The set of Midnight Scream
Luke stood in a warehouse converted into a film studio, the cold cement floor pressing against his soles. The air was thick with fine dust, illuminated by the harsh glare of spotlights, leaving nowhere to hide.
He ran his fingers lightly over the prop refrigerator, feeling the congealed fake blood on its surface—sticky, with a sweet, metallic stench. No need to ask; it was obviously loaded with too much corn syrup.
This was the hallmark of a '90s B-movie horror flick: raw, unpolished, with a reckless, in-your-face energy. It reminded him of those 2025 "cult classics" that film buffs dug up for laughs, with blood splatter as bright as ketchup.
In the corner of the studio, props were piled haphazardly: severed limbs tossed in cardboard boxes, a fake skull with dusty eye sockets, and blood-stained white shirts hanging on wire hangers, looking like they'd been pulled straight from a slaughterhouse.
A few crew members crouched on the floor, tinkering with an ancient camera that clattered like it might fall apart any second. The director, Larry Stern, was barking at an assistant who'd splattered fake blood on his new leather shoes.
"Donaldson!" the assistant director bellowed through a chipped megaphone. "Your wrap scene's been moved up! We're shooting the fridge shot today. Get to makeup, now!"
The set was chaos. A lighting tech teetered on a ladder, adjusting the rigging for a blood bag explosion. The makeup artist chased after the lead actress, clutching a bottle of glue to attach a pair of fake breasts—because the script called for a close-up of her "head" in the fridge, still looking "sexy as hell."
Luke glanced at the prop fridge. The silicone prosthetics sat alone inside, glowing an eerie pink under the stark lights.
"What the hell kind of surreal nightmare is this?" he muttered, shaking his head.
In his past life, working on The Wandering Earth 3, a single spaceship prop took a team three months to perfect. This scene felt like plummeting from a sci-fi epic into a low-budget farce.
"First time shooting a decapitation scene?" a raspy female voice teased from behind.
Luke turned to see a woman with short, purple-black hair leaning against the wall, smoking. She wore a black leather jacket, its cuffs worn shiny, and a silver septum ring glinted coldly in the light. She held a clapperboard scrawled with messy scene numbers.
It was Alice, the crew's only female script supervisor. From his predecessor's memories, he knew she was a film theory student, stuck on this lousy set just to earn college credits.
"First time shooting something this bad," Luke said, taking the cigarette she offered—a strong Camel that hit hard. He lit it, exhaled a slow ring of smoke, and added, "Didn't Larry's last film have a title like Texas Chainsaw Kindergarten Massacre? I read a review somewhere that said it used more blood than plot."
Alice choked on her smoke, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Holy crap, you've seen it? That was Larry's 'masterpiece.' Sold 70,000 VHS tapes, mostly because of supermarket discount bins." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm here to study bad movies. This one's practically a textbook case of… awful."
They exchanged grins, the smoke curling between them, a silent bond forming over their shared sense of being above this trainwreck production.
"All units, attention! Action!" Larry's voice boomed from behind the monitor.
Luke snapped into character. He stumbled into the makeshift kitchen set, his steps unsteady, like someone reeling from shock. His trembling fingers reached for the fridge handle—unlike the audition, this time there were real props, precise camera angles, and the shadow of the actress's fake head looming nearby.
But the real magic was in the details. When his fingertips brushed the fridge door, he didn't pause dramatically as the script demanded. Instead, his touch was subtle, almost tender, like caressing a lover's skin. As the door swung open, his pupils contracted with frame-perfect precision: 0.5 seconds of shock, eyes widening; 1 second of confusion, brows furrowing as he processed the surreal sight; then, 1.5 seconds of twisted fascination, a barely noticeable smirk tugging at his lips.
"Cut!" Larry's head popped up from behind the monitor, irritation written all over his face. "Donaldson, are you deaf? Make it bigger! The audience is here for a horror movie—they need to see you scared shitless!"
Luke didn't budge, just looked at the director calmly. "Can I see that take?"
Larry grumbled but waved for the assistant to replay the monitor. On the screen, Luke's performance was like a coiled viper—quiet but deadly. When he delivered his rewritten line, "Who… dressed you up so pretty?" his voice was a soft whisper, his eyes radiating a chilling tenderness. Even the sound guy holding the boom mic flinched.
The producer, usually silent, leaned toward Larry, whispering just loud enough for Luke to catch a few words: "…better than anything we've shot… that look, it's got The Shining vibes…"
Larry's scowl deepened. He stared at the monitor for a long time before waving irritably. "One more take! Do it your way, but make it meaner!"
By the third take, the studio was dead silent. Luke walked to the monitor and saw the cinematographer give him a discreet thumbs-up. The shot of him smiling at the "girlfriend's head" in the fridge was a haunting masterpiece. The sidelight cast deep shadows under his eyes, and the faint twitch of his lips suggested a psychopath barely containing his glee—or savoring a perfect work of art.
"This isn't B-movie acting," Larry muttered through his cigar, smoke curling around him, his expression unreadable. "You on drugs or something? How'd you suddenly get this good?"
"Just did some research," Luke said with a shrug, his tone casual. "I read that real serial killers get a dopamine rush at crime scenes."
The young screenwriter, who'd been quietly taking notes, snapped her head up, pushing up her glasses. "You read the FBI's Criminal Psychopathy Report?"
"Bathroom reading," Luke said with a grin. In truth, it was from the behind-the-scenes featurettes of Mindhunter Season 2 on Netflix in 2025. He'd dug through every piece of research for a crime project back then.
Larry slammed the table, cigar ash flying. "Rewrite the script! Make his character the hidden mastermind! Last ten minutes, reveal he's behind all the murders!"
Luke raised an eyebrow and chimed in, "That's gonna cost extra."
At lunch, Luke crouched in the fire escape, chewing a cold sandwich. The ham tasted off, and the bread was stale—clearly from a cheap convenience store. Alice slipped over, handing him an ice-cold beer.
"You made the lead actress cry," she said, leaning on the railing with a gleeful smirk. "She thought she'd get the most close-ups, but now Larry's bumped your shot from three seconds to thirty. She's bawling in the makeup room."
Luke took a swig of beer, the cold liquid easing his exhaustion. "She's lucky I didn't go with my original plan. I was gonna suggest Larry add a scene where her head's a taxidermy trophy in the killer's bedroom, with a different wig every day."
Alice burst out laughing, her purple-black hair bouncing. "Damn, you should be a writer. Way better than this garbage script."
"Working on it," Luke said, pulling a battered copy of Fight Club from his backpack, bought from a secondhand bookstore. The pages were covered in dense notes—character psychology breakdowns, pacing suggestions, and red-circled lines of iconic movie dialogue from his memory.
Alice glanced at the cover and scoffed. "That book? Saw it in the school library. Heard it sold like crap. The publisher's basically bankrupt."
"Wait till the movie comes out," Luke said, his eyes glinting with certainty. "Ever heard of Brad Pitt? He'd lose his mind for this role."
"You know Pitt?" Alice raised a skeptical brow.
"Soon," Luke said with a cryptic smile.
The afternoon shoot went full chaos mode. Larry, like a man possessed, scrapped the original plan and added a scene of Luke dissecting a body. The prop team scrambled, hauling in plastic organs that looked like bright toys. The makeup artist, slathering fake blood on his hands, whispered, "Larry's never let anyone change the script. You're the first."
In front of the camera, Luke's scalpel sliced through the fake chest with surgical precision. His eyes were focused, calm, almost enjoying it, as he hummed Singin' in the Rain—the cheerful tune clashing eerily with the gore. When he placed the "kidney" in a glass jar, his fingers trembled just enough, like an artist perfecting a masterpiece.
"Holy…" The cinematographer gasped, his camera wobbling.
The producer grabbed his phone, shouting loud enough for the whole studio to hear, "Johnny! We gotta recut the trailer! Put Donaldson's shots in! This is Silence of the Lambs-level stuff! It's gonna sell!"
By wrap, Luke's scenes had ballooned from five to twelve, and the shooting schedule stretched from seven days to fourteen. The assistant director handed him a new contract, looking stunned. Luke glanced at the final page, a handwritten clause making his lips curl: "Creative consultant, additional $2,000."
In the cramped dressing room, Luke wiped fake blood from his hair with alcohol wipes, the sharp smell stinging his nose. The door slammed open, the cheap wood groaning. Martin Cole's cologne—a mix of cheap aftershave and sweat—hit like a toxic cloud.
"You think you're real smart, huh?" Martin hurled a copy of Variety at Luke's face, the corner scraping his chin, leaving a red mark. A small article in the magazine's corner read, Midnight Scream Set Uncovers Genius Actor. No names, but anyone could guess who it meant.
Luke picked up the magazine, flipping to the piece with a lazy flick. "Wow, didn't think we'd get press before the premiere. Larry's PR team's on fire."
"Listen, you little punk," Martin growled, grabbing his collar, spit flying. "You signed a full agency contract! I get 15% of everything, including that damn consultant fee. Don't try to screw me!"
Luke pried Martin's fingers off, his grip calm but firm. "Contract clause 7C: If the agent doesn't secure the job, the actor's earnings are exempt from commission." He flashed a shark-like grin. "Want me to pull out the contract or just recite the California Actors Guild complaint line?"
Martin's face turned the color of spoiled liver. "You think one B-movie's gonna make you? I know every casting director in town. I can blacklist you tomorrow, and you'll never work in Hollywood again!"
"Funny, I know a few people too," Luke said, tossing an envelope from his backpack onto the table. "Like Susan Wright from The New Yorker. She's working on a piece about agents forcing actors to sleep with clients. She'd love your 'success story.'"
The envelope held his predecessor's "insurance"—copies of emails where Martin arranged for young actors to attend private parties, some explicitly mentioning "meeting investor Charles's special requests." The handwriting was messy but damning.
Martin's pupils shrank to pinpoints. His trembling hands grabbed the papers, his face ashen.
That night, Luke stood at his apartment window, gazing at Los Angeles's twinkling lights. The Hollywood sign loomed faintly in the distance, a beacon for dreamers.
On the table lay three trophies: a fresh Midnight Scream contract supplement, ink still wet; Martin's shaky signature on a termination agreement; and a library photocopy of Fight Club's copyright registration, complete with publisher contacts.
His pager buzzed with a message from Alice: "Larry cut your shots into a sizzle reel and sent it to Fox Searchlight. Get ready to be famous, you psycho."
Luke tossed the pager onto the bed and opened his notebook. The first page read "1999 Opportunity List," with a checkmark next to the first item:
Ditch Martin. Secure Fight Club adaptation rights: Pending.
His reflection in the window showed blue eyes like ice-cold gems under golden-brown curls, sharp and composed. The figure in the glass seemed to raise a toast. He picked up his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in the moonlight.
"To Hollywood," he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet, world-shaking resolve.