Someone touches my arm gently, and I whirl around.

It’s the burly dude, looking worriedly at me. “Do you need help?”

“Help?” I try not to laugh. “With what?”

The two guys exchange a hesitant look, and I play with the idea that they know what I’m looking for, can magically identify who’s leaking my script, but I quickly shove that thought away. As soon as they “help” me, they’ll want something in return, guaranteed. Everyone always does.

“Sorry,” I tell them, “but I don’t even know you. Thanks for the ice pack, I’m fine.”

“Wait!” The one in the witch’s hat calls after me, and as I turn around to give him a really good tongue-lashing, he holds out Ethan’s glasses. They’re a little bent, but not broken. “You might need these.”

I snatch them out of his hand, slide them on, and leave, the ice pack still pressed firmly against my face.

I FIND I’VE WANDERED TO THE other side of the showroom, where it’s a little quieter. I scroll through the Twitter timeline, trying to find a clue who the thief might be. But I’m at a loss. I’m just lucky they haven’t yet posted a page with my name on it.

I sink down beside the bathroom near the corner, where a guy with a pretzel stand is humming the Starfield theme song.

Of course.

I can’t seem to escape Starfield, and looking at the latest tweet gets me angrier and angrier the longer I sit here. The Starfield side of the internet is exploding with news of General Sond as the new villain.

Vance Reigns.

His agent had been trying to set us up on a date for a while, and I guess now I know why. It’d look like a trading of the mantle, of sorts, from one Starfield villain to another.

I’m being replaced—by a golden knight no less.

Why do I care? I shut off my phone and drop it between my folded legs. Why do I care so much that Starfield announced their sequel villain? It wasn’t like I was holding out hope it would be me.

That’s silly. I don’t want it to be me.

I’m Jessica Stone, an Oscar-nominated teenager. I am a serious actor. I am cool, I am coveted, I am professional.

I…

What else am I?

“You look like someone who could use a pretzel,” says a voice to my right. I glance up to see the pretzel vendor looming over me with an unsalted sample of his wares and a pack of cheesy goop. He motions to the ice pack still pressed against my cheek.