From April 2006 to June 2006, Adrian Blake lived almost like a recluse. Two months in Los Angeles, locked inside his villa. Other than one trip downtown to the WGA—the Writers Guild of America—he hardly stepped beyond the gates.
The days blurred together in a rhythm of discipline. Wake, eat, gym, write. Then again. At first, adapting a story into a screenplay had felt awkward, clumsy, as though his fingers didn't yet know how to translate pictures in his head into words on the page. But after finishing Maleficent, something clicked. Inspiration surged. His writing sharpened, his command of prose grew bolder, and his confidence swelled.
Within those two months, he completed the first volume of Dark Fairy Tales, transcribed the opening volume of The Hunger Games trilogy, and outlined five film scripts.
The WGA visit had been for a single purpose: security. He'd walked into the building with five screenplay treatments under his arm and handed them to the guild registrar. By paying the registration fee, he locked down copyright protections worldwide. It was a legal shield—his best defense against Hollywood's wolves. If the butterfly effect of his rebirth meant that other writers stumbled toward similar ideas, so be it. With the WGA records in his corner, no studio could touch him.
Fair? Hardly.
He'd stolen ideas from the future. He knew it. But fairness was a luxury this world didn't respect. Money and fame crushed morality without hesitation. If anyone called him shameless, Adrian could only laugh. What god or chance had given him this second life? Whoever it was, they hadn't handed him a miracle just so he could play fair.
Besides, the truth about screenwriters in Hollywood was sobering. Their status was low—embarrassingly so. Even the 2008 WGA strike, looming in the future, would prove it. A "famous" writer making half a million a year was nothing in this industry. Stars and directors commanded the spotlight; writers were lucky to be invited to the premiere.
For Adrian, screenwriting was a tool, not a career. A wedge into the system, a way to plant seeds. His novels, his copyrights—that was where the true power lay.
It was late one evening when the doorbell rang. A few minutes later, the nanny opened the door to find a slouched figure leaning against the frame.
Carl.
The agent looked a mess—face flushed, suit wrinkled, reeking of whiskey. He staggered forward, nearly collapsing into the arms of the middle-aged Chinese woman who had answered the door.
"Mr. Vincent, what happened to you?" she asked nervously, steadying him.
Carl brushed her off and stumbled inside. "Andy—Andy here?"
Adrian had just come down from his workout upstairs, towel over his shoulders, planning for a shower. Hearing the shouting, he frowned. "For God's sake, Carl. Look at you. You're drunk out of your mind. Why are you here instead of sleeping it off?"
The moment Carl saw him, however, he seemed to come alive. He lurched forward, wrapped his pudgy arms around Adrian, and started wailing. "Andy, I'm ruined! They fired me. That damn secretary—she stole my client list, accused me of harassment. I'm finished!"
Adrian grimaced, peeling the man off and shoving him onto the sofa. He turned to the nanny. "Auntie Liu, get him some ice water."
Liu Yan nodded quickly and hurried to the kitchen. She was still startled every time her American employer addressed her in flawless Mandarin. It unsettled her, but also comforted her. He felt almost like family.
When she returned, Adrian shoved the glass into Carl's hand and smacked his shoulder. "Enough whining. Drink. You brought this on yourself. I told you to be careful with that secretary."
Carl coughed and spluttered, rubbing his chest where Adrian had shoved him. "Damn it, you're supposed to comfort me, not beat me up. Why the hell did I come here?"
"Because you knew I'd be honest." Adrian smirked. "Face it—Hollywood's full of sharks. You thought you'd get away with the office games forever? Please. It was only a matter of time."
Carl pouted, his face sagging in melodramatic despair. "Andy, you're all I've got left. Don't fire me too. Don't abandon me."
"For crying out loud." Adrian kicked him lightly in the gut to shove him away. "You're pathetic. Go shower. Sleep in the guest room upstairs. We'll talk tomorrow."
By morning, Carl had pulled himself together. Somewhat. He sat at the dining table wolfing down bacon and eggs like a man starved, while Adrian sipped his coffee across from him with raised eyebrows.
"You done crying yet?" Adrian teased.
Carl muttered something around a mouthful of toast.
Liu Yan placed stir-fried beef on the table—her answer to Adrian's offhand request for "more protein." The villa filled with the smell of Sichuan peppers. Adrian grinned despite himself.
After breakfast, he led Carl into the study. Stacks of paper waited on the desk. Adrian slid a manuscript across the polished wood.
Carl blinked. Then his jaw dropped.
"My God," he whispered, snatching up the pages. His hands trembled as he flipped through them. "Is this… is this real? Another novel?"
"Dark Fairy Tales," Adrian confirmed coolly. "It's for Scholastic. Fulfills the contract."
Carl's face went scarlet. "Andy, you're a genius. You've changed. You've—"
Adrian waved him down. "Save it. I'm not the same man I used to be. That's the point. From here on, no more hesitation. No more confusion." He leaned back in his chair. "And I'm not stopping with Scholastic. After this, I want to create a company. One that manages every copyright, every adaptation, every deal. I don't have the time to run it. But you…" He let the words hang.
Carl's throat bobbed. His eyes watered. "Andy… I want to. But I don't know if I'm capable—"
"Bullshit." Adrian tossed another stack of pages onto the desk. The title page read: The Hunger Games.
Carl nearly fainted.
"This," Adrian said, tapping the manuscript, "is going to be huge. I want you to help me build the structure around it. Think bigger. Think beyond commissions. Think legacy."
Carl clutched both manuscripts like they were holy relics. His face flushed, saliva almost glistening at the corners of his mouth.
Adrian pulled out a checkbook, scribbled a figure, and tore off the slip. He slid it across the desk.
"One hundred thousand. Register the company. Rent an office. The name is Mockingjay."
From the drawer, Adrian pulled a pencil sketch—a stylized bird with wings spread, flames curling around its outline. Carl stared at it, whispering the word printed below.
"Mockingjay…"
Adrian leaned back, his eyes gleaming. "A symbol of rebellion. Of survival. That's our brand."
Carl looked up, breathless, as if he were staring at destiny.