Jack Sullivan woke to the drip-drip of his apartment's leaky faucet and a headache that felt like a low-budget horror flick playing on loop in his skull.
The couch creaked under him, a reminder of his broke-ass reality in this parallel Los Angeles—a city that looked like his old world but felt like a knockoff, minus the good movies.
Yesterday's insanity still clung to him: dying in a Chicago crash, waking up as a failed indie director, and that bizarre Sign-In System handing him Shakespeare's Sonnets like it was trolling.
He groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Day two of my cosmic prank. Awesome."
The notebook on the coffee table was open to his sketch of a "Before Sunrise"-style short film: two strangers, a pier, a night of raw conversation under the stars. It was his shot to claw back from oblivion, to pitch something real to this Marty guy today and dodge the eviction notice burning a hole in his pocket.
$1200 due by Friday, or he'd be couch-surfing in a city that already thought he was a joke.
His flop," The Last Bus", still haunted him—critics had shredded it like confetti, calling it "a snooze-fest with delusions of grandeur." Jack snorted. "At least I had delusions."
He grabbed his phone, checking the time: 10:17 AM. Five hours until the 3 PM pitch at Marty's office in some sketchy strip mall.
He googled Marty Klein, Producer—a balding guy with a shark's grin, known for low-budget action flicks like ThunderSquad. Reviews called him "a penny-pincher with a nose for profit but no taste."
Great. Jack needed a miracle to sell a talky romance to a guy who probably thought Love Puppy was high art.
Ding!
The system's robotic voice jolted him: "Sign-In System activated. Claim your daily reward."
Jack's stomach flipped. "Oh right, I went to bed early last night. I didn't even open the chest."
He sat up, wary. Yesterday's sonnet fiasco had left him skeptical—this thing was either his ticket out or a one-way trip to crazytown. The golden interface flickered, a glowing chest labeled Today's Reward pulsing like a Vegas slot machine.
He hesitated, muttering, "If it's Macbeth, I'm done."
His finger tapped the chest, and light spilled out, softer this time, like a spotlight warming up.A tingling surged through his hands, and his fingers twitched like they had a mind of their own.
His brain buzzed with images: pencils scratching paper, storyboards blooming with angles, close-ups, and pans. He grabbed his notebook, and his hand moved like it was possessed, sketching a pier scene with fluid precision—a low-angle shot of two lovers, stars framing their silhouettes.
Jack dropped the pencil, staring. "No way. I can't even draw a stick figure."
The system's voice chimed: "Storyboard Mastery acquired. Visualize and sketch cinematic scenes with professional precision."
Jack blinked, a grin creeping up. "Okay, system, you're redeeming yourself." Storyboards were gold—directors lived by them, and his pitch to Marty would look legit with visuals.
He flipped through the notebook, now filled with crisp drawings: a couple laughing on a bench, a slow zoom on intertwined hands. It wasn't Titanic's budget, but it screamed heart. He could sell this.
His phone buzzed—a text from Landlord: No more excuses. $1200 by Friday or your stuff's on the curb.
Jack's grin faded. "Yeah, yeah, I'm working on it."
He showered, threw on a wrinkled button-up that screamed "trying too hard," and headed out, notebook under his arm.
The LA streets buzzed with wannabe stars and food trucks, a billboard for "ThunderSquad 2" looming like a bad omen. Jack's pitch was a long shot, but failure wasn't an option—not with Shakespeare's ghost haunting his brain.
Marty's office was in a strip mall between a vape shop and a nail salon, its sign reading Klein Productions in peeling vinyl.
Inside, the place smelled like cheap cologne and broken dreams, with posters of "ThunderSquad" and "Ninja Beach" plastered on the walls.
A receptionist with neon-pink nails barely looked up. "Jack Sullivan? He's running late. Sit."
Jack sank into a plastic chair, clutching his notebook. His leg bounced, nerves gnawing at him.
What if Marty laughed him out?
What if "The Last Bus" was all he'd ever be? He flipped open the notebook, tracing the storyboards.
The sonnets, useless as they seemed, had sparked the dialogue—a line like "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments" woven into a lover's confession. It was poetic, raw, something this world's schlocky films lacked.
The door swung open, and Marty Klein strode in—short, balding, with a grin like he'd just sold a lemon for a Ferrari. "Sullivan! The Last Bus guy. Heard that tanked harder than a submarine."
He plopped behind a desk cluttered with energy drink cans. "What's this pitch? And make it quick—I've got a Ninja Beach 2 meeting in twenty."
Jack swallowed, his mouth dry. "It's a short film. Two people, one night, falling in love while wandering the city. Think raw, real, like they're the only ones in the world. No explosions, just heart."
He slid the notebook across, open to the storyboards. "I've got the visuals mapped out."
Marty raised an eyebrow, flipping through the sketches. "Fancy drawings. You hire an artist?"
"Nah, that's me," Jack said, the storyboard mastery tingling in his fingers. "It's low-budget—one location, two actors, minimal crew. I can shoot it for ten grand."
Marty snorted. "Ten grand? I could make ThunderSquad 3 for that."
He leaned back, eyeing Jack like a poker player sniffing a bluff. "
Why should I bet on you after that Last Bus disaster?"
Jack's gut twisted, but he leaned in, channeling every ounce of grit. "Because this world's drowning in cyborgs and talking dogs. People want real stories. This film—it's love, loss, the stuff that sticks. And I've got the words to make it sing."
He quoted a sonnet line, tweaking it: "Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks fade."
It sounded cheesy, but Marty's eyes flickered, intrigued."Poetic," Marty said, tapping the desk. "But shorts don't sell. You got a feature in you? Something I can pitch to streamers?"
Jack hesitated.
A feature? He was barely holding it together for a short.
But the system's glow lingered in his mind, a promise of more. "Give me this, and I'll deliver a feature next. Something bigger—like a love story on a doomed ship."
He was thinking Titanic, but that was a pipe dream for now.
Marty studied him, then grinned. "Alright, Sullivan. Five grand, and you're on a leash. One screw-up, and you're done. Deal?"
"Deal," Jack said, heart pounding.
Five grand was peanuts, but it was a start. He shook Marty's hand, the producer's grip like a vice.
As Jack stepped outside, the LA sun hit him like a spotlight. He'd done it—barely. Now he needed actors, a crew, and a miracle to pull this off. His phone buzzed with a coffee shop notification—open auditions nearby for some indie gig.
He headed over, curiosity tugging at him.The coffee shop was packed with hopefuls clutching headshots.
Jack slipped in, scanning the crowd. A woman with auburn hair and sharp green eyes caught his attention, reading lines with a quiet intensity that cut through the chatter. She wasn't performing—she was living the words. Jack's director instincts, or maybe the system, pinged.
She was good. Really good.
He didn't approach—too soon, too broke—but he jotted a note: Auburn hair, green eyes, audition. Maybe she'd be his lead. For now, he had a film to make, a landlord to dodge, and a system that thought poetry and storyboards were his salvation.
Jack smirked, muttering, "Alright, universe. Let's see if I can direct this mess."