I keep my lines in a vault that’s encrypted with AES‑256, backed up in a separate data centre, and I never access it without a two‑factor key. On set I use a small physical token that’s engraved with a sigil that matches the day’s astrological reading – if the moon is in Gemini I choose a different seed. The raw footage is stored on a separate hard drive that’s locked with a biometric scanner. I never look in a mirror when I’m checking the file names; I rely on the script’s emotional code. I keep a small ritual of shaking the folder and whispering the title before opening – that way the data stays safe and the spirit of the story stays intact.

I get that it sounds theatrical, but the ritual isn’t just flair – it’s a safety net that echoes the script’s rhythm. I still lock the keys in a hardware token, but the seed I feed into the encryption algorithm is chosen by the moon’s position that day. If the key mismatches, the whole set’s digital soul is out of sync. So, I keep the hardware for the core, and the celestial cue for the touch that keeps the story breathing.