Flawless.
-How about we play a little? – Monica said, noticing the party starting to stir as people roused from their lull.
-What kind of game? – Billy asked.
-It's simple: we seduce a woman and bring her to bed with us. – Monica said, looking at Billy. It wasn't exactly strange—far from it. With Monica, things were always real, and when she made a point, it was with that signature arch of her eyebrow, a gesture that seemed to define her limits.
-How do you want to have fun?– Billy asked, weighing her words, feeling them arrive from different corners of his mind, while reality hovered like something necessary yet distant.
-Let's pick a target, and we both play. – Monica said, stumbling slightly. A recent conversation with the models lingered in her mind—something about how Billy might one day pursue younger women, whether he needed to or not, drawn to their ability to fulfill his dark desires. She knew she had to propose something bolder and then ease into it gradually.
-You're a little drunk, honey. What's going on in that head of yours? Did someone say something to you? – Billy asked.
They were both surrounded by the increasingly detached sound of the music. It drifted closer with a strange ease, and before they knew it, it faded completely—no songs left, no rhythm, nothing but the strange silence that fills a room when pleasure wanes.
-I just want to have fun, and I know for a fact you like it when I kiss other girls. At first, I thought you were into submission, but that's not it… You're too traditional for that kind of thing. Though you do like it when I melt for you.– Monica said.
-That's not it… I just like knowing what you actually enjoy. Monica, you're not submissive—you like to ride. But when you kiss women… when I see you kissing another woman, you're always burning up. You turn into a demon. – Billy replied, knowing full well that it would backfire. He already had a huge problem with Anne, who somehow drove him mad with her intensity and her constant, urgent need for him.
-I reject that. – Monica said, not knowing what else to say about the needs that seemed to plant themselves between them. And in that sequence, they both tried to ignore the cracks forming in their relationship. They moved a little closer. Their breaths mingled, noses brushing—intimate and privileged—yet in that moment, what good was such a privilege if it only served to help people forget their own indignities?
-What can we do? – Billy said.
They took a trip to San Jose the next morning, leaving the conversation behind, forgotten.
March 17
San Jose. An American town where people draw closer even while denying parts of their identity. When people refuse themselves, and conclusions burn with a kind of quiet calculation. Breathing in those books—even if the words felt far away—there was still a strange detachment.
-So we've got a long day ahead. – Billy said, spinning in his chair, finishing the review of several scripts emerging from deep within his archives—thousands upon thousands of scripts. He pushed his system to the limit, feeding it with memories of thousands of stories. As the plots blurred together, a storm of ideas formed. Some scripts were clearly over-edited by unskilled hands—cut down too far or bloated past usability.
-Undeserved.– Anna Washington commented, the stack of papers in her hands fully identified and processed. She managed every heartbeat in her mind, digesting each word and line. Now she wanted to see these stories in full color, with characters made real—simpler to digest, maybe, but not stripped of weight or truth.
Billy shook his head. Thousands upon thousands of words. He marked notes with his pen, trying not to look like a high school science teacher, but failing miserably. Every script in his hands demanded focus. He thought maybe he needed glasses, but that would be for another time. He was stuck to the pages of books—his own, and those of others who now saw him as an authority. He found himself reading a horror story, perfect for October, about a man trapped inside a portrait—how he got there, the magic and misfortune of becoming someone else's reflection. Philosophical.
-I like this one. – he said, holding up the story James Mirror, the Mirror James—a 70-minute film about thousands of characters, diverse and full of emotion in every scene. Who had written it? Agatha Quentin. Even her name sounded like a well-known author. He marked it as approved, thinking it could easily be published as a short novel and adapted into an animated film, neither too strong nor too mild. She was clearly a brilliant writer. He backtracked and picked up another of her scripts—a detective story for children. Clearly written for an audience under ten, but full of talent. She had it—undeniably.
-This one too… I think we've found our future writer.– Billy said.
Anna looked up, her heart-shaped face framed by tired eyes, the wear of corporate life weighing on her.
-But you take a break. I'll finish up here. –She said, noting the clock: five in the afternoon. – I'll notify the team we've approved two new scripts. I'll read the rest tomorrow—leave them on the table. -
She sent the documents to the archives with a gesture of approval, hoping everything would unfold into a promising series.
Stretching her body, she took a long drink of water. The next chapter would be intense: the first book of the Silo trilogy, followed by Angels of the Night 1 (of 5), and finally Pantheon, which would be meticulously crafted with the help of scientists and academics. This time, it would be about cloning, nuclear weapons, historians, and specialists in ethical dilemmas—happy to earn extra income, now officially on their payroll.
-Thanks for everything, Mr. Gorman. – Billy said, glancing over at Gorman, who was watching the rest of the employees. Some were packing up to leave, others sat at their desks, fully immersed in their work—unfortunately for them, since nobody really wanted to rack up overtime.
-I'm a big fan of taking my grandkids to see the movies your studio makes. – Gorman said.
-Then I hope we never disappoint you. – Billy replied with a smile. His mind made quick calculations—this man probably had a category C income, meaning he earned over $50,000 a year. Likely around $60,000. According to employee records, a category B salary ranged from $80,000 to $120,000, while category A salaries ranged from $120,000 to $200,000. Only a few reached that level. Animators earned commissions on top of category B wages, and only seven executives had category A salaries—Anne among them. But Anne earned over $200,000.
-Looks like we're headed for the Oscars. – Gorman said.
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