According to the script, the two men had fallen into a ravine so steep it was impossible to climb back out of. Alright then—Laila wanted to know how they could crash a car into a ravine and still come out alive. Not just one miracle, but two people surviving the impossible.
The script had plenty of logical holes like that, but even so, Laila saw its potential. It had moments that delved into human nature and explored the complexities of friendship—deep, thought-provoking stuff. She believed that with the right revisions—patching up the obvious flaws and broadening the narrow perspective born of limited life experience—the script could turn into something quite impressive.
From the way the script was written, Laila figured the writer probably had some writing experience, but wasn't exactly a professional. There were good ideas in his head, but he didn't yet have the skills to express them effectively.
She also noticed clear signs of revisions throughout the script. Some parts didn't connect smoothly, which suggested the writer had spent a long time trying to improve it.
"So? What do you think? Is it usable or not?" Martin was running out of patience. If it weren't for the potential profits, he wouldn't be caught dead waiting on someone like this.
Laila closed the notebook. "There are some serious issues, but with proper editing, it's usable."
"Excellent!" Martin let out a hearty laugh and gave a heavy slap on one of his underlings' shoulders. "Nice work. Once this movie's done, you'll get a fat reward!"
"Thank you, boss!" the guy replied with a fawning grin. "That old geezer kept bragging about his great script all these years, but he never managed to sell it. To think you'd like it, boss—guess he finally got lucky."
"Well said!" Martin nodded in satisfaction and turned to Laila. "Alright, get to work on revising it. The sooner we shoot the film, the sooner we start making money!"
Laila couldn't help but envy his "simplicity." "Mr. Martin, about the revisions—I'd like to meet with the screenwriter to discuss them. Also, shooting a film requires a large crew and a lot of equipment. Have you made any preparations?"
Martin was momentarily stunned. "Equipment? What equipment? As for manpower, I've got plenty. Take whoever you want."
Someone nearby chimed in with a laugh, "We brothers could even be in the movie. Who knows, maybe we'll become movie stars!"
"You? A star? Dream on."
"What's wrong with me? I'm the second-some guy here, right after the boss. You got a problem with that?"
"Take it outside. Settle this like men."
A bunch of hot-blooded young guys ran out of the room, shouting and joking, off to "duke it out."
Martin's mouth twitched. If his original crew hadn't been decimated by police crackdowns and thrown in jail, he'd never have had to recruit this bunch of clowns. He couldn't run the show all by himself, could he? The few remaining veteran members were hiding out here, knowing that if they so much as stepped outside, they'd either be arrested or gunned down by rival gangs.
The current chaos was exactly why he was so determined to use Laila to make a movie and rake in the cash.
He had assumed the authorities were just cleaning up for the sake of national development. He had no clue that the true reason was standing right in front of him. And even if someone had told him, he wouldn't believe it. One foreign woman plunging an entire nation into anti-crime overdrive? What a joke.
Martin had none of the carefree attitude of his henchmen. Right now, he was stressed out of his mind. "Why the hell does making a movie need so much stuff? You're not just messing with me, are you?" He'd already handed over the script, and now she wanted tools? What tools? Where the hell was he supposed to get those?
Laila was messing with him—of course she was. But this was just the beginning. Rich productions had rich ways to shoot; poor ones made do. But if he wanted to make money from movies without knowing the first thing about filmmaking, then getting played was pretty much his only possible fate.
Just look at how Faizal and Faisal once brought loads of cash to Hollywood, and still ended up losing their shirts.
"Shooting a film requires a lot of equipment. Without cameras, how do you record the actors' performances? And that's just the start…" Laila began rattling off a long list of gear, each item hitting Martin like a punch to the gut.
By the end of her explanation, he was completely dumbfounded.
Laila added one more reminder, "And about your men being actors—it's not impossible. But let's be real: movies with big box office numbers almost always star famous actors. Think about it. Who's going to watch a movie full of complete nobodies?"
Martin was stumped. He didn't know much about the film business, but even he knew people loved watching big-name stars. If it was just his scruffy crew starring in the film—guys he couldn't even stand himself—would anyone else want to watch it? He certainly wouldn't.
If even he didn't want to see the movie he was bankrolling, how could he expect the public to pay for it? This movie was eating up nearly all his savings. If it didn't bring in the kind of box office numbers he was banking on—he'd lose his mind!
"I'll figure it out!" he declared. Equipment and actors? No big deal. If he could kidnap a Hollywood director, there was nothing he couldn't do!
And just like that, Laila got the quiet time she'd been hoping for.
But by that afternoon, a scruffy, bearded man who looked like he hadn't showered in a month was thrown into her room.
"Here's the guy you wanted." The thug who brought him in didn't even try to be polite—just dumped him there and left.
Laila looked at the man and finally recognized him. "You're the writer of the script?"
The man spotted the battered notebook in her hands and lunged to snatch it back. "That's right! It's mine!"
Laila smiled. "No need to panic. We're in the same boat here, aren't we?"
Only then did the writer look up at her. Though she was wearing cheap clothes, her presence, her eyes, her face—there was something vaguely familiar and undeniably commanding about her. He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out how they could be in the same situation.
"Who are you? Have we met before? Why did they bring me here? Was it you?" he blurted out a barrage of questions.
"I'm Laila Moran. We probably haven't met before. As for why you were brought here—probably because I said I wanted to meet you." Laila answered calmly, one question at a time.
The man hadn't caught her name clearly, but her last sentence struck him like lightning. "It was you?! You're the one who asked to see me? And you're the one trying to steal my script?!"
Laila stared at him speechlessly. Did she look like some villain? How did he manage to twist her words into that conclusion?
"What's your name?" she asked.
The writer shot her a wary look. "Just call me Buddy."
"Alright, Buddy," Laila said. She figured she should start by explaining the situation, otherwise this guy would stay jumpy forever.