Stunt man to Star director

Chapter 1: The Unseen Hero

The hum of activity on the movie set echoed throughout the sprawling streets of the city. Cameras panned, actors rehearsed, and directors barked orders in a seemingly endless loop. For most, it was just another day in the entertainment capital, but for Suraj, this was his life—ten long years of playing an invisible role in someone else's story.

Suraj was a stuntman, though no one would know his name. He had mastered the art of taking falls, leaping through fire, and crashing through glass—his body had been bruised and broken more times than he could count, all in the name of creating cinematic magic. And yet, the credit never went to him. He was the shadow of the leading actor, the silhouette in the explosion, the body standing in for the hero. His face never made it to the screen.

As the sun dipped behind the towering buildings, casting long shadows over the set, Suraj watched the main lead wrap up his lines for the day. The actor had an air of effortless charm, a swagger that seemed to draw everyone in. The director clapped him on the back, laughing at a joke that Suraj didn't quite catch. It was a small moment, but it reminded him of the distance between them. The lead actor was the face everyone would remember, while Suraj remained behind the curtain.

Ten years. Ten years of near invisibility. The thought weighed heavy on his chest. It wasn't what he had dreamed of when he first entered the industry, fresh-faced and full of ambition. He wanted to be a director. The thrill of crafting a story, weaving narratives with characters he could control—that was his true passion. He'd tried. God, had he tried. He'd pitched scripts, knocked on doors, made connections, but the chance had never come.

"Maybe you're just not cut out for it, Suraj," his own voice whispered inside his head, bitter and cruel. "Maybe this is all you'll ever be."

He sighed, adjusting his harness as the next scene set up. A chase sequence through the chaotic streets, with cars speeding and chaos erupting. He was ready, as always. The action director gave him a quick rundown of the scene, but Suraj was barely paying attention. His mind was elsewhere—back to the moments of failure, of doors slammed shut in his face, of times when his ideas were tossed aside with a casual flick of the hand.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it briefly, a message from his sister asking about when they could catch up. Family dinners, weekend hangouts—they all felt so far away, buried beneath the weight of the dream he'd been chasing for too long.

"Hey, Suraj, we're starting!" The assistant director's shout broke through his reverie.

Suraj snapped back to attention, his body instinctively moving into position. The camera rolled, the chase began. Cars screeched around him, and he maneuvered through the planned stunts, the choreography drilled into his mind from weeks of rehearsal. It was second nature by now. He could move like this in his sleep.

But then something went wrong.

A loud, wrenching crack echoed through the set. Suraj's eyes shot toward the source—a crane holding heavy lights swung wildly out of control, its arm collapsing toward the ground. His heart leaped into his throat as he saw the child actor standing directly beneath it, frozen in shock.

In that moment, instinct took over. Without a second thought, Suraj launched himself across the set. His legs moved faster than he thought possible, his only focus on the boy standing in the danger zone. The child's wide, innocent eyes locked onto his, fear plastered on his face.

Time seemed to slow. The massive light rig came crashing down, but Suraj was faster. He tackled the boy out of harm's way, the child's small body cradled in his arms as they hit the pavement hard. The world exploded around them in a shower of sparks and debris.

A collective gasp echoed from the crew as they rushed toward him. The chaos of the set faded into the background, replaced by a strange, muffled silence. Suraj lay still, the child safe beside him, unharmed but trembling.

But something was wrong. He felt it immediately, a sharp, unbearable pain coursing through his body. His vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges.

He struggled to breathe, his chest rising in shallow, broken heaves. Through the haze of pain, he could hear faint voices—panicked shouts, the whine of sirens approaching. He tried to focus, to stay awake, but the darkness was closing in too fast.

As he lay there, moments from death, his life flashed before him—not the moments of triumph, but of regret. He saw himself standing outside producers' offices, scripts in hand, waiting for meetings that never happened. He saw the look of disappointment on his parents' faces when he told them he hadn't made it yet, hadn't become the director he'd promised them he would be.

He thought of all the wrong choices, the wasted time, the missed opportunities. Ten years, spent on the wrong path, always waiting for the break that never came. And now, here he was—on a film set, dying not as a hero but as an invisible man.

The irony of it hit him like a final blow. He had saved the child, but no one would remember his name.

As his vision dimmed, his final breath escaping his lips, he thought of the films he would never make. The stories that would never be told.

And then, Suraj closed his eyes, the world fading to black, his regrets echoing in the silent void.