The studio smelled like dust and half finished ambition. Not failure, just delay. Wires coiled on the floor like lazy snakes, a whiteboard sagged under scribbled notes that no one had erased in months. Cassie was in the booth, pushing her voice higher, while Adriana sipped espresso and paced the control room like a woman waiting for a bus that might never come.
Ade leaned in the doorway, one arm folded, the other holding a cup of black coffee. He wasn't trying to look important,just present.
"She's better than she thinks," he said.
Adriana glanced over, half smiling. "She's got pitch. Needs confidence. That's harder to teach than breath control."
"That's most of life, isn't it? Everyone pretending not to flinch."
Adriana tilted her head. "You always talk like you're narrating something?"
"Only when it's quiet enough to hear myself think."
She rolled her eyes, but there was amusement behind it.
The door opened, and Christopher stumbled in. Jacket reeking of cigarettes and cheap cologne, eyes bloodshot. He dropped into a chair like it was owed to him.
"Cassie still in the booth?" he muttered.
"She's wrapping the chorus," Adriana said crisply.
Chris rubbed his face. "Dreamt Pacino was yelling at me last night. In Italian. At my mother's house. He was in a tuxedo and a neck brace."
Ade raised an eyebrow. "Eat something weird before bed?"
Chris snorted. "Just regret."
Cassie finished her take. The engineer signaled. Adriana stepped in, headphones on, listening sharp. Ade lingered. Chris lit a cigarette, ignoring the NO SMOKING sign taped to the wall.
"You ever write anything?" Chris asked suddenly.
Ade sipped his coffee. "Why?"
"You listen like a guy who's written something. Not just stories. Like you're seeing a movie the rest of us can't."
"Maybe."
Chris exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "I had this script once. Pitched it to this hollywood jackass. Half memoir, half bullshit. Didn't hear from him in a week or so. Next thing I know, parts of it are in a bargain-bin DVD with the guy from Third Watch."
"Ever try again?"
Chris scoffed. "What for? So some hack can wear my scars?"
Ade shrugged. "What if I told you there's a way to make something fast, cheap, scary. No names. No sets. Just fear."
Chris squinted. "Like snuff films?"
Ade smirked. "Handheld. Found footage. A group of kids goes into the woods to make a doc. They vanish. All that's left is their camera."
Chris blinked. The idea punched through his hangover.
"That's… that's something."
Adriana had been half listening. Now she turned fully.
"It's called The Blair Witch Project," Ade continued. "We sell it like it's real. Missing posters. Fake police reports. Viral websites. No monsters, no CGI. Just paranoia."
Chris tapped his cigarette nervously, but his eyes lit up. "That's the kind of thing you could shoot with ten grand and a pizza budget."
Adriana leaned against the console, arms crossed. "Or it's just another excuse for you to spin your wheels."
Chris bristled. "You don't get it."
"No, I do," she shot back. "You're chasing sparks, hoping one catches before you burn out."
Ade cut in, voice calm. "Fear is cheap. Belief is priceless. You make people question what's real, they'll never shake it. That's the hook."
Chris stared at him, then laughed. "Jesus, you sure you're not a shrink?"
Ade grinned faintly. "Would a shrink hand you the best horror movie idea of the decade?"
Even Adriana cracked a smile.
Later that night, Ade's burner buzzed. Dino.
"Carlo brought in Martucci and Lesko," Dino said.
Ade rubbed his temple. Those weren't freelancers, they were predators.
"Eyes only. No engagement unless it's clean."
He hung up, mind spinning. For a moment, the tension felt like debugging code at three a.m.—lines of logic, pressure points, elegant sabotage.
Two quiet calls. That was all. By morning, Martucci's rental was impounded. Lesko's motel got slapped with a fire code inspection.
No blood. Just stress. Just pressure.
Dino called back, half impressed. "You move like a ghost, Ade."
Ade didn't answer. But he felt the corner of his mouth curve. Pressure, when applied just right, was art.
Two nights later, Chris pitched the found-footage idea to Tony at the Bing.
"It's not another mob flick," he said quickly, as if Tony had already started shaking his head. "It's raw. Cheap. Real. Kids with a camera. They disappear. Only thing left is what they shot."
Tony sipped his espresso, unreadable. "And this was your idea?"
Chris hesitated. "Well… Adriano mentioned it. The quiet kid. Gym guy. Poker face."
Tony set the cup down slowly. "Bring him to me. Tomorrow. I wanna hear it from him."
Chris nodded, trying not to grin.
Outside, he lit a cigarette, hands trembling. For the first time in years, he felt like he had something worth chasing.
"If this works," he muttered to the night air, "maybe I still got a shot."