Luke Simmons had graduated two years before Wayne, finishing near the top of his class.
But in Hollywood, talent alone wasn't enough.
In the years since, he'd only managed to land work through classmates' introductions—bouncing between crews as an assistant director, never staying long enough to make a name for himself.
When Professor Anderson told him Wayne was looking for an assistant director—and would also give him the rare chance to be deeply involved in a film's production—Luke didn't hesitate.
He pushed open the door of the café and spotted Wayne at a corner table.
They knew of each other, but had never worked together.
Luke took in the younger man's sharp focus, then glanced down at himself—baggy suit, no tie, scuffed leather shoes.
The professor hadn't been wrong: Luke's career wasn't exactly thriving.
"Luke? I'm Wayne. The professor should've filled you in," Wayne said without preamble. "Here's the deal—you can be my assistant director, but I also need a crew coordinator. You'd handle both. The pay won't be high; my budget's tight. Is that a problem?"
"No problem," Luke replied. "I can start anytime. Want to see my résumé?"
He slid a folder across the table.
Wayne skimmed it—various crew credits, mostly as an AD or in support roles. Not glamorous, but it meant Luke had seen how a feature film came together.
"I trust your ability," Wayne said. "And I trust the professor's recommendation. Any questions or concerns? Now's the time. Once we start, we won't have much room to stop and talk."
Luke met his gaze. "Wayne, I know your reputation—excellent grades, hard worker, a generalist. I'm not here for the paycheck. I'll coordinate the crew, handle field duties, even the grunt work. But I need your word the film will be finished. No half-measures. And I want to be involved all the way through—production and post."
Wayne considered it. "Fair enough. Here's the studio packet and the script attachments. Read them, call me, and we start tomorrow."
Luke nodded. He knew the coordinator's role was vital but thankless—handling logistics, smoothing over problems, keeping the machine running.
Most people with ambition avoided it.
Luke didn't care. He needed the experience.
The next day, Luke arrived at Wayne's apartment.
"Sorry about the mess," Wayne said, handing him a bottle of water and clearing videotapes and clothes off the sofa. "I can't afford an office, so this will have to do."
"It's fine," Luke said. "You're lucky to have the funding at all. Looks like you've already got most of the crew. What's first?"
"Have you read the script? It's locked—no more changes. You've been on other sets, so you'll know this list." Wayne handed him a printout. "It's the camera gear I need. Shop around, get quotes, find the cheapest reliable rental house."
Luke took the list. "Alright. Give me your apartment number—I'll call if anything comes up."
Wayne nodded and returned to his storyboard sketches. Equipment rental was a major expense, and prices varied wildly. Every dollar saved mattered.
Luke headed out, scanning the list as he walked.
He'd read the script the night before. It didn't fit the mold of a mainstream film—and that worried him.
But a job was a job, and this one might finally get him closer to the kind of credit he'd been chasing.
The script Wayne was working on opened with the protagonist's death, killed again midway through, and wrapped in an old-fashioned time-loop mystery.
A darkly comic horror with noir undertones—catnip for niche fans, but hardly a mainstream crowd-pleaser. The budget was small, and Luke knew it.
If Wayne had been aiming for a studio-friendly blockbuster with this money, it would've been pure fantasy.
Luke wasn't optimistic about the project's commercial prospects, but the chance to be deeply involved in a feature film was too rare to pass up.
Wayne didn't care what Luke thought.
His focus was on the storyboard—camera setups, scene flow—and on keeping in constant contact with Jimmy about casting and crew.
Frustrated, he raked a hand through his hair, set down his pencil, and decided to step out for cigarettes.
The pressure was mounting, and he was on the verge of reviving an old habit from his previous life. He knew it wasn't good for him, but it helped him clear his head.
"Hey, you don't look so good. You're looking a bit haggard. You smoke leaf cigarettes? Trust me, boy, that's not a good habit."
The voice came from behind as he locked his door.
"No, I don't touch that stuff," Wayne said, turning to see his neighbor, Ms. Watts. "Maybe just regular cigarettes to take the edge off. I'm heading downstairs to grab a couple of packs. Got plans today? Want to have a coffee?"
She arched a brow. "At your place? You sure you've got coffee in there? Not those ridiculous little leafs? Hmmm... Well… I'm free. Might be heading back in a few days anyway. Maybe Hollywood's not for me. Maybe I should just go back to commercials and TV gigs."
She'd misunderstood his tone, but she hadn't said no. That was enough. Wayne unlocked the door again and gestured her inside.
"Sorry about the mess. I've been too busy to clean."
He started scooping up clothes from the sofa and floor, dumping them into the washing machine.
"Oh my God—your place looks like it's been hit by a dozen burglars," she said, hands on hips. "Too busy doing what? I hardly see you leave. Maybe you should show up at school instead of locking yourself in here. Where do you keep the garbage bags?"
She found one herself and began tossing in fast-food wrappers, pizza boxes, and empty bottles.
"I'm graduating soon," Wayne explained. "Wrote my own script. Been prepping to shoot it. Managed to get funding, too. And thanks for helping clean up—you're pretty good at it. Most of the pretty girls I know wouldn't bother."
She smirked. "Is that a compliment? You think I'm beautiful? Let me give you some advice—next time you invite a girl over, clean the place first. No woman's going to roll around with a guy in a pigsty, even if he's handsome."
She tied off the garbage bag and set it by the door.
Was she beautiful? Absolutely. Blonde hair, long legs, a slim waist, curves in all the right places, and a face that could stop traffic. What struck Wayne most was how her look aligned perfectly with the refined, almost sculpted beauty prized in Eastern aesthetics. In his previous life, he'd seen her on screen—larger than life.
"Of course you're beautiful," he said. "You've clearly worked to keep in shape. Up close, you're… well, stunning. Oh—sorry. I'll make the coffee."
When he returned with two mugs, she was wiping down the coffee table with one of his ripped T-shirts. Satisfied, she sat on the sofa.
"Alright, I didn't think you actually had coffee in here. You said you're shooting your own script? Let me see it. I've been around a few sets—I can tell if it's got something."
Wayne watched her take a sip, her lips catching the light. It was… distracting. He forced himself to look away, grabbed the script, and handed it over.