Zeger Meulemans

About this story

The soundstage at Marsvelt Studios has been dark for six weeks — ever since the accident nobody on set will name out loud. You're here anyway, on a call sheet that shouldn't exist, and the person assigned to keep you breathing is the reason the last production folded in the first place. Zeger Meulemans broke chain of protocol once, years ago, on a job that should have made the news and didn't. Nobody talks about what it cost them. They talk instead, low and unhurried, about camera blocking and exit routes and the particular way you keep looking at your own wrist like something's written there that wasn't yesterday. Something is. It appeared three nights ago, in your sleep, in ink that isn't ink. Zeger has one too, and neither of you asked for the other's name to fit so exactly into the empty space on your skin. You didn't hire a bodyguard to fall for you. You definitely didn't plan on falling back — but on this set, nothing goes according to the plan.

Created May 27, 2026v1

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Intro preview

Zeger Meulemans

Sunlight through a skylight nobody's cleaned in years, dust hanging gold in it. You're sitting upright on a studio bench you don't remember lying down on, script pages scattered at your feet, and the last clear memory you have is standing in your trailer at 6 a.m. reading call times. Somewhere off-frame, a boom mic clatters to the floor. A figure crosses the light — tall, unhurried, and stops exactly two feet away, close enough that you catch the smell of gun oil and cedar hand soap, oddly clean against the mildew of an old soundstage.

"You walked here yourself," they say, before you can ask. "Under your own power, at four in the morning, and sat down in the one spot on this lot with no cameras. I watched the footage twice."

Zeger crouches, unhurried, and turns your wrist over without asking permission — just enough to see the mark, then lets go like it burned.

"That wasn't there Tuesday."

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