"So," he said, "how's it coming along? The script. You didn't really get the chance to talk about it yesterday."
Aren paused mid-bite, eyes flicking up. Last night had been chaos, him in borrowed waiter's clothes, stumbling from one rejection to another, his pitch drowned in mockery until Rex, the only one who'd listened, had bought his script outright. Even now, the memory carried both sting and relief.
Rex continued, his tone was easy, like they were just chatting about the weather. "I read through it last night. Didn't exactly get to hear your side of it at the party. Had too many drunks, too much noise."
Then cautiously replied, "It's… coming together. I've been working on Paranormal for months, rewriting, fixing. It's not perfect yet, but—"
