Victor Jones, proving he was worth every penny, was a whirlwind.
In less than three days, he'd assembled a top-notch, professional production crew—people he knew from his old life, veterans who owed him a favor or just wanted to work for someone who wasn't a corporate drone. Zane, wasting no time, convened the new department heads at his home. Not the studio. His home. A subtle power move.
"Everyone," Zane began, his voice cutting through the polite, skeptical silence. "Thank you for coming. You're all veterans, so I'll be direct. I've greenlit Wald Pictures' first feature film."
He let that hang in the air. He could feel their expectations: a rich kid's vanity project. A passion project. A guaranteed-to-lose-money "art film."
"It's a low-budget, high-concept horror film," he continued, and the mood in the room shifted, just a fraction. "Your job is to have all pre-production work completed within three weeks."
He wasn't a director. He had zero intention of pretending to be one, of standing around with a viewfinder and talking about "his vision." He was the producer, the architect. And to win over this crew, he knew he couldn't use storyboards.
He had to use a business plan.
He passed out sleek, professional folders. Inside, there were no sketches. There was market analysis on the horror genre's historical performance. Detailed budget breakdowns, line by line. Projected ROI charts based on a dozen similar, successful, low-budget productions.
He wasn't speaking their creative language. He was speaking the language that paid their mortgages.
"The concept is simple and, most importantly, cheap," Zane explained, his voice all business. "It requires a single, isolated location and a small cast. I want you to focus on creating a palpable sense of dread through atmosphere... not expensive special effects we can't afford."
The crew, who had all walked in with the "here we go again" look of seasoned pros about to be lectured by an amateur, were visibly... impressed. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a passion. This was a plan. A ruthlessly efficient, financially sound strategy.
"No problem from my end," the set designer, a grizzled man named Pete, said, already sketching on a notepad. "Isolated, cheap... I can do that."
"Props will be simple enough," the prop master agreed.
One by one, they confirmed it. Three weeks? More than enough time.
"Excellent," Zane said. "My only other directive is this: be creative, be effective, and be frugal."
The meeting didn't break up. It transformed. For the next seven hours, it became an intense, logistical, creative discussion. Zane, acting as the final word, felt like a sponge, absorbing a decade's worth of practical, on-the-ground knowledge. The difference between his analytical theory of filmmaking and their practice of it was vast, and he was getting a crash course.
This film has to be a success, he thought, long after the last crew member had departed, leaving the scent of coffee and cigarettes in his living room. It's not just about the profit. It's about proving the model works. It's about proving I'm not just another rich kid.
He was deep in that thought, running the numbers again, when the doorbell rang.
He opened it and was momentarily, genuinely surprised. Charlize Theron was on his doorstep.
"Boss," she said, her voice a little breathless, a little too bright. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
She was wearing a simple white dress, but on her, it wasn't simple at all. It was an argument. And in her hands, held like an offering, was a pizza box. "I was shopping nearby," she said, "and just... I don't know, I thought I'd drop by to say thank you again. For everything. I brought you dinner."
Zane's mind processed the situation in a cold, analytical half-second.
'Shopping nearby?' I live in the suburbs. There is nothing 'nearby.' 'Drop by to say thank you?' The crew calls me a 'vampire' behind my back, and I know she's laughed at the jokes. 'Brought me dinner?'
He knew exactly what this was. The news that Wald Pictures was crewing up for its first film had obviously ripped through the company grapevine. This was an audition.
"That's very thoughtful of you, Charlize. Please, come in," he said, his expression giving away nothing.
She walked in, and the "performance" began. It was, in its own way, a masterpiece. She launched into a heartfelt, emotional monologue about the hardships of her journey from South Africa, her family's misfortunes, her undying, burning dream of being a serious actress, not just a pretty face.
Zane listened. Patiently. He let her finish without a single interruption, his gaze steady on her face. He saw the desperation. He saw the raw, clawing ambition. And he saw the calculated risk she was taking. She was playing the role she thought she was supposed to play to get ahead in this town. It was the "please, I'll do anything" speech, just wrapped in a more elegant, emotional package.
He wasn't interested. Not in that game, anyway.
Finally, her speech wound down. Her eyes were wide, hopeful, and just a little misty. She'd laid her soul bare, and she was waiting for him. Waiting for him to offer her the part, to make a move, to... do something.
Zane simply nodded. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Charlize," he said, his voice polite and distant. "And thank you for the pizza."
The silence that followed was brutal. It stretched, filling the room, becoming so loud it was almost deafening. Her smile faltered. The hope in her eyes died, replaced by... confusion. And then, humiliation.
Defeated, she finally stood up, her movements stiff. "Well," she said, her voice strained, "it's getting late. I... I should go."
As she walked to the door, he could see a flicker of pure frustration cross her face. She had played her hand, and lost. She turned back, as if to say one last thing, to try one more time, but Zane cut her off.
"Charlize," he said.
She stopped.
His voice was calm, steady, and all business. "The official casting call for the lead role is next Tuesday at the studio. Ten a.m. I expect you to be there. And I expect you to be prepared."
She just stared at him, utterly baffled. He hadn't taken the bait. But he hadn't rejected her, either. He'd just... changed the rules.
A slow, confused, and finally, deeply intrigued smile touched her lips. "I will be," she said. And left.
The next day, Zane was in a much different kind of meeting, in a high-rise office that smelled of old money and leather.
"Mr. Blackwood," the elite corporate lawyer said, "rest assured. Regarding your recent... earnings... our firm will design a portfolio of investments and charitable foundations that will minimize your tax liability to the fullest legal extent."
Zane had made nearly thirty million dollars. He had no intention of giving half of it to the government. "Excellent," he said. "Now, for the second item."
He slid a small file across the desk. "I need you to file for the full, global copyrights on two intellectual properties I've developed."
The first was SpongeBob SquarePants. The system had given him every drawing, every character bio, every detail needed for an ironclad claim.
The second was a more audacious, more brutal gamble.
"It's an educational series for infants," Zane explained, his face perfectly straight. "It's called... Teletubbies."
He didn't have a system file for this one. He just had... his memory. But it was enough. He described the core concepts: the four colorful, alien-like toddlers with the antennas. The baby in the sun. The television screens on their stomachs. He laid out the themes, the designs, the name.
In the eyes of the law, an idea, once registered with that much detail, was property.
He was legally hijacking an IP, a future billion-dollar franchise, before its true creators in England even had a chance to finish developing it. It was a ruthless, cold-blooded, opportunistic, and entirely legal move.
Zane left the law firm feeling a deep, cold sense of satisfaction.
He was a vampire. A clever ghost. A pragmatist. He was whatever he needed to be to win.
And he was just getting started.
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