Chapter 3 — Moments Captured

Y/n

The elevator dings softly, its golden doors sliding open to reveal the luxury suite’s sprawling common room. If a magazine decided to shoot “the most glamorous mess ever,” this place would be the cover. Sleek, modern furniture in shades of cream and gray clashes with the chaos of our lived-in clutter—snack wrappers crumpled on the glass coffee table, random props leaning against walls, and a bright pink inflatable flamingo inexplicably perched on the couch. The faint scent of rain lingers on the floor-to-ceiling windows, mixing with the aroma of leftover takeout.

The warm hum of chatter fills the room. Madeleine is sprawled on the sofa, her long legs tucked under her in a way that looks too elegant to be accidental. In her hands, she flips through a Polaroid photo, her lips quirking into a nostalgic smile. Bay is perched on the armrest beside her, mid-story, gesturing animatedly with a half-empty bag of chips in hand. Becca sits cross-legged on the floor, her sharp brown eyes locked on her phone with the kind of intensity that suggests she’s either plotting world domination or pretending we don’t exist.

And then there’s Samuel, leaning lazily against the kitchen counter with all the casual confidence of someone who knows exactly how magnetic he is. He’s nursing a bottle of something fizzy, his expression unreadable, though his piercing blue eyes flit briefly to me before returning to the group. His lighter sits on the counter beside him, untouched but present, a quiet reminder of its constant flicking earlier.

I hesitate in the doorway, my fingers twitching at my sides. The sound of their laughter feels warm, almost tangible, but a knot of discomfort twists in my stomach. I want to join them, but the memory of today on set—the humiliation, the failure, Samuel’s smirk—lingers like a weight I can’t shake. My brain offers up a dozen excuses to retreat to my room—the exhaustion, the need for space—but a small voice inside me craves connection, even if I’m not sure I belong.

Before I can turn and bolt, Madeleine’s head snaps up. “Y/n! There you are!” she calls, her voice warm and inviting, like she’s been waiting just for me.

“Come on, newbie,” Bay adds with his crooked grin. “You can’t just hide in your room after one rough day. Not in the actor’s survival guide.”

I force a small smile, still raw from the sting of my earlier performance. “I wasn’t hiding,” I bluff, stepping further into the room. “I was… decompressing.”

“Decompressing,” Madeleine repeats with a lilting laugh, patting the empty spot on the couch beside her. “Well, decompress here. We’re doing truth or dare.”

“Truth or dare?” My stomach flips.

“Relax,” Bay says, tossing the chip bag onto the table with disturbingly accurate aim. “This is a safe space. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Becca murmurs without looking up, her lips twitching in something almost resembling humor.

I shuffle to the couch, carefully avoiding the flamingo as I sit. Madeleine immediately leans over and nudges a pastel-colored Polaroid camera into my lap. It’s heavier than I expected, and its worn body is decorated with stickers—tiny shooting stars, hearts, and a lopsided rainbow. A small, handwritten note is tucked into the strap: *Capture the best moments.*

“Here,” she says brightly. “A gift for the newbie.”

I blink in confusion. “I—what? You’re giving me your camera?”

“No, no,” she clarifies with a wave of her hand. “Just letting you hold it. But you *have* to take a picture of something before the night’s over. It’s tradition.”

“Tradition?” Samuel drawls from the kitchen, one eyebrow arching in mock skepticism. “Pretty sure you just made that up.”

“Tradition as of tonight,” Madeleine fires back without missing a beat, her tone exaggerated just enough to make me smile despite myself.

Bay claps his hands, pulling focus. “Alright, truth or dare, Y/n. You’re up.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You sat down,” Bay counters with mock seriousness. “That’s consent.”

Madeleine snickers, and even Becca lets out a quiet *hmph* that might pass as a laugh. Samuel, meanwhile, is watching me, his smirk equal parts amusement and challenge. I can practically hear him daring me to back out.

I sigh, trying to shake the weight of their attention. “Fine. Truth.”

Bay groans dramatically. “Boring. But okay. Let’s see… what’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?”

“Seriously?” My arms cross instinctively.

“Rules are rules,” Madeleine chimes in, her grin wicked yet encouraging. “No backing out now.”

I rack my brain, sifting through a lifetime of cringe-worthy moments. One memory rears its ugly head, flashing like a neon sign. I groan inwardly, already regretting this. “Alright. When I was ten, I had to sing a solo in front of my entire school. But halfway through, I forgot the words and started crying on stage. My mom had to come get me halfway through the song.”

The room bursts into laughter—genuine, not cruel—and I feel some of the tension draining from my shoulders. Their amusement feels oddly… safe.

“An all-time classic,” Bay says, swiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “A timeless tale of childhood trauma.”

“It’s character building,” Madeleine teases with a wink, her socked foot nudging mine.

Becca glances up from her phone, her sharp gaze locking on me for just a fraction longer than necessary. “At least you finished,” she says flatly. “That’s more than some people can say.”

The words land like a missile, the room abruptly quieting. It takes a second for me to realize she’s referencing my meltdown on set earlier. My cheeks flush with heat, but I force myself to hold her gaze.

“Becca,” Madeleine warns gently, but I shake my head.

“No, she’s right,” I say, surprising even myself with the steadiness in my voice. “I froze today. But I’m not planning to make a habit of it.”

Becca’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something unreadable in her gaze—a flicker of respect, maybe, or challenge. She shifts slightly, her hand brushing her pendant before she returns to her phone.

“Well,” Bay says, clapping his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm. “That was a buzzkill. Who’s next?”

The game continues, the questions and dares becoming increasingly absurd. Madeleine ends up with two mismatched socks on her hands as puppets, Bay performs an impromptu interpretive dance, and Becca, shockingly, agrees to chug an entire can of soda. Even Samuel, though mostly quiet, throws in a dry quip or two, his smirk softening into something less guarded.

Through it all, the Polaroid camera makes its rounds, capturing candid snapshots of our antics. By the time it lands back in my lap, the room feels lighter, the earlier tension dissolved into laughter and shared absurdity.

“You haven’t taken your picture yet!” Madeleine nudges my arm, her smile warm and insistent.

I glance around the room, considering my options. Samuel is leaning against the wall now, watching the chaos with a faint smirk. Madeleine is still puppeteering her sock hands, while Bay is fanning Becca dramatically as she reclines like a reluctant queen.

I lift the camera and snap a photo of them, the flash briefly illuminating their faces. The picture slides out with a soft whir, and I shake it lightly before holding it up.

“Perfect,” Madeleine declares, plucking the photo from my hand and pinning it to the corkboard hanging by the kitchen. It joins an eclectic collage of other snapshots—Bay balancing a spoon on his nose, Madeleine mid-laugh, and a slightly blurry photo of Samuel sitting on the rooftop, gazing over the city.

“This board,” Madeleine says dramatically, “is the heart of our suite. The sacred archive of our memories.”

“Sacred?” Samuel echoes dryly, his tone laced with amusement. “That’s one way to put it.”

Madeleine sticks her tongue out at him before turning back to me. “You’re one of us now, Y/n. No backing out.”

The words land with unexpected weight, filling the space between us with something warm and tangible. For the first time since stepping onto the set of *The Black Phone 2*, I feel a flicker of belonging. It’s small, but it’s real.

As the night winds down and the group begins to scatter, I retreat to my room, the Polaroid camera still in my hands. Setting it gently on my nightstand next to my journal, I sink onto the edge of the bed.

I open the journal, the blank page staring back at me. My pen hovers for a moment before the words spill out.

*Today wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good. But it was real. And maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to find my place here.*

I glance at the camera again, a faint smile tugging at my lips. Madeleine’s right—these little moments, messy and imperfect as they are, are worth holding onto.

Sliding the journal shut, I lean back against the pillows and close my eyes, the soft hum of laughter from the common room lingering in my ears like a melody.