The morning sun slid lazily over the rooftops of West Hollywood, painting the stucco walls and glass windows with an amber glow. Inside a modest but stylish apartment tucked on the third floor of a newly renovated building, Adrian Knight stirred awake. His clock showed a little past eight. For Los Angeles, that was still early enough to be forgiven for grogginess, especially for someone who had been up past two a.m. reading scripts and answering calls from producers who couldn't decide whether they wanted him at the table or not.
The knock at the door was abrupt and insistent. Three sharp raps, followed by another two. Adrian groaned into his pillow. Whoever it was had no respect for a man's weekend mornings.
He dragged himself to the door, his T-shirt wrinkled and hair standing at odd angles. When he opened it, he was greeted by none other than Nicole Kidman.
"Nicole?" Adrian blinked in surprise. "What's wrong? Is something the matter? Couldn't you have just called me?"
The Australian actress stood there, tall and poised even in casual jeans and a loose blouse. But the faint crease on her forehead betrayed agitation.
"I needed to talk to you in person," she said, stepping past him before he had time to protest.
Adrian scratched the back of his head. "Alright, alright. Make yourself comfortable. Drinks are in the fridge. If you want coffee, you'll have to brew it yourself."
Nicole stopped in her tracks, arching a brow at him. Is this how he treats his clients? she wondered, but before she could voice her thought, Adrian had already disappeared down the hall into the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the apartment.
She sighed, taking a seat on the couch. The apartment was minimal but not bare, shelves stacked with film journals, a wall dotted with framed festival posters, and a desk in the corner littered with scripts. Adrian Knight was not the type to impress clients with luxury. He believed results spoke louder than décor.
More than ten minutes later, Adrian emerged, freshly shaved, hair combed, and wearing a clean shirt. He looked far sharper, the kind of man one could believe belonged at the negotiating tables of Hollywood.
"Alright," he said, settling into the chair opposite her. "What's so important you had to knock on my door at sunrise?"
Nicole folded her arms. "The test screening, Adrian. The test screening. You were the one who told me about it! Warner Bros' viewing event for Dead Calm."
Adrian glanced at his watch and leaned back casually. "That's tonight, Nicole. Still early. You can relax. And maybe don't doubt my professionalism while you're at it."
Her sigh was half frustration, half relief. "I've been signed with you for over two weeks now, and you haven't even called once to check on my career."
He tilted his head. She wasn't wrong, not entirely. Nicole wasn't the only client he had left mostly to their own devices. Steven Soderbergh, the lanky young director who had recently joined his roster, was in the same boat. Adrian wasn't neglectful out of malice. He simply knew when to push and when to wait. In a city bursting with talent, overexposure was as dangerous as obscurity.
"You're impatient," he said flatly, then rose and disappeared briefly into his study. When he returned, he carried a thin stack of papers.
"Here," he handed them to her. "A romantic comedy Disney is cooking up. I'm optimistic about it, and I'm working on a way in."
Nicole's green eyes scanned the first page. "This can't be the full script."
"It's not. Disney doesn't hand out complete scripts at this stage. This is an early treatment. It'll go through revisions before it ever lands in production."
She flipped through the pages, chewing her lip. Hollywood was brimming with projects, and every actress in town wanted a lead role. Without connections, even the most beautiful or talented could vanish into the background.
"I heard you actually bought a script yourself," she said suddenly, her tone tinged with curiosity.
Adrian smirked. Word traveled fast. "That's for development. My own project. Right now, I don't have the resources to push it forward."
What he didn't say out loud was that he was biding his time. He was new to CAA, still building his reputation. But once Soderbergh's Sex, Lies, and Videotape landed at Cannes, his credibility would skyrocket. Timing, in this industry, was everything.
Nicole leaned forward, clutching the Disney pages. "For this one… can you help me get an audition? At least that?"
"Of course," Adrian said, his voice calm but firm. "I've been studying this project closely. Trust me, you'll have your shot."
The actress exhaled, visibly lighter.
Adrian stood, smoothing his shirt. "Now let's go get something to eat. And afterward, I'm taking you to get a new look."
Nicole blinked. "A new look?"
"Yes." He gestured at her hair. "That perm. It doesn't suit your face or your frame."
Her hand shot to her curls defensively. "Is my hairstyle really that bad?"
"It's not bad," he admitted, "but it's wrong for you. Hollywood isn't just about talent; it's about packaging. Trust me."
She tilted her head, studying him. "You know, Adrian, you have a sharp eye. Why not develop yourself as an artist instead of staying behind the desk?"
He chuckled. "Because I can't stand being ordered around. I'd rather orchestrate than perform."
By noon, they had driven down to a sleek styling salon off Melrose Avenue. The interior smelled of hair sprays and shampoos, filled with the murmur of gossiping stylists and the soft hum of blow dryers.
Adrian gave a few brief but precise instructions to the stylist, his vision already mapped out in his head. Then he turned to Nicole. "You get your hair done first. I'll swing by later to pick you up."
"Alright," she said reluctantly, settling into the chair.
Adrian slipped out, adjusting his sunglasses against the bright Los Angeles sun. His stomach growled, but instead of heading for food, something else caught his attention: a small video rental store across the street. The bright posters taped to its glass windows advertised the latest VHS releases. Curiosity tugged at him, and he crossed the street.
The little shop smelled of dust, cardboard, and faintly of popcorn. Rows of shelves lined with VHS tapes stretched neatly, categorized by genre. Music occupied another corner; vinyl records, cassettes, and shiny new compact discs.
Adrian wandered at first, scanning titles. Then a sharp "Ha!" followed by a "Ho!" caught his ear. The sound came from a television set perched on the counter. Someone was playing a kung fu film.
Intrigued, Adrian approached. Behind the counter sat a lanky young man, his features strikingly unusual, almost cartoonish in their exaggeration. His attention was glued to the screen where a Shaw Brothers film unfolded in vivid punches and kicks.
The clang of metal against wood echoed from the television. Two martial artists locked in combat, fists flying, robes swirling. Adrian leaned on the counter, watching for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the young man manning the register.
The clerk finally noticed him and fumbled upright, brushing crumbs from his shirt. "Hey there, sir. Can I help you find something?" His voice carried a mix of politeness and distraction, as though torn between duty and obsession.
Adrian offered a small smile. "Didn't expect to hear Shaw Brothers kung fu in West Hollywood. Thought I'd stumbled into a dojo."
The clerk's face lit up. "You know Shaw Brothers?" His grin was wide, almost boyish, revealing his crooked teeth. "This one's Five Fingers of Death. Man, I could watch it a hundred times. Nothing like that raw, fist-to-flesh action."
Adrian chuckled, folding his arms. "They're good. You know, in terms of film exports right now, Hollywood is number one. But Hong Kong? It's sitting at number two. Not bad for a city of six million people."
The clerk tilted his head, surprised at the depth of knowledge. Most customers barely glanced at the labels. "You're into this stuff?"
"Sort of," Adrian replied, extending a hand across the counter. "Adrian Knight. Agent, Creative Artists Agency."
The young man's eyes widened. He clasped Adrian's hand, shaking it with enthusiasm. "You're wait, CAA? Really? No kidding!"
"That's right." Adrian sized him up now that he was closer. The man couldn't have been much past his mid-twenties. His clothes were cheap, his hair shaggy, and his face far from Hollywood handsome. Yet there was something alive in his eyes, a restless intensity that no uniform job behind a counter could contain.
"Name's Quentin Tarantino," the clerk said, puffing slightly with pride. "Film enthusiast. Movie junkie. Hell, movies are my life."
Adrian raised a brow. "I can tell. Working here gives you front-row access. Smart move, you get paid to watch movies."
Quentin laughed, scratching his chin. "Yeah, I guess so. Beats flipping burgers, right? At least here I get to talk about cinema all day. And hey, I sneak in some writing between shifts."
Adrian leaned in slightly, intrigued. "Writing?"
Quentin hesitated, as though revealing a secret might jinx it. "Scripts. I mean, rough ones. A couple of short films too, nothing anyone's seen. But yeah, I've been hammering out ideas. Dialogue, characters, all bouncing around in my head."
The agent studied him carefully. Hollywood was full of dreamers, men and women who scribbled on napkins, claiming their stories would change the world. Ninety-nine percent never made it past the rental store counter. But there was a certain spark in Quentin's voice. A conviction that made Adrian pause.
"You ever think about showing them to someone?" Adrian asked.
Quentin's eyes flickered with both hope and suspicion. "Well… you guys at CAA, you promote scripts too, right?"
"Of course." Adrian's tone was matter-of-fact. "Two months ago, I championed a young director's film, Sex, Lies, and Videotape. It caught fire at Sundance. Next stop: Cannes."
Quentin's jaw slackened. "That's you? I read about that in Variety! You're the guy pushing Steven Soderbergh?"
Adrian allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "That's right. Sometimes it's about spotting the right voice before anyone else does."
For a moment, Quentin just stared, his mind clearly racing. Then he blurted out, "I've got two scripts. Not polished yet, but the bones are there. You wanna see them?"
Adrian didn't flinch. He had heard variations of this a hundred times. But this one felt different. Something about the way Quentin's words tumbled out, not desperate, not begging, but burning with certainty, made him curious.
"Sure," he said smoothly, reaching into his pocket for a business card. He placed it on the counter. "When you're ready, give me a call. Let me read them. If they're any good, I'll help promote them."
Quentin stared at the card as though it were a golden ticket. "You serious?"
"Dead serious." Adrian's gaze held firm. "And if it works out, if I can sell the script, maybe even get financing, then who knows? I might support you in directing one day."
The words seemed to electrify Quentin. He almost bounced on his heels, his grin stretching ear to ear. "God, you don't know what this means. I swear, I'll have both scripts ready next month. You'll get the first look."
"What's your dream, Quentin?" Adrian asked suddenly, curious to hear it in the man's own words.
"To make movies," Quentin said without hesitation. "Not just any movies, movies I love. Ones that'll stick, that'll punch people in the gut, make them laugh, make them squirm, make them think. I want to write dialogue that crackles, stories that bleed. I don't just want to watch movies. I want to make the kind of films people will be quoting thirty years from now."
Adrian regarded him in silence for a long beat, then clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "One must have dreams. Don't let them rot behind this counter."
Quentin swallowed hard, nodding.
"You'll see my name in the papers soon enough," Adrian continued. "Sundance, Cannes. Look for me. And when you're ready, we'll talk."
"Damn right we will," Quentin said, almost breathless. "This—this is the break I needed."
He insisted on walking Adrian to the door of the shop, thanking him half a dozen times along the way.
"Prepare your scripts carefully," Adrian reminded him, adjusting his sunglasses as he stepped into the sunlight. "I'll support you in becoming a director. I believe in you."
"See you soon, Adrian!" Quentin called, waving like they were old friends.
"See you," Adrian replied with a nod before turning away.
Out on the street, the agent paused, pinching his cheek lightly as though testing if he was awake. Nicole Kidman, an ambitious actress with fire in her eyes. Steven Soderbergh, an indie director about to set Cannes ablaze. And now Quentin Tarantino, a video store clerk who might just have the makings of a genius.
Adrian's lips curved into a slow smile. Perhaps his luck was finally turning. Then he returned to the hairstylist.
While the stylists worked, Adrian's mind moved elsewhere. He thought of the Disney script, of Warner's nervous executives, of the constant maneuvering at CAA and ICM. Hollywood was less an industry than a battlefield, and Adrian had no interest in being a foot soldier. He was here to command armies, to shape destinies his own and others'.
Two hours later, Nicole emerged transformed. Her hair had been cut into a sleek, shoulder-length style, layered to frame her face with elegance and subtle power. The timid ingénue was gone; in her place stood a woman who could command attention.
Nicole touched the mirror, astonished. "I....I don't even recognize myself."
"Good," Adrian said simply, rising to his feet. "Neither will the casting directors. And that's exactly what we want."
She turned to him, eyes wide with a mix of gratitude and disbelief. "Adrian… I don't know how to thank you."
He adjusted his cufflinks, already moving toward the door. "Don't thank me. Just be ready. Hollywood doesn't forgive hesitation."
They left the salon, the afternoon sun throwing long shadows across the sidewalk. Adrian's mind was already racing to the next move. But fate or perhaps luck was about to intervene.
"Where to now?" Nicole asked, trailing slightly behind him.
"Bar," Adrian said, almost absently.
She blinked. "Bar?"
"Yes."
Nicole tilted her head, confused but intrigued, as Adrian raised a hand to flag another cab.