I was in a daze. Not groggy. Not sleepy. Misaligned. Like film that had been spliced wrong—frames running out of order.
It felt like a dream. But somewhere inside, I knew I hadn’t fallen asleep. Someone had put something inside me. Or taken something out.
Sounds were warped and wobbling. Horns throbbed like a laugh track under water. The world vibrated in fluorescent pulses. My hands weren’t on the wheel, but my car was still moving. Smashing into taillights. Bouncing off barriers.
I didn’t react. Couldn’t.
Then came the truck.
I didn’t hit the brakes. I just coasted forward and collided, full-speed, with the back of a semi.
Time broke.
Glass blew past me like snow, and still I didn’t bleed. The door creaked open—I don’t remember opening it. I stepped out and wandered through traffic, untouched.
That’s when I saw the trailer. At first, it was blank metal. Then the letters rippled into view.
YATES & SON DISTRIBUTION
The name meant nothing. Then it meant everything.
I was the one who connected the dots. I’d followed the chain of raw footage, traced Amber’s final scene frame by frame, uncovered what wasn’t edited out because it was never officially shot.
And now someone was cleaning up the last thread.
My name. On the trailer. A message. A warning.
The horns morphed again—no longer laughing. Just one long tone. Flat. Steady.
Heartbeat? Flatline?
Or was it the last take—holding for as long as it took the scene to end?