Wayne's stomach growled in protest. He glanced at his watch—it was well past lunchtime.
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out two sandwiches he'd made that morning. With one in each hand, he stepped out onto the narrow balcony and sat down in front of his typewriter. Outside, pedestrians passed by, some eating on the go. Wayne took a bite, watching them absently, then turned his attention to the blank page.
He cracked his knuckles and began typing the title of his graduation project: Happy Death Day
[Terry, who was brutally murdered on her birthday, wakes up still alive. At first, she thinks it was just a nightmare. But as the day unfolds, everything mirrors the dream—right down to her death. Again.]
[Whether it's a gift from God or a cruel joke from Death itself, Terry finds herself trapped in a loop. Each time she's killed, she wakes up again on the morning of her birthday. Again, and again. The only way out is to uncover the identity of her killer. If she fails, she'll remain stuck in this endless cycle of death and rebirth—forever.]
Wayne paused, reading the paragraph over. This was the first film he'd ever planned—his earliest concept. The production costs were modest, and the time-loop structure wasn't exactly groundbreaking. Love, family, repetition—these were familiar tropes.
But he didn't see that as a weakness.
Innovation was risky. Familiarity, when handled with precision, could be powerful. And Wayne wasn't chasing novelty for its own sake. He was chasing impact.
He knew the tropes well—Hollywood's so-called "rotten routines." But he also understood their power. Familiar structures, when executed with care, could form the backbone of a well-crafted dark horror comedy. That was exactly what Happy Death Day aimed to be.
He chose the project for practical reasons:
Clear commercial appeal
Low production costs
A small cast
Minimal demands on acting range
In truth, performance was often shaped more by the director's emotional guidance than raw talent. Unless an actor was wildly off-mark, it was hard to judge objectively. Wayne wasn't chasing Oscar-worthy performances—he was chasing atmosphere, rhythm, and control.
The film had proven itself in his past life. It wasn't a fluke like The Blair Witch Project or Paranormal Activity, which leaned heavily on clever marketing and distribution gimmicks. Wayne's challenge wasn't to replicate hype—it was to execute the story with clarity and intent. He knew that even with the same script, the final product could vary wildly depending on who sat in the director's chair.
---
For a full week, Wayne threw himself into the work. He lived like a ghost in his own apartment—ordering burgers and pizza when hunger struck, crashing in bed when exhaustion took over. He wrote feverishly, only to sometimes pause mid-sentence and reconsider a scene's logistics. Could it be shot on location? Would the lighting work? Was the pacing right?
He revised the script again and again, each version closer to the vision in his head. Finally, after countless edits, he leaned back and stared at the pages in front of him. It was the most faithful version yet—one that balanced narrative, budget, and production constraints.
Satisfied, he pinned the script aside and opened a fresh document.
It was time to write the project proposal.
Wayne knew no studio would invest in a first-time director with no credits. This film would be self-funded, self-managed, and self-directed. But that didn't stop him from laying it all out—scene breakdowns, budget estimates, shooting schedules. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.
---
When he woke up the next morning, the stale scent of sweat clung to him like a second skin.
He shook his head and trudged into the bathroom. The water ran hot as he scrubbed himself clean, then reached for the razor. In the mirror, a tired young man stared back—tall, lean, and weathered by sleepless nights.
At 1.85 meters and just under 80 kilograms, Wayne had the build of someone who trained without vanity. His muscles were smooth and defined, his face angular and firm. The traces of his Jewish heritage were faint, almost invisible. What stood out was the quiet intensity—the aura of a man who didn't need to speak to command attention.
In this life, his appearance was a gift. It balanced his reserved nature, drawing people in without effort. Around campus, girls weren't drawn to soft charm—they liked strength, grit, and mystery. Wayne had all three.
After dressing in a clean shirt and jacket, he grabbed his script and drove straight to Professor Anderson's office.
He knocked twice, politely.
"Knock knock."
Anderson looked up from a stack of papers and gestured toward the sofa. Wayne stepped inside, poured himself a cup of coffee from the familiar pot, and settled in to wait.
The script wasn't long—just twenty pages. Anderson read in silence for over ten minutes, then set it down and took a sip of cold coffee. He moved to sit beside Wayne.
"I haven't seen you all week," he said with a warm smile. "Did you head back to the farm to visit your folks?"
Wayne shook his head. "No, I stayed in the apartment. Barely stepped outside. I've been working on my graduation film. You know how much this means to me."
Anderson nodded, his expression serious. He'd always admired Wayne's discipline—his quiet drive and relentless focus. From the moment Wayne entered USC, Anderson had taken a special interest in him. They shared more than just a heritage—they shared a belief in hard work.
"Of course I know," Anderson said, pointing to the folder on the coffee table. "Is that it?"
"Yes," Wayne replied. "I brought it hoping you'd take a look. I've been refining this plan for a long time."