Rick Dawson walked out of the conference room, the Chainsaw proposal held against his chest like a shield. The envy from the other agents was a palpable force, a wave of silent heat at his back. He heard a hissed whisper from behind him.
"Ovitz just handed him a blank check..."
Rick allowed himself a small, private smile. Let them be jealous. They saw a risk; he saw a goddamn rocket, and he'd just strapped himself to the nose cone.
Three days later, Leo Vance stared into the cavernous emptiness of his wallet. Inside lay a single, crumpled dollar bill and the receipt from the Writers Guild of America. He had successfully registered the copyright and officially joined the Directors Guild. He was now a professional, with all the legitimacy that entailed. He was also flat broke.
On his desk, a student loan statement lay face-up. The number stared back at him, a stark and merciless figure: $58,742. It was a paper anchor, threatening to drag him to the bottom before he'd even learned to swim . The 52-year-old survivor inside him knew this feeling well, but the pressure felt sharper now, amplified by the knowledge of what was at stake. Failure wasn't just an option; it was financial ruin.
"Thinking about how you're gonna spend your first million?"
Marc Riley entered the room, dropping a couple of Cokes on the desk. His cheerful presence cut through the gloom.
A genuine smile touched Leo's face. "Something like that. Did you talk to the others?"
"They're in," Marc said, popping the top on his soda. "Sam's already sketching set designs, Maria says she can do makeup and practical effects on a shoestring, and the twins are ready to handle sound and editing. The whole crew from Static is back together. They're all in on your 'graduation film'."
Leo felt a surge of relief. With Marc as his cinematographer and their trusted friends in key positions, he could form a loyal core. It was a bulwark against the studio-appointed minders Ovitz was sure to install. He needed to control the final product. The 2004 film he was recreating was a masterpiece of tone and tension. Moving it to 1991 was already a risk; letting a clueless producer hack it to pieces would be fatal.
"There's something else," Leo said, his voice lowering. "When we get the investors, I might have to trade my director's fee for final cut."
Marc stopped drinking, his can hovering mid-air. "You'd work for free? Leo, that's insane. The DGA minimum alone is—"
"I don't care about the fee," Leo cut in, his eyes intense. "I'll make my money on the back end. The copyright is mine. This is just the first film. I'm not directing the sequels, Marc. I'm selling them."
Marc stared at him, seeing for the first time the cold, calculating strategist behind the friendly artist. He slowly nodded. "You've really thought this all through, haven't you?"
Before Leo could answer, a shrill, digital ringtone pierced the quiet. He pulled a chunky, brick-like Nokia phone from his pocket. It felt as heavy as a gold bar in his hand (Simile).
"This is Leo Vance."
"Leo, baby! We're in business!" Rick Dawson's voice was electric, buzzing with triumphant energy. "The sharks are circling. Got three production companies biting hard for Chainsaw. I need you in my office. This afternoon."
"I'll be there," Leo said, his voice a mask of calm professionalism that concealed the frantic beating of his own heart. He hung up the phone, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"The investors are in place?" Marc asked, his eyes wide.
Leo shook his head. "Better. We have options. They're fighting over it."
Marc let out a whoop of excitement. "I'll go tell the crew! They're in the cafeteria. Meet us there after!" He grabbed Leo in a brief, bone-crushing hug before bolting out the door, leaving a fizzing, half-empty Coke in his wake.
In the noisy, clattering chaos of the USC cafeteria, five students were huddled around a table, their heads bent in conspiratorial discussion.
"…and I told him, the grit of 16mm film would be perfect, give it that raw, documentary feel," Marc was saying as he slid into his seat. "Guys, I have news."
"Where's Leo?" asked Sam Chen, a brilliant production design student whose perpetually worried expression was at odds with his wildly creative sketches.
"He's on his way to CAA to negotiate!" Marc announced, grinning. "We got three offers!"
A wave of celebration erupted at the table. Beer bottles clinked together.
"I knew it!" shouted Maria, the makeup artist. "That short film he directed, Static? The professors are still talking about the atmosphere he created with basically no budget."
"To Leo!" Sam toasted, raising his bottle. "The only genius who ever made me care about a haunted lamppost!"
The news spread through the cafeteria like wildfire, leaping from table to table on currents of gossip and envy.
At the edge of campus, Pera was walking hand-in-hand with Chad, laughing at something he'd said. A friend jogging past them called out, "Hey, Pera! Did you hear? Your ex, Leo Vance, just got funding for his first feature!"
The laughter died on Pera's lips. The brilliant California sun suddenly felt cold. She was a good actress, but not that good. For a split second, her carefully constructed mask of bored superiority cracked, revealing the raw, ugly envy beneath . She had traded a potential king for a prince, and the king was about to be crowned without her.
"Some little student film," Chad scoffed, squeezing her hand. "Who cares?"
Pera forced a smile, her grip tightening on his arm. "Right," she said, her voice a little too brittle. "Who cares?"