Christian was a loser.
Before the crossing, he drifted through life, achieving nothing. After that, not much changed—except the dreams got sharper and harder to ignore.
He used to chase illusions—magic, fame, meaning—but now that magic was real, it didn't make him more committed.
He still hesitated, still second-guessed, still kept one foot out the door.
He lacked the desperation to throw himself in completely. And yet… he kept going.
That cowardice, or maybe resilience, gnawed at him. Sometimes, he even felt like he didn't measure up to the man who came before him.
The previous guy—his predecessor—wasn't a saint.
A third-rate screenwriter, a second-rate sketch artist, and a full-time mess. The guy's career was a flaming wreck, and his love life?
A cocktail of sleaze and regret. But there was one thing he had that Christian couldn't ignore—obsession. He loved cinema.
Lived for it. Sacrificed dignity, comfort, and decency to cling to the dream of making something worthwhile.
And maybe that was the only thing that mattered.
Reality wasn't a redemption arc. Hard work didn't guarantee success, and pain rarely paid off.
The predecessor died with nothing to show for it.
But after crossing over—waking up in a new skin with memories that weren't his but felt like scars he'd earned—Christian found something stirring when the opportunity to direct came knocking.
Perhaps it was the ghost of the man who came before. Maybe not.
He had carefully dug through the memories, peeling back the layers using the Soul Recall technique.
No voices in his head, no Jekyll and Hyde act. The emotions felt like his own.
So why the hell did he suddenly care?
It reminded him of when he was a kid, watching old interviews of Paul Kochanski talking about becoming steel in a world of rust.
He never became steel—more like driftwood—but that ache and fire had been real.
That may be enough because somebody out there did become steel because of those words.
That kind of inspiration didn't need to be perfect. It just needed to be honest.
Some people jump off cliffs to feel alive. Christian just wanted to build a stage and burn with it.
"For him… and myself—"
He raised a hand.
"I'll give it a shot."
Westwood was in hell.
The director was gone. So was the lead actress.
They'd taken off into the wilderness together, probably chasing vibes or a sunrise shot that didn't matter anymore.
"Goddamn it," Westwood muttered through clenched teeth.
"Son of a…"
The assistant director refused to take over—something about being hollowed out after a messy divorce.
Well, maybe jump off a bridge then, Westwood thought bitterly.
The cinematographer wouldn't step up either. Said he was cursed.
Said James Cameron's ghost haunted his lenses. Said he couldn't bear the pressure.
Seriously? Fragile egos. Bad omens. And James-freaking-Cameron. What a joke.
The crew didn't even have a real screenwriter.
The director had insisted on writing the script himself—another ego trip—and now the script was a mess no one wanted to touch.
Westwood cursed inside his head but kept his face a mask.
He had a reputation to maintain—producer, professional, the man holding the circus together with duct tape and delusions.
But he knew what the others wouldn't say out loud: stepping up as director this late in the game was a death sentence.
Especially on a no-budget horror film with zero studio backing and a crew held together by expired coffee and frayed nerves.
Change too much and you break the budget. Change too little, and you will inherit someone else's doomed vision.
Hollywood was ruthless. You only got one real shot, and if you blew it, you were out.
Even James Cameron had to eat dirt after Piranha II, and he only bounced back because Gale Anne Hurd gave him Terminator—and married him, for good measure.
Most of the crew knew they weren't prodigies. No breakout talent. No dashing charisma. No second chances.
Westwood was about to cut his losses when he heard it:
"I'll give it a shot."
The voice was calm. Steady. Not cocky—just... certain.
Westwood froze. His heart stuttered like someone had kicked open heaven's gates.
He fumbled at his jacket pocket, found his emergency meds, and exhaled.
"Just adrenaline," he whispered to himself.
Then he looked toward the voice.
It came from the crew's artist.
Christian Booth.
Of all people.
Yes, artists could become directors. Hell, didn't that rascal Cameron handle the art design for The Abyss?
Westwood stared across the room.
"Mr. Booth—Christian—are you sure about this?"
"Absolutely."
Christian nodded with quiet conviction, but before he could say more, Old Gun cut in, waving his arms like a man flagging down a fire truck.
"Christian," the old red-bearded veteran barked, "do you even grasp the weight of what you're saying?"
"I do."
Christian gave his friend a nod, brushing off the concern with a half-smile.
"I know exactly what I'm stepping into. Even when Alan was at the helm, the odds of pulling this film off—on this budget, with this crew—weren't great. And now that he's gone AWOL? It's a mess—a landmine field. I'm not naïve about that, Mr. Westwood. Am I out of line saying that?"
The producer gave a weary shrug, lips tugging into a crooked smile with more pain than humor.
Christian pressed on.
"But it's precisely in this chaos that someone like me—a nobody with a half-baked résumé—might get a shot. It's not about fame. It's not even about success. It's about proving something to myself."
"Seeing if there's still a pulse. Because if I can't find the fire now, if this doesn't stir me, maybe it never will. And maybe that means I'm done. No more excuses. I walk away from the industry and never look back."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Old Gun exhaled heavily.
"If you're sure," he said, voice low.
"I am." Christian turned back to the producer.
"So, Mr. Westwood—what's your call?"
Westwood held up his hands in surrender.
"You've got the guts, Christian. That's clear. And frankly? You're the only option left standing. I could pull the plug, sure. Chalk it all up as a sunk cost. But with someone like you still willing to swing for the fences, I'd be the coward for quitting."
He began pacing the cramped office, his earlier restraint peeling away.
"My health's going downhill. I'm not ancient, but I'm not bouncing back either. This might be my last damn film. I've never had a hit, never made anything that mattered. I don't even have a catchy tagline people remember. All I want now is something simple—a release that doesn't tank. I was banking on Alan to deliver that. But the bastard ghosted us. And still… I want to roll the dice. One last time."
He stepped up close to Christian, gaze sharp.
"So tell me, Director—what's your plan?"
Christian didn't flinch. The adrenaline had leveled off. Now came the real work.
"First thing—tighten the script—too many complicated scenes. We trim the fat, keep it lean. Cut down production days, save the budget. As for casting? No need to hold fresh auditions for the lead. We've got three supporting actresses who fit the look—and let's face it, in horror, beauty carries more weight than Oscar chops."
Old Gun frowned slightly. "And the original supporting role?"
"We cut it," Christian said without hesitation.
"Streamline the story to fit three main female roles instead of four. That simplifies the dynamics and gives us more room to flesh out the survivors."
Old Gun nodded slowly. It wasn't just a question—it was an olive branch.
A subtle way of helping the rest of the crew transition into Christian's leadership without calling it that.
Christian leaned back, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes glinting with something sharp.
"Look," he said, "people say when you talk shop, bad guys talk ideals. Good guys? They talk money. I've been playing the idealist until now, so let me switch hats."
He turned toward Westwood.
"You mentioned earlier that if I stepped in, I'd get a cut of the box office. I'm not expecting a windfall, but I don't plan on keeping the money if this film hits even modest success. Instead, I want to turn it into performance bonuses to motivate the crew and raise the stakes. But if this bombs?" He gave a crooked grin.
"I won't touch a cent. That's my gamble."
He spread his arms, calm and self-assured, like a con man who'd already stacked the deck and dared the room to call his bluff.
"So in essence, I've got nothing to lose. Which makes me very, very motivated to win."