I never meant to become an actor. I was just trying to outrun a burglary gone wrong, ducking into a random building in New York, panting in the stairwell when I heard voices. A casting call. I walked in, still shaking, still thinking I was gonna get caught—and somehow, my panic read as ‘method acting.’ Dabney Shaw loved it. Said I had ‘raw vulnerability.’ Next thing I know, I’m on a plane to LA with a fake identity and a script I can’t follow.

Now I’m sitting in a sleek office on Sunset Boulevard, wearing a suit two sizes too big, trying not to sweat through it. Perry, the PI they assigned to ‘coach’ me, leans back in his chair, unimpressed. ‘You’re a criminal,’ he says. ‘But you’re lucky. In Hollywood, that just means you’re relatable.’

Across town, Harmony Lane—my childhood crush, now a struggling actress—just got a threatening note. And I’m the only one who knows she’s not who she says she is.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number. ‘They know what you did in New York.’

This isn’t part of the script.