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Zack had hoped things would change.

After the tidal wave of the #MeToo movement swept through Hollywood, he thought—just maybe—the machine would slow down. That the monsters hiding in suits would be driven out, the whisper networks would finally be heard, and the tide would shift toward something better.

But that hope, like most things in Hollywood, had been dressed up in makeup and false lighting.

Because behind the Instagram posts and carefully worded apologies, nothing had really stopped. Not truly. The predators just got quieter. Smarter. Their masks more convincing. The system—still intact.

Zack was now working as the set manager on a well-known primetime sitcom. On paper, it was a cushy gig. Popular show, good money, steady work. It was the kind of job younger Zack would've killed for. But these days, it was just another set. Another routine. Another set of fake walls, plastic laughter, and deeper rot hidden beneath punchlines.

Still, there were small sparks. People who reminded him why he ever fell in love with this business.

Emily was one of them.

A newcomer to the industry—young, bright-eyed, early twenties at most. She had that rare sincerity Zack hadn't seen in a long time. She came to set early every morning, sides in hand, lines memorized. She greeted the crew like they mattered. No diva behavior. No ego. Just a girl who wanted to act and do it well.

She even helped the crew set up props when she had time, fetching coffee for the interns or straightening chairs when the production designer was running behind.

"Emily, you don't have to do that," Zack told her more than once. "We're paid to do this. You're here to perform, not lift tables."

"But I like helping," she'd say, beaming. "Makes me feel part of the team."

She had started calling him Uncle Zack one morning when he'd brought her a cup of black coffee before a sunrise shoot.

It stuck.

And while Zack groaned every time she said it—because it reminded him just how much older he'd gotten—it also made him smile. There was something about her. Something untouched by the poison of the industry.

And Zack… he just hoped it would stay that way.

But hope was a fragile thing.

It happened fast. Too fast.

One morning, Emily didn't show up on set.

The crew whispered. The director was unusually tight-lipped. Some said she'd called in sick. Others said she'd walked off the set. Zack felt something was off.

By lunch, the truth had leaked out like blood under a locked door.

A well-known male actor—one of the sitcom's leads—had cornered her in her trailer late the previous night. He'd been high—again—and tried to force himself on her. She screamed. Fought back. A nearby costume assistant heard and pulled her away.

But instead of outrage… there was silence.

The producers were "handling it internally." The actor wasn't suspended. No HR visit. No formal report. They claimed he was "seeking help" for his "mental health." The studio called it a "sensitive misunderstanding."

And Emily?

Gone.

Not a word. Her trailer cleared out the next morning. A body double was used to patch up her last few scenes before they quietly wrote her character off the script.

Zack's blood boiled. It wasn't the first time he'd seen something like this—but it was the first time it felt personal in years.

She had called him Uncle Zack.

She had trusted him.

And now she was gone, her voice swallowed by the same machinery that always protected the powerful and punished the victims.

He stood outside his caravan, fists clenched, breathing like a bull before the charge. Then, without a second thought, he walked across the lot, straight to the actor's trailer.

No knock.

He barged in.

The actor was lounging on the sofa, sunglasses still on indoors, scrolling his phone with the smugness of a man who knew he was untouchable.

"You think you can just walk away from this?" Zack growled.

The actor looked up. "Relax, old man. It was just a—"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Zack's fist connected hard with his face. The crack echoed in the small trailer like thunder. Blood splattered. The actor screamed.

Then came another punch. And another. Years of rage, helplessness, guilt—all pouring into his fists. The actor stumbled backward, nose bleeding, eyes wide with panic.

"You don't get to touch her. You don't get to ruin her life and go back to rehearsals like nothing happened!" Zack roared.

He didn't know how long it went on before the assistants rushed in. Someone pulled him back. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, heart racing like a runaway drum. His hands were shaking. Bloody knuckles.

The actor was curled in a corner, groaning.

Zack was escorted off set within the hour.

The studio issued a statement that night: "Due to an act of violence on set, Mr. Zack Throne will no longer be part of the production. We do not condone physical assault in any form."

The actor? Checked into "rehab."

Emily's name? Never mentioned.

The next morning, Zack received official notices. He was blacklisted from the studio. Calls from other networks stopped. Projects he was scheduled to work on vanished. One moment, he was just another overlooked crew member. The next, he was radioactive.

His phone buzzed. A message from Emily.

> "Thank you. No one else did."

Zack sat on his couch, hands bandaged, career in ashes. But for the first time in a long time… he didn't feel like a coward.