bills, please."
She eyed him, recognized him, then tried to hide it and failed. A photo was requested. A little small talk followed.
He got his change. He thanked her. He moved on.
At the pedestrian lane, he waited for the light and watched cars stream past. The day felt too long and too eventful.
"Could this day get any worse?" he muttered.
The light changed. John stepped off the curb.
A blaring horn screamed from his left. Not a normal horn. This one carried panic and too much speed.
He turned and saw a tanker truck sliding sideways, running wrong. It was coming straight for the crossing.
John's blood went cold, then hot. Adrenaline surged. His back pain vanished under something older than thought.
He sprinted, not toward safety, but toward the hotdog stand.
The seller stood frozen behind it, mouth open, hands locked on the tongs as if they were a lifeline.
"Move," John roared, and grabbed the man by the shoulder.
He hauled him off the spot and threw both of them behind the stand as the tanker slammed into the street nearby.
The crash hit like thunder. Glass exploded. Brick shards sprayed. Metal screamed.
The world filled with sharp flying things that did not care who you were.
John lifted his palm to shield his eyes and grit his teeth. The impact shook through his bones. Dust filled his mouth.
Something pierced John's skin. Then something else. A dozen tiny stings. His old skin took them all and bled for it.
When the noise eased, he sucked in air like a drowning man. He was alive.
Scraped. Punctured. Bleeding in a dozen places. But his limbs were intact.
Nothing dangled wrong. Nothing bent where it should not bend.
He laughed, a short broken sound that tasted like dust.
"What a bad day."
Something cool sprayed across his face. John flinched and wiped at it.
The liquid smelled sharp. For a heartbeat his mind thought of alcohol, hard and cheap.
He took an instinctive sniff. Gasoline. His eyes tracked upward.
Unleaded fuel gushed from the tanker in a steady stream, spilling onto the street, running toward the curb, pooling where it could.
It glittered in the sunlight like oil on water. It looked almost pretty. It was not pretty at all.
John stared at it and felt his stomach drop.
"Fu..."
An explosion rocked downtown Los Angeles.