"Phase one is done. No point in playing it slow now."
The night I got back to the villa, I didn't even bother taking off the suit. I just ditched the tie on the sofa, rolled up my sleeves, and went straight to work.
For the next three months, I basically turned into a hermit. Aside from one quick trip to the Writers Guild to register some titles and a few days spent deep in the archives of the downtown library, I was glued to my desk.
My housekeeper, Eleanor, was definitely concerned. I overheard her telling a friend that I didn't look like I was writing a screenplay—I looked like I was declaring war on time itself.
Honestly, the worst part about the '90s isn't the fashion—it's the tech. Dealing with DOS and a screen that flickers enough to give you a seizure is a special kind of hell. My "mobile" phone was basically a plastic-wrapped brick, and the concept of a search engine was still a fever dream.
If I needed a fact, I had to find a book. If I wanted to double-check a line, I had to dig through my own head. I spent a week just training my fingers to survive the aggressive, clunky rhythm of a typewriter. The clack-clack-clack was the only soundtrack to my life for weeks.
But in that silence, I realized something: my memory was a cheat code.
Every script I'd ever watched, analyzed, or bitched about in my past life was right there. If I closed my eyes and focused, the plot beats, the character arcs, and the killer dialogue surfaced like they were being downloaded from a cloud server in my brain.
It was terrifyingly efficient.
Three months. Six completed scripts. Ten solid outlines.
When I finally ripped the last page out of the machine, I slumped back in my chair and took a breath that felt like it reached my toes.
"Alright," I muttered. "Let's see if Hollywood is ready for a reality check."
Lucas Reed double-checked the address on the gate before pulling his car over.
Rich neighborhood. Massive villa. High-end security.
It didn't add up. People living in places like this didn't usually stay up all night grinding out scripts for a paycheck.
He walked up and rang the bell. A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman opened the door and gave him a quick once-over.
"Can I help you?"
"Lucas Reed, from Universal," he said, handing over a business card. "I have a meeting with Ethan Walker."
The woman's face cleared. "Oh, right. Please, come in. Mr. Walker is expecting you all."
All?
Lucas paused.
When he walked into the living room, his stomach did a slow roll. There were three other guys already sitting on the leather sofas. He recognized them instantly: reps from Warner Bros, Fox, and Disney.
This wasn't a "meeting." It was an ambush.
"Hey, Lucas," Noah Bennett from Disney said, raising a coffee cup with a smirk that was way too smug. "Glad you could join the party."
The other two nodded, looking just as annoyed as Lucas felt. He sat down, his mind racing. Is this kid just arrogant, or does he actually have something worth the circus?
Ethan Walker was sitting across from them, looking entirely too relaxed for a guy in a room full of industry sharks.
"Care to explain, Mr. Walker?" Lucas asked, cutting straight to it. "I assumed this was a private look, not a group audition."
"Why waste time?" Ethan smiled. It was a friendly smile, but his eyes were sharp. "I've spent the last few months writing, and I figured I'd see who was actually looking to make a move. I didn't expect you all to show up at the exact same time, but hey, efficiency is key, right?"
The room went quiet for a beat.
"You wrote multiple scripts?" Lucas asked.
Noah just gestured to the air, his expression saying it all. The reps from Warner and Fox looked equally stunned.
That's when it clicked for Lucas. Ethan hadn't sent the same script to everyone. He'd sent different ones. And every single one of them had been good enough to get a scout to drive out here.
That shouldn't be possible.
Lucas had read the one sent to Universal: 10 Things I Hate About You. It was a high-school rom-com with a killer hook and a rock-solid structure. It was a guaranteed money-maker if they found the right lead.
But looking at the other guys, he realized they weren't there for a teen flick.
"I'll be honest," Lucas said, taking a breath. "Your teen comedy script is incredibly polished. It's mature work."
As soon as the words left his mouth, the other three reps shook their heads—almost imperceptibly.
Not teen comedies.
Lucas felt his pulse jump. This wasn't a lucky break from a newcomer. This was a flex.
The four scouts traded quick looks. They were pros—they knew how to play the game. If they were going to talk numbers, they had to keep the "new guy" in his place.
"We appreciate the hustle," Lucas said, shifting into professional mode. "But look, you're an unknown. You don't have a track record. The absolute ceiling for a spec script from a new writer is $35,000."
Noah from Disney winced slightly at the lowball but nodded anyway. "It's a fair price. Very standard for a first-timer."
Ethan looked at them, tilting his head as if he were doing some mental math. He frowned slightly.
"It's definitely on the lower side," Ethan mused.
Lucas leaned in. Here it comes, he thought. The haggling. The ego.
"But honestly? Whatever," Ethan said, flashing a grin. "I'll take it."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Lucas actually blinked. He had a whole list of counter-arguments ready to go, and they were all stuck in his throat. It was too easy. Suspiciously easy.
Then, Ethan reached down and placed two thick manila folders on the coffee table. He did it slowly, with the kind of confidence that makes people stop breathing.
"Since we've got the boring stuff out of the way," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a smooth, casual cadence that commanded the room. "Would you guys mind taking a quick look at these two while you're here?"
Thud.
Lucas, Noah, and the others stared at the folders like they were live grenades.
Nobody spoke.
But they all knew the same thing: the power in the room had just completely shifted.