Howard Martin sat hunched in his chair, the dull hum of the overhead lights casting long shadows across the stack of papers cluttering his desk. His office, tucked away on the fourth floor of RCA's main building, felt more like a bunker these days—a quiet, suffocating space filled with reminders of all the things going wrong.
Another resignation letter lay at the top of the stack. Another actor jumping ship.
He let out a sigh, the kind that carried weight from the chest.
It wasn't always like this.
There was a time when RCA was flying high. Their actors were landing leads, films were making headlines, and meetings with studios meant expansion, not negotiation. But that was before the management shake-up. Before the investors grew antsy. Before Dennis Murphy left for UCM.
Now?
Ray Hartley, their promising young lead, had just flopped at the box office in a romantic comedy RCA had pinned their hopes on. Howard had pushed for that project. He believed in it. And it still failed.
He picked up the script from Ray's last movie, skimmed a page, and dropped it back into the pile.
"Another one with nothing to say," he muttered under his breath.
He reached for his coffee cup. Cold. Of course it was cold.
There was a knock at the door.
He blinked, disoriented. For a second, he forgot he had an appointment.
"Come in," he said, sitting up straighter.
The door opened slowly, revealing a familiar face. Blake Cross.
Howard studied him for a beat—taller than he remembered, still carrying the same polite energy that had defined him as a kid. His late best friend's son.
"Uncle Martin," Blake greeted, his voice quiet but steady. "It's been a while."
Howard stood and extended his hand with a tired smile. "Blake. Look at you. How've you been?"
"I've been okay. Busy."
Howard's eyes drifted to the thick pair of documents in Blake's other hand. Scripts.
"No girlfriend yet?" he asked with a wry grin as they shook hands.
"Haven't found one. Not really looking."
"Smart man. When I was your age, I was more interested in women than work. Probably why I still don't have a yacht."
They both chuckled lightly, and Howard gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit down, sit down. Let's catch up for a minute."
Blake settled into the chair, the scripts resting on his lap.
For a few moments, they exchanged small talk—Howard asking about school, Blake vaguely answering. It wasn't long before the conversation shifted.
"Look," Howard finally said, tone softening into something a bit more formal, "I've only got about thirty minutes. What do you have for me?"
Blake nodded and placed both scripts on the desk between them. Howard raised an eyebrow.
"Two?"
"I've been writing a lot lately," Blake said simply. "I wanted to show you both."
Howard picked up the first one. His eyes scanned the title.
"The Spectacular Now?" he read aloud.
Blake nodded again, a little nervous now. "It's a coming-of-age story. About a high school senior named Sutter. He's charming, outgoing… but emotionally lost. He meets this shy, sincere girl named Aimee, and she starts to change the way he sees himself."
Howard flipped through the first few pages. Clean formatting. No weird font. That was already a good sign.
"It's not plot-heavy," Blake continued, "More about the characters, their choices. Their pain. I guess you could say it's a slow burn. Quiet, but honest."
Howard was only half-listening as his eyes skimmed the opening scene—a messy bedroom, empty beer cans, a voicemail from a girl. Simple, yet something in the dialogue felt… lived-in.
He flipped another page.
And another.
"Hmm."
Blake kept silent. The only sound in the room was the distant murmur of phones ringing at reception.
Howard didn't say anything for a full minute. He just kept reading.
Finally, he glanced up. "Where did this come from? I didn't know you wrote."
"I used to write ads. Nothing big. But I always liked storytelling. When I dropped out… I guess I wanted to try."
Howard didn't respond immediately. He just leaned back slightly, the pages still in his hand.
Then he looked down at the second script.
He picked it up, brows raising slightly.
"Safety Not Guaranteed?"
Blake smiled faintly. "It's about a magazine intern who answers a classified ad from a guy claiming he can time travel. What starts out as a joke investigation… turns into something real. It's weird, funny, kind of melancholic. More about trust than time travel, really."
Howard let out a short exhale—almost a chuckle.
"Interesting premise," he murmured.
He glanced between the two scripts.
"I'll be honest," he said after a beat. "I didn't expect much today. No offense, Blake. Just—young writers usually don't come in with this kind of maturity."
Blake said nothing.
"But these… These aren't bad."
Howard looked back at the first few pages of The Spectacular Now, then at Blake.
"Give me some time with them. I want to finish reading both. But if what I'm seeing so far keeps up—there might be something here."
Blake nodded, doing his best to contain the rush of relief.
Then Howard picked up the phone.
"Stacy? Cancel my 3:30 and 4:00."
Blake blinked.
Howard hung up and gestured at the scripts. "Let me read."
And for the first time in a long while, Howard Martin felt a flicker of interest that wasn't tinged with resignation or dread.
As Blake sat quietly, watching his late father's best friend lean forward with genuine curiosity, he couldn't help but smile.
A small, private victory.
The first of many to come.
Author's Note:
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