Rain lashes against rusted studio walls. A “DEMOLITION IN PROGRESS” sign hangs half-ripped on the gate. Inside, flickering flashlight beams cut through the dark.
Grace (softly, breathless): “You sure this place isn’t condemned?”
Matthew (smirking): “Everything worth finding usually is.”
They step over broken chairs and vintage props, soaked and shivering, until a cracked steel door creaks open to reveal a vault of forgotten films.
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