The murmur of conversation in the restaurant was like a low, steady hum—one that kept pressing against the edges of my attention. I wasn't the kind of person who thrived in crowds. The sheer number of people surrounding me—actors, producers, self-proclaimed "industry visionaries," and reporters pretending to be diners—was enough to make my skin itch.
I leaned back in my chair, one leg crossed over the other, and adjusted my cap lower. At least the sunglasses helped.
Despite the chaos, there were two people who actually seemed… calm.
Heminem and Wayne East.
Both had made an entrance loud enough to turn heads, but surprisingly, they didn't crowd me like the rest. They'd taken the table across from mine—still close, but polite enough to give me space. For self-proclaimed hip-hop kings, that was impressive.
I remembered their posts on Chirper from the last week—subtle hints about wanting to "collab with the future." It didn't take a genius to know they were talking about me. Since they'd made the effort to come all this way, I figured I might as well hear them out and give them something.
Without saying much, I picked up my phone, scrolled through a few of my unfinished demo tracks, and selected two files. I glanced at Cassandra across the table.
"Cassandra, can you go there and talk to them," I said simply. "These are samples, for them…. And you'll know what to say."
Cassandra's eyes glinted—sharp and professional. "Understood, don't worry, I'll handled it,"
She stood, smoothing her blazer, and crossed the restaurant with quiet grace. The moment she approached their table, Heminem leaned in with that trademark smirk, and Wayne East adjusted his sunglasses to get a better look at her. Both listened intently when she spoke.
I watched from afar, amused. It was funny how artists—true artists—always moved differently from the suits. They weren't entitled; they didn't act like they owned me just because they were famous. They asked. They respected the work.
That difference was rare. And it stuck with me.
Meanwhile, Ramona shifted subtly behind me, scanning the restaurant like a hawk. Her earpiece flickered once, signaling a private channel.
"Boss," she murmured lowly. "Half the vultures outside are pretending to order food…. I count… twelve hidden cameras aimed through the windows."
"Sunday," I whispered under my breath.
Her voice hummed in my head, smooth and digital. "Confirmed. Twelve unauthorized devices recording in 4K. Most are linked to gossip networks. Should I—"
"No," I said, interrupting. "Let them watch…"
If they wanted a show, I'd give them one, one where I do absolutely nothing, and do what I wanted. This amount of attention probably kinda normal for entertainment figure, and since I've become one, better get used to it.
Across the table, Martin Berg and Jose Caseras sat like men who actually belonged here—no flash, no noise, just quiet composure. Both were in their late thirties, clean suits, calm eyes.
For once, it didn't feel like I was being hunted.
I adjusted my posture and gave them the respect their demeanor deserved.
Martin spoke first, hands clasped loosely. "I have to say, Mr. Sael—Silent Hill: First Fear wasn't just a game. It was… cinematic. When I played it, I could see every frame on a big screen…. It's not just horror—it's narrative art."
I gave him a small nod. "Thank you."
He wasn't wrong. Silent Hill had always been more than just a game—it was storytelling with teeth.
Martin hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. "Would you… consider letting us adapt it? Into a film, I mean."
I didn't reject it outright. Instead, I tilted my head. "I don't see why not. But if it's done, it has to follow proper procedure. No shortcuts. No 'creative liberties.' The soul of the story stays intact…".
He smiled, relieved, but I could hear the nervous edge in his tone. Desperation always carried a certain pitch. His studio was struggling—I could see it in the way his eyes flickered every time he said the word project.
Kate, sitting nearby, noticed it too. I saw the small tilt of her head, that subtle look she gave Martin—the same look a lioness gives before deciding whether to bite.
Martin didn't catch it. He just nodded eagerly, his excitement bubbling over.
"Of course," he said quickly. "We'd follow your guidance to the letter… I think the world would love it, if we give them Silent Hill the movie,"
I offered a polite smile but said nothing more. I'd seen that desperation before. It was the same look every industry man wore when he smelled profit but didn't understand art. Silent Hill : First Fear can be changed or adapted to movie series. In fact, every one of my creations can be turned into movies, because I made it that way, the stories were so meticulously created, that anyone can just take out the script and it was already a fully written script.
Jose Caseras was quieter, but not any less observant. He had the kind of calm that came from years of weathering storms, the composure of a man who'd already made—and survived—too many mistakes.
He leaned back, watching me for a few seconds before speaking.
"Do you any plan to enter the film industry, Mr. Sael?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Hmm…What do you think?"
He smiled. "I think you already have… plans to do so, might not be now… but in the future you would probably storm in,"
I chuckled softly. Not wrong. "Well… Meteor Studio wasn't built to chase markets. We create stories—good ones…. Ones that matter. That's all, But even that's… difficult. Too many people want to control it. To box it in…. but in truth, I don't see why not,"
Jose nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. Martin, beside him, looked at me like I'd said something profound. Maybe I had.
"You're right," Jose said. "Everyone wants to own the next big thing before it's even made…."
"They can try," I said, leaning back. "But Meteor Studio doesn't do leashes, I don't like my stories… my creation be turned into a soulless money-making machine…"
For a moment, silence fell between us. Outside, flashes popped from distant cameras, faint but rhythmic—like a heartbeat.
Ramona shifted behind me, her stance subtly changing. I didn't even need to look to know what it meant: paparazzi numbers were growing.
Sabine, sitting to my left, checked her tablet and frowned slightly. She turned the screen toward me.
"Boss," she murmured quietly. "Stock chatter just spiked. Panamic Vision and Berg Studios are trending upward. The moment word spread you were in Hollywood, their valuation jumped by fifteen percent."
I smirked. "Guess I'm the economy now."
Kate rolled her eyes. "Don't say that out loud. They might start printing your face on money."
Martin laughed nervously, unsure if I was joking. Jose, however, smiled knowingly. He understood that this wasn't arrogance—it was gravity. The Hollywood had just started orbiting Meteor Studio.
The coffee had gone lukewarm by the time Jose leaned back, his tie loosened and his tone softer.
"You're right," he said finally, after a thoughtful pause. "Every move Meteor Studio makes… it doesn't just hit the industry — it redefines it."
Martin nodded vigorously, his expression somewhere between awe and exhaustion. "Every release you've dropped — Silent Hill, Millie's debut, even the new Warhammer — it's like a tsunami hitting a dry desert. The world just… isn't built for it… it brought shock to everyone,"
I couldn't help but laugh. "A tsunami in a desert, huh?"
Jose grinned. "That's exactly what it feels like... Nobody even knows how to react anymore."
I reached for the small white plate in front of me, taking a slow bite of the donut Gordon had served earlier. The sweetness hit my tongue — soft, buttery, too perfect — and I hummed lowly in approval.
"Honestly," I said between bites, "the reason it feels like that is simple: everyone forgot what a story is."
Jose blinked. "A story?"
I nodded, wiping the glaze from my fingertips with a napkin. "Yeah. You see it everywhere — in films, in music, even in games. It's all flash, no foundation. They don't write to say something anymore. They just write to sell something."
The words came out casually, but the truth in them landed heavy.
"I mean, look around," I continued, "this world has an obsession with sex…. It's in every ad, every lyric, every storyline… I don't even mind it — I get it, it's part of life — but they've taken it so far that it replaced the story itself. It's all empty noise now. it became just a Skin without soul."
Jose leaned forward slightly, his expression curious. "That… I agree… So, what's the fix?"
"Balance," I said simply. "That's all it ever was."
Both men stared at me like I'd just recited some kind of long-lost scripture.
"You'd be surprised," I added, smirking faintly, "how revolutionary the truth sounds when everyone's been lying to themselves."
A quiet chuckle slipped from Jose, followed by a soft exhale from Martin, who seemed genuinely moved — or maybe just startled that someone so young was lecturing Hollywood about depth.
Across the room, Cassandra glanced up from her conversation with Heminem and Wayne East. She caught the last few words — balance, story, truth — and I saw something spark behind her eyes. She wasn't just hearing her boss speak; she was realizing something deeper.
To her, this wasn't just business anymore. Meteor wasn't a company — it was a cultural reset.
Meanwhile, Gordon Kamsay, who'd returned quietly from the kitchen, placed another tray of steaming donuts on the table. He'd clearly been eavesdropping the entire time.
"Hah! Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Kid talks like he owns the bloody industry."
I didn't look at him — just smiled faintly and reached for another donut. "Maybe I do."
The chef froze for a heartbeat, then let out a short laugh before heading back to the counter, muttering something about "artistic bastards" and "mad geniuses."
Jose's humor faded, replaced by curiosity. "So, what's next for Meteor, then? Are you planning to move into film full-time?"
I shook my head. "No…Not yet…. We're too busy — and honestly, I'm not comfortable working with outsiders…."
Martin frowned slightly. "Afraid they'll twist your work?"
"Bingo."
The word came out with a soft click of my tongue. "You've seen it yourself, haven't you? Studios take an artist's work, slap their brand on it, and milk it dry. Whatever made it special gets lost somewhere between 'test screenings' and 'focus groups.'"
Martin sighed. "You're… not wrong. That's exactly how it works. Every studio claims they're 'protecting the vision,' but really, they're just protecting their investors."
"Which is why Meteor doesn't need them," I said. "I already met the Big 6 reps just now…. All of them came offering gold-wrapped contracts…. Like really eager…"
Jose's eyes widened slightly. "And you… rejected them?"
"Yup, Every last one."
The words hung in the air like a gunshot. Even the quiet clinking of dishes around us seemed to fade.
Martin's expression tightened, and Jose looked genuinely unsettled. "You do realize," he said carefully, "that rejecting the Big 6 outright… is almost unheard of…. It's like declaring war."
"Then let them fight ghosts, I'm not worried at all… I am in the gaming and music industry," I said calmly.
Kate, sitting across from me, stifled a small smirk. Sabine exhaled slowly, clearly bracing herself for whatever kind of storm those words were about to summon. To Jose and Martin, my action was too bewildering.
Jose leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What actually REALLY happened with them?"
"The Big 6?" I asked.
He nodded.
I shrugged. "They had no decency…. Tried to act like they were doing me a favor…. Talking about brand integration, market reach, profit-sharing — all the usual garbage. I told them if they can't tell a story without turning it into an ad, they're in the wrong business... and mostly I just say… no,"
Martin blinked, then laughed softly. "So, you just… said that to their faces?"
"Pretty much."
Martin was still pale, like I'd just confessed to spitting on royalty. "That's… you realize they'll blacklist you, right? And what about us?"
I smirked. "Don't really care if they blacklisted me…. You're sitting here letting me eat in peace. That already makes you better than them..."
I pointed lazily toward the window. Outside, there was already a wall of flashing lights. Reporters, paparazzi, curious fans — a sea of people pressing against the glass.
"If I wanted buzz," I said, "I wouldn't need to try…. This is enough."
Jose followed my gaze, exhaling slowly. "You're really not afraid of them, are you?"
"Afraid?" I took another slow bite of donut. "Fear is what keeps them predictable… they wanted me to be in fear, which is something I never like to do,"
I wiped my hands clean, reached down to my bag, and pulled out my half-mask. The sleek, matte-black piece fit over the lower half of my face perfectly. The moment it clicked into place, the shift was almost tangible. The polite, quiet guy disappeared — replaced by the persona that half the world was obsessed with.
"Sabine," I said, extending my hand. "Tablet, please,"
She handed it to me instantly, though her brows furrowed slightly. Even Kate looked puzzled.
"What are you doing?" Kate asked.
Without answering, I swiped across the tablet's surface, pulling up a single file. The screen flickered once, then stabilized on a formatted document — dense, clean, with just two words bolded across the top: PROJECT DINOSAUR.
"You wanted to talk movie with me, right?" I looked at Martin and asked him, straight.
"Yes…". He replied cautiously.
I turned the screen toward Martin. "A script," I said simply.
He blinked. "You—what?"
"Read it."
Jose leaned closer, curiosity overtaking caution.
Kate's eyes widened slightly — she hadn't even known I'd brought a script with me. Sabine froze mid-motion, clearly wanting to ask but deciding against it.
Across the room, Cassandra caught sight of Martin's face as he scrolled through the opening lines. His mouth went slack, then curved upward in disbelief. Without hesitation, she excused herself from Heminem and Wayne East, crossing back to our table with the kind of precision that made her look like she'd been waiting for this moment all night.
"What's going on?" she asked softly, eyes darting between us.
Martin didn't answer. He just kept reading — his expression shifting from awe to shock to a kind of quiet reverence.
Jose finally broke the silence. "What… is this?"
I leaned back, arms crossed. "Something that'll make every studio in this city wish they'd never ignored storytelling."
Kate exhaled slowly, realization dawning in her eyes. Sabine, beside her, muttered under her breath: "Oh, shit…"
Cassandra's gaze locked on mine, understanding flickering in her expression.
"This isn't just a script, is it?" she said quietly.
"No," I said with a faint grin. "It's history. That could rewrite the entire movie industry…."
And with that, the world outside kept flashing its cameras, unaware that inside this small restaurant, the next earthquake in entertainment had just been set in motion.
Martin Berg's eyes darted across the tablet, scanning line after line — and then stopped. His pupils dilated. The restaurant noise faded into nothing. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
He flipped another page, then another — his breathing growing shallow, his hand trembling as his thumb hovered over the screen. Finally, a muttered curse escaped his lips.
"Whoa!… Jesus Christ."
Jose blinked beside him. "What's wrong?"
Martin didn't answer. He was sweating now, forehead glistening under the warm restaurant light. He swallowed hard, then turned sharply toward me.
"Sael! Let me direct this," he blurted, his voice cracking halfway through.
"Please… Look, I'll take no salary, no contract bullshit, no credits, nothing!... Just—just let me direct it."
The table went silent.
Even Jose froze mid-blink, his jaw tensing in disbelief. Martin's hands trembled as he pushed the tablet back toward me, his face pale but burning with something raw.
"Sael… this isn't just A script… This is—this is art... It's alive. a god damn masterpiece! Every page—every word—it moves… it's shouting BOX OFFICE!!"
I didn't say a thing. I just sat there, chin propped on my hand, watching him unravel. Behind me, I heard Gordon Kamsay's voice drift from the kitchen, thick with his signature exasperation.
"I've seen people cry over food," he muttered, "but never over bloody paper."
Ramona leaned down to whisper toward Kate, her tone dry but calculated. "That level of desperation, boss — dangerous or useful?"
Kate's lips barely moved as she murmured back, "Both."
Martin, oblivious to the quiet commentary, was still shaking. "Sael, I'll give you everything. Executive producer credit, writer credit, whatever you want…. Just let me make this movie. Please. You don't understand—"
"Oh," I said mildly, "I understand… I write that, remember?"
His words hung in the air, trembling. Across from him, Jose slowly lowered his coffee cup, eyes narrowing. For the first time since we'd met, he looked afraid — not of me, but of what Martin's reaction implied.
Jose reached for the tablet, almost cautiously, like it might bite him.
"Mind if take a look? …Let me see," he said quietly.
Martin hesitated for a heartbeat, then slid it across the table. "You'll see."
Jose adjusted his glasses, scrolled once, twice — then stopped. His breath caught.
"…This…"
He leaned back slightly, eyes scanning, lips moving silently as he read faster, faster still. The transformation on his face was almost identical to Martin's. The skepticism melted away, replaced by disbelief — then something else: hope.
The man's pulse practically throbbed in his neck.
Across the table, Cassandra watched with careful eyes. She didn't say a word — but I could tell from her expression that she understood. I wasn't showing off. This wasn't me flexing. This was a test.
A trap wrapped in art. And both men had just stepped inside willingly. Cassandra folded her arms, glancing toward Sabine, who was monitoring data streams on her tablet.
Sabine looked up from her screen, eyes slightly wide. "Uh, Sael… Panamic Vision's stock price just jumped twelve percent. Mid-meeting. …Rumors are spreading that Jose Caseras is talking with Meteor Studio."
Cassandra smirked faintly. "He's not talking… He's signing his soul."
Jose turned another page, slower this time, almost reverently. He knew — the exclusivity of this moment was everything. Once this tablet left the table, this draft would vanish. No copies, no leaks, no second chances.
Panamic Vision was a bleeding studio, clinging to life on nostalgia and dwindling investors. And yet, right now, this — this story — was a pulse. A resurrection.
Martin finally broke the silence, voice hushed. "Jose… do you understand what we're holding?"
Jose nodded slowly. "We're holding the future…"
He turned to me, his eyes a mixture of fear and awe. "You didn't show this to the Big 6, did you?"
I gave him a faint, amused smile. "If I did, you wouldn't be holding it."
He exhaled, shoulders sinking as if the weight of the entire city rested there.
Behind him, Gordon peeked out again from the kitchen window, pretending to wipe his hands. "Bloody hell, I thought I was serving lunch, not witnessing history."
Jose put down the tablet carefully, like setting down a holy relic.
"Sael," he said finally, voice steady now. "Ten percent…. I'll give you ten percent of Panamic Vision right now…. Just work with me. Please."
He took a slow breath, straightening his posture. "Every Meteor film, every script — I'll make sure it gets top priority. We'll treat your art like gold. No tampering, no cheap rewrites. You'll have full creative control."
For a moment, I didn't answer. I just leaned back in my chair, mask half-lowered, eyes on him.
"You have shareholders?" I asked eventually.
"Yes."
I nodded. "Then I want fifty percent of the share you owned…."
Jose blinked. Martin inhaled sharply, as if he'd just been punched. But Jose didn't argue. He just… sat there. Processing.
"Fifty," he repeated slowly.
"Fifty," I confirmed. "Meteor doesn't tolerate rogue elements… Every creation under us is protected. If you run your company well, we won't interfere. But if you start sinking the ship — we'll take the wheel."
The words weren't a threat. They were a statement of natural law. Jose's gaze flickered between me and the tablet. "You're serious."
"This is business… so, I'm always serious," I said.
He looked down, thumb tapping against the tabletop. For a long moment, nobody spoke. Then he lifted his eyes again — and smiled faintly.
"Do you have more scripts like this?"
I met his gaze. "Yes."
Just one word, but it was enough.
Jose inhaled deeply, nodding slowly. "Then it's a deal. Ten percent now… the other Forty percent is for you to acquire… yourself,"
Sabine's stylus was already gliding across her tablet, pulling up contract templates and share-transfer documentation faster than any lawyer could blink.
As for me, I leaned back and let the silence settle. Sunday's calm voice echoed in my head, her tone carrying a faint note of pride.
"Confirmation: acquisition completed. Remaining forty percent of Panamic Vision secured through proxy entities. Transaction hidden under standard investment funds, we have buyout the others shareholders shares... You are now the majority shareholder."
I smirked faintly. 'Of course you did… Thanks, Sunday'
Jose's handshake was firm when it came. But I could tell — by the flicker of realization in his eyes — that he understood. He'd never really been in control of this meeting. Every move, every pause, every reveal — all of it had been choreographed before he even sat down.
Across the table, Cassandra folded her arms, watching me carefully. There was admiration there — but also resolve. She knew. She saw the way I operated, the precision of it. I am not a subtle kind, I state what I wanted and I will take it, it was dominating move, but it was the kind of move that I made in order to ensure Meteor Studio always comes up on top.
And if she wanted to stand by my side in Meteor, she'd have to prove she could keep up.
I rose from my seat, sliding the mask back into place. The faint buzz of chatter returned as if the room had just been unpaused. Gordon was shouting orders to his kitchen staff again. The sound of sizzling oil filled the air.
"Congratulations," I said to Jose, my voice calm, level. "You've just made the best decision of your career."
Jose gave a small, almost nervous laugh. "And you've just changed the trajectory of mine…."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I just gave you something worth working for again."
I turned toward the window. Outside, the paparazzi lights had multiplied. The crowd was pressing closer, flashes like fireworks against the glass. Behind me, Martin was still staring at the tablet, whispering the film's opening line to himself in disbelief.
Kate stood and brushed off her coat, muttering, "You're insane, Sael. But at least you're consistently insane."
Sabine smiled faintly. "Consistent insanity is a kind of stability."
Ramona was the last to speak, adjusting her earpiece as she glanced at the crowd outside. "You realize, boss, once they find out what that script is about, all hell's gonna break loose."
I reached for the last donut on the tray, lifted it between my fingers, and took a bite.
"That's is kinda the point," I said through a mouthful of sugar. "They will panic, that is just what they usually are..."
And as I chewed, Sunday's voice whispered in my mind again, soft but sharp.
"New file created: Project Dinosaur – Phase One: Awakening."
'Thank you, Sunday' I smiled to myself.