Wayne stepped out of Professor Anderson's office and crossed the street to the café just off campus.
He ordered a coffee and settled into a window seat, the script tucked under his arm like a loaded weapon.
Outside, students drifted past in waves—laughing, rushing, lost in their own stories.
Wayne's thoughts, however, weren't in the present. They drifted backward, across oceans and decades.
Though he'd lived in Greater Los Angeles for twenty years, memories from the other side of the Pacific still clung to him like film grain. In his previous life, he'd stumbled upon Cinema Paradiso as a child. That single film cracked something open inside him. He became a projectionist, spending over a decade immersed in cinema—until illness cut his career short.
Bedridden, he found refuge in film noir. He watched obsessively, letting the shadows and ambiguity of those stories fill the void. Even in sleep, he dreamed in chiaroscuro—black and white, light and shadow.
Then, as if by divine recalibration, he was reborn into a healthier body and a better life. At age five, he moved with his parents to a farm in Ventura County.
His father wasn't wealthy, but the family was comfortable. Wayne had access to everything he needed to learn and grow.
He wasn't naive. He knew what he wanted and pursued it relentlessly. Private schools, film books, expensive reels, rented equipment—his education wasn't cheap.
But his parents believed in him.
His mother often took him to visit old friends on film sets, letting him observe the industry up close.
Becoming a director wasn't just a dream—it was a calculated pursuit.
And now, it was finally beginning.
"Wayne! You called just in time. I almost forgot about you, Mr. Movie Director," said a voice behind him.
A sharply dressed young man pulled out the chair across from Wayne and sat down. He looked polished, confident, and slightly amused.
"Waiter, I'll take a latte," he said, then turned back to Wayne. "So, what's up?"
"Jimmy, I'm graduating," Wayne said. "And I'm starting my first feature film."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. He'd first approached Wayne during junior year, fresh out of the CAA mailroom. He'd heard whispers about a quiet film student with serious talent and jumped at the chance to sign him. Wayne had been reserved, but his work spoke louder than any pitch.
"What kind of film?" Jimmy asked, taking a sip of coffee. "Is it another one of those... experimental shorts you used to make?"
His tone was skeptical, but Wayne didn't flinch.
Jimmy had once believed in Wayne. Or at least, he'd believed in the idea of Wayne—the quiet prodigy Professor Anderson swore was destined for greatness. But after signing him, Jimmy's enthusiasm had cooled. Maybe Wayne wasn't a creative genius. Maybe he was just a brilliant student with a taste for the obscure.
He'd seen Wayne's experimental shorts. They were drenched in unsettling imagery, cryptic symbolism, and themes so bleak they made Jimmy squirm. He'd stopped returning calls. Stopped checking in. Wayne had gone silent too—until today.
"It's not that kind of experimental film," Wayne said, sensing the skepticism. "This time I've written a full script. A real feature. It's for my graduation project."
Jimmy leaned forward. "You're making a feature? Wayne, I need to be honest with you. This isn't like your short films. You can't do it alone. You'll need a full crew. Who are you hiring?"
Wayne's gaze didn't waver. "I'll reach out in a few days. I need the basics—lighting, makeup, props, set design. I'll handle the camera myself. I'm not looking for industry veterans. Just professionals who know their craft. I can't afford prestige."
Jimmy exhaled. "CAA has everything you need. So you're building your own crew? Going fully independent?"
"That's the plan," Wayne said. "But first, I need to raise funds. I'm hoping a company will invest. I'll direct, but I know the odds."
Jimmy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Wayne's confidence bordered on delusion—but it was grounded in preparation. That made it harder to dismiss.
He downed the rest of his coffee, pulled out a few bills, and tucked them under the cup.
"Alright. Call me when you're ready. I've got other meetings."
Without waiting for a reply, Jimmy stood and walked out of the café.
Wayne watched him go, unsure whether Jimmy thought he was brilliant—or insane. He finished his drink, left his own payment under the cup, and stepped outside.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he glanced at the document bag on the passenger side. Inside was everything—his script, his plan, his future.
And it was all riding on whether anyone else could see what he saw.