Elizabeth had always believed that the world only saw two versions of her.
There was Elizabeth Hart, the award-winning actress whose face filled billboards from Los Angeles to Seoul—recognized for her sharp features, crimson hair, and eyes that could shift effortlessly from warmth to quiet danger.
And then there was Skarlet, the ruthless assassin she portrayed in the Mortal Kombat 11 film franchise, draped in obsidian armor and red markings, feared for her command of blood magic—magic that, in reality, was nothing more than special effects, stunt choreography, and months of brutal training.
She loved them both.
But neither was truly her.
Tonight, in the quiet break room on the studio's backlot, Elizabeth sat alone, legs curled beneath her, still dressed in Skarlet's armored costume. The metal plates pressed cold against her skin, and the synthetic leather clung to her like a second, far more disciplined body. She should have removed it hours ago, but exhaustion—and something far less simple—held her in place.
A single reading lamp illuminated her as she flipped through a worn paperback novel titled Hellish Desires, something the makeup team jokingly handed her when they learned how often she read between scenes. The mocking didn't bother her; she found comfort in fictional worlds, especially ones with demons, flames, and morally ambiguous heroines. Worlds where strength didn't rely on fame or image, where power wasn't granted by public approval.
She ran her fingertips across the page, the words blurring for a moment as her thoughts drifted.
Tomorrow, production would resume. A massive fight sequence. Twenty stunt performers. Three wire rigs. And a director who wanted "something more" from her performance—something raw, something not taught in acting classes.
Something real.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly. She had given every part of herself to this role—her precision, her discipline, her endurance, even her privacy. But something had changed these past few weeks. Something unsettling. She felt eyes on her more often than cameras could explain. She felt watched even when the red light above the lens wasn't lit. And she had found the studio doors unlocked late at night, the digital security logs missing entire hours of footage.
Yet whenever she mentioned it, the crew brushed her concerns aside.
"You've been living as Skarlet too long," they told her.
"It's just your mind playing tricks after all those night shoots."
But she knew it wasn't her imagination.
Someone was following her.
Her phone buzzed on the metal table beside her. Elizabeth didn't recognize the number, but she opened the message anyway.
You're more than an actress.
And Skarlet is more than a role.
Her chest tightened. She stared at the words, waiting for some sign it was a prank from one of the stunt crew. But no second message came. Only silence. Only stillness.
She stood, armor shifting with a faint metallic whisper. A part of her wanted to find the director, security, anyone. But another part—something instinctive and unsettling—pulled her toward the dim hallway outside the break room.
Elizabeth stepped out, her boots tapping softly on the concrete. The studio was silent, the kind of silence that didn't feel empty but occupied.
She told herself she was just tired. That she was still thinking like Skarlet, the assassin, not Elizabeth, the actress.
But when she glanced back at the phone, the message had changed.
We need to talk. I know what you are.
What she was?
Elizabeth's heart hammered.
She wasn't Skarlet. She wasn't a warrior. She wasn't supernatural. She wasn't anything but human.
And yet—
Somewhere deep in that quiet studio, someone believed otherwise.
And they were coming for her.