Chapter 7 Sparks Fly
Tasha rolled out of bed the next morning feeling way better than yesterday.
Her muscles were still a bit achy, and her head was kinda fuzzy, but she was ready to crank out a million words if needed.
Today was a big deal—her beauty score finally hit 50. Goodbye, “ugly” label; hello, “normal” club.
She zipped through her morning routine, splashing her face with water and scrubbing it clean before staring into the mirror.
The girl looking back? Button nose, slight underbite, and a face as flat as a pancake. Total girl-next-door energy. But those so-so features somehow meshed together in this oddly cool, laid-back way.
Her eyes were sharper now, catching the upgrades. They were bigger, her nose had a bit more shape, and that underbite was less obvious.
Acne scars? Gone. Her skin was still a little rough—not silky smooth—but the bumpy, moon-crater look was history.
Tasha wasn’t about to star in a rom-com, but “ugly”? Nah, not anymore. Just… average. Perfectly average.
She was cool with it.
“Hey, System,” she said in her head, “start sprucing up my texture today, okay?”
“On it,” the System shot back.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Tasha added. “I’m too short. Every three days, toss me an extra half-inch of height.”
The System paused. “An inch a week? Kinda fast, don’t you think? You’re 20, not some gangly teen.”
Tasha grinned. “Twenty-three’s still young enough to grow! I’m only twenty, it’s no big deal.”
After wolfing down breakfast, Tasha headed to the film set. She’d scored a steady gig as a background soldier in a historical drama.
Ironwood Studios was always short on guys. They’d need a hundred dudes but barely round up forty. This epic costume flick? Total sausage fest—or lack thereof.
Distant battle shots could be CGI’d, but close-ups? No way they were faking it with janky dummies. Not enough bros, the gals had to step up.
Tasha was a tough nut—scrappy, quick on her feet, and sharp as a tack. Director said “east,” she ain’t veering west. Orders? She nailed them. Best part? Her rugged mug could pass for a dude’s, even though it wasn’t red-carpet material. Short or not, that scored her a longer gig on this crew.
It was nearly September, but the heat was still a beast. Tasha was sweating buckets in her clunky armor, hoofing it with the group.
She was killing it, but her crew? Total mess. The extra soldiers she got stuck with had leaders dumber than a bag of hammers.
They just couldn’t wrap their heads around the director’s orders. Looked like a bunch of lost sheep wandering the plains.
The director was fuming, cussing like a drunk cowboy.
Tasha was drenched, gasping, the sun and sweat roasting her alive. Her lips were cracked, throat dry as dirt.
“North! North! You got sawdust for brains?!” the director bellowed.
Tasha clocked that voice. It was Roger. Same guy who’d beefed with James before. Still a hothead with a mouth like a sewer.
Seeing these extras bumble like drunk flies sent him into a full-on rage.
“What the hell are you morons doing?! My words not clicking?!” Roger roared through his megaphone. “One more flub, and y’all can forget lunch!”
The extras grumbled, making the mess worse.
Tasha’s throat was on fire, her breaths heavy. The crowd’s yammering gave her a killer headache.
The System tweaked her hormones to keep her going, but no tech could fix this thirst. Normally, she’d gut it out—she’d seen worse—but a nasty cold from yesterday, ignored after an all-nighter, was wrecking her. Her body was like, “Nope.”
“You’re all useless!” Roger barked. “Eyes up! Who fights staring at the dirt? Wanna get trampled by a horse?”
“You told us to follow the damn arrows on the ground!” an extra shot back, all sass.
“What, you got a goldfish brain? Can’t remember a simple path?” Roger snapped.
Tasha felt like she was being baked, sweat stinging like salt in a wound. Yet her bones were ice-cold, a creepy chill sneaking through.
The extras and Roger were at each other’s throats now. They were done with this loudmouth jerk. These past few days? Pure hell.
“Thinks he’s hot stuff ’cause he’s got a few bucks!” one guy yelled.
“Freaking idiot!” another chimed in.
“You call us trash? You’re the real garbage!”
“Who’d even work with you? We’re only here ’cause we got screwed!”
Roger went purple in the face. “You bunch of—” He swallowed beggars, barely holding it together.
“Mr. Hall, maybe we call it a day?” his assistant, Pat Bacchus, said, wiping sweat. “It’s too damn hot. Let ’em breathe, grab some water.”
Big mistake. Roger exploded. “Water? They got enough sloshing in their empty heads!”
That lit the fuse. “Screw you, dude!” an extra shouted.
“We’re all human, and you think you’re king?”
“Fat jerk! Time someone schools you!”
The set exploded into chaos. People were yelling their heads off, some trying to calm things down, others stirring the pot, and a few just standing there, clueless. It was a total zoo—loud enough to make people’s ears ring.
The heat was brutal, and everyone was already on edge. Roger, with his trash-talking mouth and zero professionalism, had been driving the extras up the wall for weeks. Today, he lit the fuse, and boom—they all went off.
A few extras rushed Roger, ready to throw punches. The crew freaked out, diving in to stop a full-on brawl.
Roger, sweating like a pig, face greasy as hell, still wouldn’t shut up. “You’re done! All of you!” he roared, like he owned the place.
Tasha got shoved around in the madness, head spinning, throat dry as dirt, drenched in sweat but somehow freezing.
After a month of pushing her body too hard and binging junk food, it all hit the fan. The world wobbled like a shaky phone video, her stomach churning like crazy.
She tried to speak, but zip—her breakfast was long gone.
The system’s voice cut in, panicked. “Host! Hey, you okay?”
Tasha’s brain was fried. She didn’t even realize she could just think her reply. Her lips moved, but nothing came out.
“Host! Tasha! Talk to me!”System shouted.
She couldn’t hear a thing.
Dizziness, nausea, scorching heat, icy chills, and a pounding headache slammed her all at once. Tasha swayed, then thud—she hit the ground hard.
The crowd was still a mess when someone screamed, “Holy crap, she’s dead!”
Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, everyone bolted, leaving a wide-open circle around Tasha, sprawled out cold.
“What the hell?” Roger was freaking out, sweating bullets. If someone died on his set, he was screwed.
“No clue!” an extra yelled, too spooked to keep fighting. “She just dropped!”
“Someone hit her?” the assistant asked, voice shaking.
“Nah!”
“Bull! Nobody would do that!”
“Maybe heatstroke?” a cameraman tossed out. “Someone check her!”
The crowd backed up even more.
Yeah, right. No one was playing hero for a stranger. ‘What if she is really gone? What if we get blamed?’ they thought.
Everyone kept yapping, but nobody moved an inch. Tasha lay there, still as a rock, looking like she’d checked out for good.
Suddenly, a tall figure shoved through the crowd, bolting over in a few quick steps to scoop Tasha up like she was feather-light.
Everyone froze, straining to see, but his head was down, hiding his face.
He lifted Tasha with smooth, pro-level moves, like a med-bot straight out of a sci-fi flick.
When he finally looked up, the rowdy chatter stopped cold. A collective gasp ripped through the crowd.
This guy was gorgeous—like, next-level hot. “Pretty” might’ve been the better word. His face was perfect, like it was carved by a laser with zero flaws.
But somehow, despite the polished look, he didn’t come off soft. He had a rugged edge that just clicked.
The creepy part? His face was blank. No panic, no rush, nada. He’d sprinted over and moved like lightning, but his expression was stone-cold empty.
When his icy, glass-like eyes scanned the crowd, it sent chills down everyone’s spines.
The set went so quiet one could hear a mouse fart.
Without a peep, the guy cradled Tasha and strode off like he had a mission.
Only when he was long gone did everyone breathe again.
“Who the hell was that?” someone blurted.
“No clue. Never seen him.”
“Some big-shot star, right?”
“No way! A face like that? He’d be all over TMZ. Never seen him before.”
“Man, he’s… unreal. Never seen anyone so damn hot.”
“Who was he holding?”
“Dunno. Some extra, probably.”
“But for real, who was that guy?”
Roger’s mouth hung open. He’d seen his share of lookers in showbiz, but this guy? He was next level.
Pat, smacking his lips, chimed in, “Dude was tall. Six-three, at least. Walked right by me.”
Short as he was, Pat always clocked height over faces.
Roger snapped out of it, pissed. “Who said she was dead?!” he yelled. “She just passed out from the heat, you idiots!”
The crowd shuffled, looking sheepish, realizing they’d jumped the gun.
An extra stepped up, scratching his head with a goofy grin. “Uh, my bad, Mr. Hall. Been filming all these war scenes—’died’ like twenty times. Saw her drop, and my brain just short-circuited.”
The set burst into laughter.
“You jerk!”
“Scared the crap outta me!”
“You owe us for that heart attack, man!”
The tension melted away as everyone cracked up, the vibe finally chilling out.
When people were pissed, they lost it fast—especially after that extra’s line hit them like a match to gasoline, sparking the whole mix-up.
That little drama fizzled the tension right out. The assistant jumped in, smooth as butter, tossing out sweet talk to cool things off.
Roger, still a bit spooked, was hung up on that mystery guy. He muttered a quick “my bad” and promised to reshoot another day.
The chaotic scene went quiet in a snap. Folks scattered, buzzing about that guy from before.
Roger wiped the sweat off his brow, thinking, ‘Looking that good in a film lot? Gotta be an actor. But why didn’t I see him before?’
If this dude was some undiscovered star, Roger thought he could swoop in early. This guy was bound to blow up, and Roger wanted to be the one to “find” him and claim the bragging rights.
‘But how to track him down?’ he wondered. ‘Wait—he carried off that extra who passed out. They’ve gotta be tight.’
Roger flagged Pat.”Hey, figure out who that fainted extra was.”
Pat nodded and bolted.
The second he was gone, Roger rubbed his forehead. ‘Wait… what’d that guy look like? Hold up—what just happened?’
‘A fight broke out, someone hit the deck, and… what else?’ Roger’s mind was blank.
Some freaky, invisible force was wiping his memory clean, erasing that guy like he never existed. Roger didn’t even notice. Neither did the crowd as they drifted away.
By the time Roger stood up, every trace of that mystery man was gone from his head.
Meanwhile, the cameraman, done playing peacemaker, got back to his gear. Holy crap—the camera was still rolling.
He checked the footage, heart racing. If that fight got caught on tape, it’d be bad news.
Sure enough, the whole mess was there. He was about to delete it when he spotted a guy in the frame—stupidly handsome, like CGI-level perfect. Even through the crowd, his face was crystal clear.
The camera caught it all: the guy showing up, grabbing Tasha, and bouncing.
The cameraman blinked, stunned. ‘Was that dude even real? Why couldn’t I remember?’
A face like that should’ve been unforgettable, but his brain was screaming, “Forget him! Forget him!”
He stared at the screen, mind blown. Then, like a lightbulb moment, he whipped out his phone and recorded the clip of the guy off the camera.
Done, he pocketed his phone. The camera screen went black. He stood there, confused.
Then it hit him—the shoot was over. ‘Oh, right, I turned it off!’ He grinned.
