The eastern corridor of Soundstage 4 smelled of damp concrete, old diesel exhaust from the generator trucks parked out back, and the distinct, metallic sting of rust. An industrial floor fan was humming somewhere down the hall, pushing a draft of cold, dirty air directly against Nina's ankles.
She stood in front of the door marked 04 - SECONDARY CAST.
The heavy iron padlock securing the latch was coated in a thick, orange layer of deliberate neglect. Slapped across the center of the wood was a torn piece of cardboard with a generic, hurried scrawl: OUT OF ORDER – PLUMBING FAILURE.
