The light of a fading Hollywood afternoon bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the executive suite, casting long, distorted shadows across the polished concrete floor. Outside, the low, ever-present hum of the city was a dull roar, a soundtrack to a world perpetually plugged into something else. Inside, the air was different. It smelled of expensive cleaning products, high-end leather, and the rich, dark scent of freshly brewed coffee.
A vintage silver carafe sat between two men, a thin wisp of steam still curling from its spout. On the low glass table between them, dwarfed by the scale of the room, lay a stack of printed pages.
The cover sheet was stark, bold text against white: JURASSIC PARK. It was covered in a frantic constellation of highlighted passages, scribbled notes in the margins, and exclamation points that looked like they'd been stabbed onto the paper with sheer, unadulterated awe.
Martin Berg, a man whose tailored suit usually fit him like a second skin, was out of his chair, pacing a tight, restless circuit. He ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair.
"Jose… I'm not just saying this. That kid, Sael VT… he's a freakin' genius." Martin stopped, pointing a finger at the script as if it were a holy text.
"I'm talking… I'd have sworn only gods could write something like this… The pacing, the spectacle, the sheer, primal fear of it… was immaculate…"
Jose Caseras, the calmer of the two, took a slow, deliberate sip from his porcelain mug. The warmth seemed to center him.
He nodded, his eyes distant, seeing something far beyond the walls of their struggling studio.
"He's not just smart, Martin," Jose said, his voice a low rumble.
"He's also quite kind... we sat with him, and he's… calm. Confident, sure, but never arrogant, despite knowing he have the upper hand…. It's unnerving. He handed this marvelous script over," he gestured with his cup toward the billion-dollar idea sitting on the table, "like he was giving us a spare pencil... Like it wasn't the key to saving our entire goddamn company."
A laugh burst out of Martin, a sound of pure, incredulous relief. Jose joined him, a rare, genuine smile cracking his weary features. For a moment, the crushing weight of their failing box office numbers and panicked investors lifted. In this sun-drenched room, with this script between them, there was hope.
Jose's thought to himself, 'If this movie hits… if we actually pull this off… Panamic Vision might not just survive. We might actually rise again. We might be kings.'
Martin shook his head, the laughter dying down to a bemused chuckle. "You know what's crazy? He doesn't even act like someone who needs us…. It's like… he's already seen the future, and he's just letting us have a peek..."
Jose set his mug down with a soft clink. He looked at his friend, his partner, his expression turning solemn yet deeply amused.
"That's because perhaps… he has, Martin," Jose said, a note of profound certainty in his voice.
"Remember, Meteor Studio already leading the gaming industry… and they were there basically unchallenged despite changing the current flow of the industry…. Perhaps he was doing the same for the movie industry…"
The conversation drifted from awe into a quieter, more profound admiration. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by the dawning, terrifying reality of the responsibility they now held.
"You look at his track record," Martin mused, sinking back into his chair and staring at the ceiling.
"It's not a list of projects; it's a path of destruction through every conventional idea we had about this business…. Silent Hill redefined horror games…. Space Marine made military sci-fi feel new again… He also plucked Millie from a damn usual stream and turned her into the biggest music sensation in a decade…. And the novels… it's like he has a direct line to a different, better universe."
"He's not afraid of giants," Martin concluded, a note of respect hardening his voice. "He walks right up to them and challenges them. And he wins. Every single time."
Jose picked up the Jurassic Park script, feeling its weight. It felt heavier than paper had any right to be. He held it for a moment, then set it down with a soft thud, leaning back into his seat as if exhausted by its potential.
"That's the thing that gets me," Jose said, his voice softer now.
"He's too generous. With this? He could've owned us… He could've demanded every last point of gross, taken control of the studio, and we would have had to say yes. We're that desperate. But he didn't. He's partnering with us. He trusts us." Jose looked directly at Martin, the weight of that trust settling heavily between them.
"That kind of trust… we can't fail him, Martin... We can't, if we do… I doubt that we will ever have the same chance ever again…". Jose said.
"Hah! I am sure that is the case," Martin replied with a smile mix with nervousness. The mood in the room grew solemn, the earlier levity sucked out by the gravity of their mission.
Beyond the closed door, the low hum of the office had taken on a new, excited frequency. Assistants whispered over their terminals, casting glances toward the executive suite.
Word had spread like wildfire through the company's internal channels: Sael VT was here. He just left a new project with the bosses.
On a large wall screen, a paused news broadcast was still displayed. It showed Sael's face, caught mid-smile, under a blazing chyron that read
"THE YOUNG TITAN WHO SHOOK ENTERTAINMENT."
Martin grinned, a spark of the old fighter returning to his eyes. He picked up his cold coffee and drained it in one gulp. "Then we better not screw up the next masterpiece."
The heavy door to the executive suite hissed shut, muffling the world of billion-dollar ideas and desperate hope. Out in the sterile, air-conditioned hallway, the sound was replaced by the gentle whir of climate control and the distant, tinny echo of music from someone's open workstation.
Clint Avery, a junior data analyst with ambition that far outstripped his paycheck, froze mid-step. He was clutching a stack of quarterly performance reports—a litany of Panamic Vision's failures—so dull they felt like lead in his arms.
He'd heard it. Just a snippet, a fragment of conversation caught as the door sealed. But the words were unmistakable, electric.
Martin's voice, clear and charged with excitement "...Sael VT's new movie script is going to make history."
And before that, another phrase, one that sent a jolt through his body "Project…dinosaur?"
The words hung in the air. Sael VT. Jurassic Park. The most potent names in entertainment right now, attached to something else. Clint's eyes widened. The gears in his mind, always calculating angles and advantages, began to turn at a furious pace. This wasn't just office gossip. This was a seismic event, and he was the only one standing on the fault line, and clearly, he can capitalize on this.
His expression, once bored and placid, hardened into something sharp and opportunistic. His eyes flicked toward the emergency stairwell, a concrete echo chamber where private conversations could be held.
As if on cue, his personal phone buzzed in his pocket, a violent vibration against his thigh. He didn't need to look to know who it was. A contact listed only as "K-Star PR."
Clint ducked into the stark, gray stairwell, the door swinging shut behind him with a metallic clang that echoed up and down the shaft. He lifted the phone to his ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Yeah. It's me," he said, a smug smile playing on his lips. "I've got something big. Sael VT. Jurassic Park. You'll want to hear this."
*******************
The digital whisper was a spark in a field of dry grass. It traveled at the speed of light, zipping through encrypted corporate servers, blinking onto high-resolution news feeds, and exploding across social media forums. In a world saturated with hyper-curated content, a genuine, unconfirmed mystery was the most potent drug of all. And in the polished, predatory halls of Hollywood's Big Six.
The news anchor's holographic smile was blindingly white.
{"—and the rumor mill is in overdrive this afternoon! An anonymous source claims wunderkind Sael VT, is already is perhaps on his possibly next project. Details are scarce, but there is source that Sael VT is talking with one of the Big Six, Panamic Vision…about Project Dinosaur"}
The feed cut to a frenzied panel of "experts" speculating wildly.
{"Prehistoric sci-fi horror? Is it a metaphor for government overreach?" }
{"Could it be a bio-punk revisionist history?"}
In a sleek, minimalist boardroom high above the smog-choked sprawl of Los Angeles, the Mouse Walt Studios logo—a stylized, grinning rodent in a top hat—glowed softly on the wall. An executive, his face a mask of tight-controlled fury, slammed a tablet onto the obsidian conference table. The sharp crack echoed in the sound-proofed room.
"Project Dinosaur?" he spat.
"What the hell does that even mean? Some kind of themed resort? A documentary?"
Across town, in the opulent, old-world offices of Warner Sisters, the two eponymous siblings were having a less contained reaction.
"I told you we should have offered him a blank check! And invited him here!" one sister hissed, pacing before a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city. Her stiletto heels clicked a frantic tattoo on the polished marble.
The other sister remained seated, swirling a glass of amber liquid. "And how would we find him? Our people went to meet him and be turned around by him before we even get to talk with him…."
The same encrypted report, tagged with the highest priority flag, bloomed on screens at Paramount Video, Universal Media, KONY, and BBC Entertainment. The message was simple, brutal, and terrifying in its implication, Sael VT's next film project: Project Dinosaur?
Low murmurs rose in a dozen different offices, a chorus of unease from the most powerful people on the planet.
"Project Dinosaur, huh…It sounds massive…. The buzz around it, is already organic."
"Panamic is a boutique shop now…. They can't handle a project of that scale. Can they?"
"We can't let that happen…. We can't let Meteor Studio become the new major player in this industry…"
At Universal Media, CEO Jessica Langley leaned back in her ergonomic throne, her sharp eyes narrowed as she scanned the incoming data. She didn't see a movie title; she saw a market forecast, a shift in power, a threat. Her voice was ice cold, cutting through the anxious chatter of her board.
"If that boy releases another cultural bombshell, we're all done…. Clearly, He's not just making movies; he's building a foundation for Meteor Studio…. I don't care what it costs. I want to know what is going on at Panamic Vision… I want to know what a 'Project Dinosaur' is before they even finish doing anything…."
The air inside Paramount Video's main conference room was chilled and still, smelling of recycled oxygen and expensive perfume. The lights were dimmed, the massive central table displaying a shimmering, 3D organizational chart of Panamic Vision. Wana Silverberg, a woman whose reputation was colder and sharper than the surgical steel of her desk, traced a manicured finger through the hologram, highlighting the name at the very top: SAEL VT.
"He's a ghost," she stated, her voice devoid of warmth.
"No public appearances... No interviews... His legal shield, that Beck woman, is a fortress…. His personal life is a black hole of information…. This has to ends now."
She looked across the table not at her board members, but at a man sitting in the shadows, his features obscured. He was stillness personified.
"Put an eye on Panamic Vision… I want them Track... Every single staff member, every contractor, every intern who fetches their coffee…. I want eyes on their physical mail, their data streams, their off-site meetings. I want to know what they eat for lunch. Nothing gets in or out without us knowing."
The shadowed agent leaned forward, a sliver of light catching the cold glint of his ocular implant. A faint, almost inaudible whirring sound accompanied his movement.
"Already operational, ma'am. Their internal comms is being monitored…. Their network security is… robust, but not impervious. We're in their peripheral systems. It's only a matter of time."
Wana's lips curled into a smirk devoid of any humor.
"Good. Let's see if this Sael VT is as untouchable as his lawyer seems to think."
The scene dissolved, cutting to a location that smelled of ozone, burnt coffee, and sweat. An underground server room, humming with the thrum of powerful computers. Banks of monitors cast a sickly green glow on the faces of three hackers, their fingers flying across keyboards.
"Bypassing the last firewall now…" one muttered, chewing on a stim-stick. "Their lead developer is good…. Almost too good."
"Doesn't matter," another said, her eyes glued to a scrolling waterfall of code.
"Everyone has a pattern. Everyone gets lazy."
A soft chime echoed in the room. A progress bar on the central monitor filled to 100%.
"We're in. Pulling file directories now." Data streamed across the screen, a blur of project codenames and assets. Then, one file resolved, its encryption dissolving like mist. The lead hacker whistled, a low, impressed sound.
"Well, I'll be damned…. Panamic Vision….They're making a monster movie." He highlighted the file. The decrypted title glowed in the dark room.
PROJECT: DINOSAUR/ JURASSIC PARK. CLASSIFICATION: EYES ONLY.
"Damn," the female hacker whispered, a grin spreading across her face.
"This is going to be fun."
The meeting wasn't on any official calendar. It took place in a private dining club, all dark wood and deep leather, where the privacy fields were guaranteed and the waiters were androids programmed for discretion. Jessica Langley swirled the wine in her glass, watching the legs slide down the crystal.
"His silence is what worries me the most, Bob," she said, her voice low.
"He doesn't do press. He doesn't give interviews. He just… creates. And then he disappears…. That kind of mystique is a powerful brand-builder. It makes him unpredictable. Dangerous."
Opposite her, Bob Pier, the venerable CEO of Mouse Walt, offered a placid, paternal smile. He looked like a kindly grandfather, a façade he'd cultivated for decades.
"He's clearly just a boy, Jessica…. A very, very talented boy, I'll grant you. He'll slip up. He'll get arrogant, or fall in love, or say the wrong thing to the wrong person. He's making waves, but waves can be calmed."
Jessica set her glass down with a precise click. The kindly grandfather act didn't fool her for a second. She'd seen the corporate carcasses left in the wake of his "calming" operations.
"Calming is reactive. I prefer to be proactive." Her grin was all sharp edges and promised violence.
"If he's making waves, then let's send a few sharks his way. See how long he can stay in the water."
Bob Pier's smile finally reached his eyes, and it was anything but kind. It was the smile of a man looking at a spreadsheet and calculating the most efficient way to dismantle a rival. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Sharks it is."
They clinked glasses, the gentle ting sounding like a death knell in the quiet room. The camera pulled back, leaving them in their cocoon of conspiracy, and panned out through the soundproof window to the glittering, jagged skyline of Hollywood. From this height, the endless streams of neon and holographic ads looked less like lights and more like fangs, glistening in the perpetual night.
Unaware that the water around him was now teeming with predators, Sael VT's black armored SUV glided silently through the canyons of light, just another anonymous vehicle in the endless flow of the city's night traffic. Inside, he was probably thinking about dinosaur animatronics, completely ignorant of the fact that the entire, monstrous machine of the movie industry had just turned its hungry gaze directly on him.
*********************
I was leaned deep into the plush leather, my eyes half-closed, watching Sunday's holographic interface hover just beside my head. It flickered with a steady stream of new messages—offers from networks, nervous inquiries from rivals, thinly-veiled threats from old-money execs who didn't like the new kid on the block, needless to say, me coming to Hollywood and made contact with Heminem and Wayne West simply made many people anxious and also quite upset. I mentally swiped them all away. All of it was just noise to me, not that they can do anything to stop me doing anything I want.
Then, something cut through the static.
Tucked between two blindingly modern chromed towers was a sliver of warm, glowing wood. An old-fashioned music store. The sign above the door, spelled out in elegantly scrolled neon, read "Harmony Strings." It looked like a relic from another century, cozy and honest. A real place in a world of facades.
A low chuckle escaped me. "Stop the car, Sunday."
From the seat opposite me, Ramona straightened up, her professional mask flickering with confusion. "We're on a tight schedule, Sir... We're supposed to go straight to the hotel with no deviations."
"I know the schedule," I said, my voice calm but leaving no room for argument. My gaze was still locked on that warm, inviting window.
"I just want to look…. Five minutes."
The entire three-vehicle convoy glided to a smooth, obedient halt. Ramona let out a quiet, exasperated sigh, the sound of a professional whose meticulous plan had just been gently, but firmly, crumpled. She tapped the comm-piece in her ear.
"Alpha team, hold position…. Bravo, perimeter sweep. Subject is making an unscheduled stop." She gave me a look that was pure, unamused security detail.
"I wonder what is in there…." I grinned, already pushing the door open.
The night air hit me—a mix of expensive exhaust, perfumed oxygen from the city's atmospheric scrubbers, and the distant, ever-present hum of VR arcades. But underneath it all, as I stepped onto the pavement, I could almost smell the polish and aged wood from the shop. It called to a part of me I hadn't visited since I'd woken up in this messed-up, beautiful, terrifying world.
The bell above the door chimed with a soft, physical ding-dong that was utterly alien compared to the digital tones of my world. The air inside was thick and sacred, smelling of lemon oil, old wood, and the faint, metallic tang of guitar strings. It was a temple. Golden light fell from vintage fixtures onto rows of violins, their curves gleaming, and onto the silent, waiting faces of drum kits and keyboards.
I drifted past them all, my security team fanning out by the door, their eyes scanning for threats more mundane than the beauty surrounding us. I looked at the whole wall dedicated to guitars. They hung like works of art, each one a promise of a different sound, a different feeling.
My hand reached out almost on its own, drawn to one in particular. It was a sleek, deep-bodied electric, the finish a dark, blood red that seemed to swallow the light and glow from within. I lifted it from its hooks. The weight was perfect, solid and reassuring in my hands. I ran my thumb across the strings.
"Brrrnnngg."
The sound was raw, untuned, but it vibrated through the body of the instrument and up into my bones. A shiver went down my spine. Without asking, I found a worn stool and sat, crossing one leg over the other to cradle the guitar. I started tuning it by ear, the familiar twists of the pegs, the slight ping of the strings tightening, a ritual as calming as meditation. My mind went quiet. There was just the wood, the wire, and the muscle memory in my fingers.
They moved before I even told them to, finding a familiar shape on the neck. The opening notes of Polyphia's "Playing God" spilled into the quiet shop, crisp and intricate.
The change in the atmosphere was immediate and electric. The soft rustling from my security team ceased entirely. I saw the store clerk, an old man with a feather duster, freeze mid-step, his head snapping toward me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my security glance at each other, their usual stoicism broken by sheer surprise.
The notes came faster now, a complex, flowing tapestry of sound that was both technically insane and deeply melodic. I closed my eyes, letting my hands do the remembering. Each harmonic squeal, each percussive tap on the fretboard echoed through the small space, pure and divine.
I heard the gentle chime of the door again, and again. I didn't need to look. People from the street were drifting in, drawn by the sound, their phones held up, filming silently. The crowd gathered at the doorway, a silent, mesmerized audience.
I built the song, layer upon layer, losing myself in the climb until I hit the soaring, explosive climax. For a final, breathless moment, I held the last chord, letting it sustain and then fade into a ringing silence. And then the room erupted. The spell broke as the small crowd burst into spontaneous, genuine applause. There were whistles and wide-eyed stares.
I exhaled a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, a faint, surprised smile touching my lips. The guitar felt alive and warm against me.
"Guess I still got it," I murmured to myself, the words almost lost in the clapping.
"Clap-Clap! I expected you can play instrument, but the guitar at that level… that was amazing, Sir". Nicole commented as she handed me a tissue to wipe my hand.
"Thanks…just need to Strich my finger… since now that I remember… I never have real instrument…" I wipe my hand.
"That is surprising… Ah! VR instruments, is it?" Nicole scratches her chin.
"Yep… VR studios can easily provide me with whatever I need, the need for physical instrument never really an issue for me…. BUT, at time… you kinda wanted to play them manually…". I said with a smile.
"That I am agree… haha, usually people played the physical instrument... and THEN change to VR instrument…. You on the other hand were the other way around… amazing sir." Nicole complimented me like I was doing something outrageous.
"Well, thanks for the compliment…". Not much that I can say to that, since I Happened to learn and master the instrument thanks to my Skill's and also my genius head that I got from the System and Sunday.
"You… you're Sael VT, aren't you?" she asked, her voice hushed with awe. An elderly woman emerged from a back room, wiping her hands on a cloth. She looked starstruck, her eyes wide behind her spectacles. She approached me slowly, as if I might be a mirage.
"That's what they call me," I said, gently handing her the guitar.
She took it reverently, holding it like a holy relic. She let out a nervous, disbelieving laugh. "My god. You just… you made this old place famous in five minutes, son."
I looked around at the packed shop, the faces still watching me. "Well, it's not what I intended to do…. But if it's help… you're welcome…. Besides, this is a good place. It deserves it." I pulled out my phone and ready to pay.
"I'd like to buy this one. And a case for it as well….".
Her eyes went even wider. "Oh, you don't have to—I mean, of course! Absolutely." She fumbled for a case, her hands shaking slightly.
As she rang it up on an ancient terminal, I felt a deep sense of rightness. This wasn't part of the plan. It was better that she can get a business opportunity thank to me being here.
"Consider it a good omen then… hope you have a great day," I said, finalizing the transaction.
Stepping back out into the neon night, the case solid in my hand, I could still feel the echo of the strings in my fingertips. People on the sidewalk were already humming the melody, trying to capture the tune I'd just ripped from another world. I glanced up at the hazy, light-polluted sky, the constant, buzzing energy of Hollywood Street pressing in as a lot of people were outside the store with their phones out filming me.
"That was fun," I murmured to no one in particular.
"It is, Sir… by the way, the song you played just now, have already been copyrighted by us…". Nicole Stood beside me and told me about her quick work.
"That was quick and very perceptive of you, Nicole…". I compliment her, although it sounded like sarcasm to anyone who doesn't know me.
"I figured, that… the song sounded very new, and knowing I am working with a genius musician like you… and that song is basically complete… I had to adapt and move quickly," Nicole added as she fixed her glasses. And added.
"…And also, thanks for the compliment, though it sounded like a sarcasm, I knew you meant it positively….".
"Looks like you are really a good candidate to be my manager, Nicole," I said and she smiled in response.
I knew that I am a bit eccentric and too carefree. Mostly because I am not in the same mentality of anyone else, although I am basically in the same industry of this world of entertainment. I viewed myself as an outsider, I don't want to comply to their tradition nor box. I am on my own and it would always remain that way. hence having someone that understand my way of thinking really helps me a lot. Nicole was that person for me, which credits to Cassandra and Kate, they really set up a perfect candidate to handle me.
Right on cue, just as I get on the back seat of my SUV, Sunday's calm, synthesized voice chimed softly in my earpiece. "Sir, a priority alert. Panamic Vision's internal servers have experienced a catastrophic data breach the information of your upcoming film project is now circulating on public nets."
The satisfied smile faded from my face, replaced by the cool, analytical mask I usually wears when I am alone. I guess even when you take a lot of precaution, things would always have the way to comes out.
"….That is concerning to hear," Nicole that seated beside me said.
"It is…. Well, more annoying than too concerning to me, actually." I replied to her.
'Sunday… did the information about our acquisition of Panamic Vision leaked?' I concern and asked Sunday for confirmation.
'No, Sir… what leaked is only the data about Project Dinosaur… and the media were hunkering over that news and a lot of movie production companies were looking over that... fearing that Meteor Studio is about to enter the movie industry…' Sunday replied to me inside my head personally.
'If that the case… then, everything is fine then… take some precaution, and delete anything about Project Dinosaur details but leave the name floating on the net… the details, purge it…' I ordered silently.
'Understood… purging complete… I have identified the source of the leak, Sir…' Sunday made a quick work, as I ordered her, and she even found the culprit as well.
'Who is it?' I asked.
'Clint Avery… Panamic Vision, Production team leader, overheard the discussion between Martin Berg and Jose Caseras and then snooped into Jose Caseras computer and obtained the project Dinosaur files… I have obtained the video recording evidence from the CCTV and also the computer log records as well…' Sunday replied to my question with full evidence.
"Great… let them dance a little bit… for now, all that they do is giving us a free publicity…". I muttered on my own.
"Should we do something about it, sir". Nicole looked worried and already clutching her phone in her hand.
"…. Nah, let them be for now…. if things got worse… then we do something about it… for now… just let them be…". I calmed her down, still she looked ready to do something about it.
Nicole asked me to let her report to Cassandra and Kate. Since both of them had to know about this, and I gave her the green light to do so, since those 2 had to learned about this anyway. Secretly I already take action about this so, that is why I am very calm about it. it doesn't bother me anyway, beside thanks to this incident, Sael VT and Meteor Studio will have the continuous buzz and made us looked quite normal in the public eyes, and for the corporate, it made us looked like we also have some vulnerability, it's not good to always looked impenetrable.