The first day of filming Static was, to put it mildly, a special kind of hell.
The set was a single, cramped room on a rented soundstage, smelling of fresh paint, hot lights, and the nervous sweat of a new crew. The air was thick with that frantic, barely-controlled chaos that marks the beginning of every production.
Zane stood off to the side, a cup of (bad) coffee in his hand, a still, calm point in the hurricane. He wasn't the director, yelling and creating. He was the producer. The owner. The man who was, in his mind, watching a digital clock tick down, each second costing him money.
His new director, a young, hungry firebrand named Alan Reed, was in the thick of it, his face already red with exertion.
"Cut! Cut!" Alan yelled, running a hand through his hair so hard it stood on end. He was in front of Charlize Theron, who was leaning against a prop wall, pale and breathing hard.
"Charlize, I need more!" he pleaded, his voice cracking. "I need you to break. You're not just sad, you're not just angry, you are at the end of your rope! Forget the camera, forget the lines, just... just let it all go!"
It was her first lead role. The pressure was so immense it was a physical weight, and she was wilting under it. Opposite her, James McAvoy looked equally drained, a kid in way over his head.
Overseeing the production from a bank of monitors, Victor Jones watched his boss, not the actors. He watched Zane with a familiar cocktail of pure, undiluted awe and genuine terror. He'd been the one to negotiate the contracts, and the memory still made him wince.
James McAvoy, a raw but undeniable talent, had been so grateful for the part he'd signed for a flat $40,000.
For Charlize, Zane had been even more of a shark. He'd seen her desperation, her ambition, and her lack of options. He'd leveraged it all, signing her for a mere $9,000—the absolute, bare-bones minimum required by the Screen Actors Guild.
Victor had been in the office with Zane the night the deal closed. Zane, reviewing the budget, had slammed his fist on the table, not in triumph, but in genuine annoyance.
"This damn actors' union!" Zane had snarled. "Their 'minimum salary standards'... such an inhumane organization. It's hindering the progress of pure capitalism!"
Victor had just stared, a cold chill running down his spine. The boss, he'd realized in that moment, is a special kind of monster.
"Let's go again! Action!"
The day just... unraveled.
A key prop, a vintage radio that was central to the scene, suddenly let out a loud POP! and a spray of blue sparks. The acrid smell of ozone filled the set. Forty-minute delay.
Then, the veteran cinematographer, a man twice the director's age, began a "polite" but seething argument with Alan over a lighting setup. It was a classic power struggle: experience versus vision, and it was burning daylight. The actors, exhausted and emotionally raw, were struggling to hit the same intense notes take after take.
Through it all, Zane remained a calm, immovable presence. He didn't yell. He didn't pace. He didn't interfere. He just watched, his mind a running ledger of time versus money.
Finally, as the argument between the director and the cinematographer escalated, threatening to derail the entire day, Zane stepped in.
He didn't walk fast. He just appeared.
"Gentlemen."
His voice was quiet. It wasn't a request. It was a command. The entire set, which had been buzzing with side-conversations, went dead silent.
He addressed the cinematographer first. "You were hired for your experience, and I value your expertise. But you were also hired to execute our director's vision."
He then turned his cold, analytical gaze to Alan. "And you were hired to deliver this film on time and on budget. Right now, you are both failing me."
He let the words hang in the hot, silent air.
"We'll do the shot the director's way. The clock," he said, tapping his watch, "is ticking. Get it done."
He walked away, the issue resolved. That was his job: to remove obstacles, to keep the machine running.
This is exhausting, he thought, massaging his temples as he returned to his dark corner. Being a producer isn't about golf and fine wine. It's about managing a hundred fragile egos and putting out fires before they burn your investment to the ground.
He longed, just for a second, for the clean, simple days of the stock market. Buy. Sell. Profit.
Next time, he promised himself, I'm finding a script for a Nolan or a Wan. I'll just give them the money, let them handle the headaches, and I'll get the profits and the reputation as a 'discoverer of genius.'
He watched the next take. The actors were still struggling, forcing the emotion. He saw the problem. He walked over to his young director.
"Alan," he said, his voice low. "They're spent. You can't wring any more out of them this way."
"Boss, I just need..."
"Stop," Zane cut him off. "Give them a ten-minute break. Get them some water. Then, go again. But this time, don't yell at them to 'break.' Just... let them improvise. Let them find the emotion instead of forcing it. You've drilled the lines into them. They're in there. Just let them talk. See what happens."
To everyone's surprise, it worked. The next take was electric. It was raw, powerful, and terrifyingly real. It was the scene. The entire crew was left breathless, the silence on set no longer tense, but awestruck.
The day finally wrapped late into the night. It had been a bumpy, grueling, fourteen-hour ride, but they had it in the can. A sense of weary, triumphant accomplishment settled over the set. The crew, packing up, was buzzing.
"That last scene... my god." "I can't believe this is the boss's first production. The man's a natural!"
Victor came over to Zane, shaking his head in admiration. "Boss... you belong in this business. You're a true producer."
Zane just shrugged, ever the pragmatist. "Director Reed has a great vision."
Later, as Zane was heading to his car, Charlize caught up to him. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a vibrant, adrenaline-fueled glow.
"Zane," she said, her voice sincere, her eyes shining. "Thank you. For the note earlier. For... for this chance. The next film you make... you have to cast me. I'll even do it for free."
Zane just smiled, a small, private smile that she mistook for encouragement.
Stupid mortals.
He watched her walk away, his mind cold and clear. They were all sweating, struggling, racking their brains, putting their souls into this, hoping to create "art," praying to make something great.
He was the only one in the entire building who knew the truth.
This wasn't a gamble. This wasn't a risk. It was a sure thing.
He had the "cheat code." He wasn't copying another movie shot-for-shot. He was just the only one who knew, with absolute, 100% certainty, that this specific type of high-concept, low-budget, found-footage-style horror was about to launch a multi-billion-dollar trend.
While they were all playing for artistic success, he was playing for a guaranteed financial windfall.
Their exam was to create a masterpiece from scratch.
His was just to cash the check. And he already knew he had a perfect score.
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