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The film crew was already butting heads with the director on day one.
"You guys really are cursed," Christian muttered, dragging on a cigarette he wasn't supposed to be smoking indoors.
The entire day had been swallowed by a chaotic pre-production meeting.
Some things were cleared up, sure—but the arguing, the egos, the half-hidden power plays—it all left Christian raw and wired.
So when Richard Arsenal, an old friend and fellow crew member, suggested they regroup at his place, Christian didn't argue.
Richard's place smelled like garlic and cast iron. He always cooked like the world was ending and needed one last decent meal.
The man looked like a Viking who got lost on his way to a renaissance fair—red beard, barrel chest, and a quiet warmth that made his kitchen feel safer than it should have.
They whipped up a few simple dishes, mostly Richard's doing, and spent the evening unpacking the mess that was their new film gig.
Christian sipped from a brown bottle.
"When did you start drinking kvass? Weren't you into agave like I was?"
"Quit that crap," Richard said, shrugging.
"Didn't want to die bloated and bitter in my forties."
Christian studied him. A dozen years older and twice as weathered, Richard had been through the kind of hell that gave a man reasons to change. Divorced.
Estranged from his kids. Carved up by regrets he rarely named.
Still, there was something solid in him. Like bedrock that never quite cracked, no matter how many times the tide rolled in.
"Quitting saves you from a lot of bad mornings," Richard added, almost to himself.
Christian grinned, just a little. "See, I always figured you'd be the kind of guy who'd either choke on his own vomit or wake up next to someone's best friend pointing a Glock at your head."
"And yet," Christian motioned to the kvass bottle, "I'm the one not drinking tequila right now."
"Touché, smartass."
Among their small circle, Richard was known as "Old Gun."
The nickname had started as a joke—his surname, Arsenal, matched the British football club, and unlike most Americans, he actually liked soccer.
Eventually, the joke stuck, and Christian, one of the youngest on the crew, just rolled with it.
"Quitting is smart," Richard said, but he was already raising a tequila glass, his expression sliding toward that familiar shade of hollow.
"You're still young. You can still walk away from this stuff. Me? I know better. Doesn't mean I stop."
Christian didn't press. He didn't have to. He knew Richard's story. Everyone did.
Three years ago, his marriage detonated—half his net worth gone, and worse, the kids with her. The reason?
The same vice that lured half the men they knew into dark corners and stupid decisions.
"If I'd just drunk less," Richard muttered, eyes lost in the glass, "maybe I wouldn't have ended up in bed with her best friend…"
The tequila disappeared in one sharp gulp.
"You know what the real curse is?" Richard asked.
"Your woman's best friend. Before they know you, they hate you. After they know you? They just want to burn it all down."
Christian leaned forward, steering the conversation out of that spiral before it pulled Richard under.
"Old Gun. You hear what happened today?"
It worked. Richard blinked, the haze in his eyes clearing slightly as he focused on the topic shift. Christian needed his insight anyway.
Richard had connections, experience, and in this mess of a project, he was the assistant director handling casting. If anyone could cut through the bullshit, it was him.
"Alan's got it out for me," Christian said.
"His script needs a massive set, and the budget's tighter than a drum. Guess that makes me the problem."
"He's pressuring you?"
"Hard. Like it's my fault we don't have studio money. But what really baffles me—he's just a rookie director. Westwood's the producer. A heavyweight. Shouldn't Alan be kissing his ass?"
Richard scratched his beard. The old shrewdness was back in his eyes, the one that always made him look like he was reading three layers beneath the conversation.
"He's not just some greenhorn. Alan might not have the credits, but he's got the money. Heard Newline's producing in name only. Real funding's coming through Alan's private connections."
Christian frowned. "So Westwood's just window dressing?"
"Pretty much. Alan's the one bringing the cash—Jodie Foster's one of his backers. That's where the attitude's coming from."
Christian let out a low whistle. "Hollywood's a funny beast."
"It's a circus. And everyone wants to be the ringmaster."
Stars with deep pockets are setting up shell companies, trying to carve a legacy with micro-budget films. Some did it for passion.
Others, for tax breaks and vanity. The lucky ones found a niche—off the radar, tucked under the wings of big distributors.
Enough to keep the lights on and their names in the credits. The unlucky ones? They burned out before the first red carpet.
Christian leaned back, the weight of it all pressing into his spine. He lit another cigarette.
"Let's just hope this damn movie doesn't kill us before we even hit the first shot."
Richard gave a half-smile, half-grimace.
"Wouldn't be the worst way to go."
"As they say, a producer who can't protect investors' money doesn't stay a producer for long," Christian said, leaning back with a tired sigh.
"But Jodie Foster? She's not someone you con easily. Her backing must've done wonders for Alan's ego."
"Still wondering how he landed her support," Richard mused, pouring another drink.
"I'd love to say it was romance, but..."
The "Old Gun" raised an eyebrow, and Christian gave a dry chuckle.
The idea of Alan charming anyone—especially someone with Foster's sharp mind—was laughable.
Even in this town, where rumors spun like cotton candy and reality bent for headlines, that theory didn't hold water.
"Even if it wasn't some personal connection, Foster's support puts him on a pedestal," Christian said.
"But if he's sitting so pretty, why's he trying to bulldoze Westwood? The producer's supposed to be calling the shots."
Christian tossed the empty kvass bottle into a trash bin with a dull clank. The weight of the day pressed against his shoulders like a familiar trench coat in the rain.
"Is he trying to tank the whole thing?"
"Maybe not intentionally," Richard said.
"But when you hand someone power they're not built to carry, they tend to collapse—or lash out."
He spoke like a man who had seen it happen too many times, and Christian didn't doubt that for a second.
Richard had been in the business since his teens, seen hotshots rise and crash with the speed of cheap fireworks.
Some played it safe. Others went full kamikaze. Most didn't know the difference until it was too late.
"Then again," Richard added, "it might all be for show."
Christian frowned. "You think Westwood's playing dead? Letting Alan run wild to prop up his image?"
"In some cases, producers do that, for a star director with name recognition. Someone the press will eat up. But Alan isn't a well-known name. Feels off."
"Unless he's being groomed," Christian muttered.
"Not in the tabloid sense—industry grooming. Built up as a new golden boy. That kind of setup comes from way up the ladder."
"And we still haven't cast a damn lead," Richard said, eyes narrowing.
"With our budget? We're not landing any heavy hitters."
Christian scratched the back of his neck, his mind working through possibilities.
"That gives us two scenarios. And they both suck."
"Hit me."
"Scenario one," Christian counted off on his fingers.
"Alan's got real backing, and Westwood's just along for the ride. The director becomes king, starts throwing weight around, and we're stuck with a tyrant."
Richard grunted.
"Scenario two: Alan's manipulating the producer into playing the fall guy. Boosts his own image, gets the investors behind him, and now he's untouchable. Which means he's not just arrogant—he's strategic. And those are the worst bastards to work under."
"Both roads lead to hell," Richard said with a crooked smile.
Christian let out a low whistle. "Why do all the doors lead to disaster?"
"That's showbiz, kid. No clean hands. No perfect choices. Just pick the lesser evil and pray the brakes don't fail."
"It's like voting."
Richard raised his glass, voice low and wry.
"To the least terrible bastard."
They clinked glasses. Christian downed his in one go, trying not to think too hard about the future.
Despite Christian's concerns, production rolled forward with surprising smoothness. Crew members slotted into place.
Departments clicked into rhythm. Props and set work—the parts under his control—came together better than expected.
He stretched every cent of the budget like it was his last dollar in Vegas, and against all odds, he hit the look Alan was going for.
Maybe even exceeded it.
That earned a rare nod from the man himself. Alan wasn't one to compliment easily—or at all, really—but Christian saw it in the way he stopped asking for unnecessary rewrites.
The script itself was a strange beast. It reminded Christian of Wrong Turn, but sharper. More precise.
The bones of it were familiar—young people, strange mutations, ghostly figures in pursuit—but the execution had a kind of elegance that low-budget horror usually didn't bother with. It almost felt... deliberate.
Like there was something beneath the surface. Something hidden in the margins.
He'd seen enough horror scripts to know the tropes. Teenagers split up.
Someone dies in a way that'll trend online. Rinse, repeat. But this one?
This one felt like it was trying to say something. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Which made designing the sets that much harder.
Alan's vision demanded detail, atmosphere, mood.
Not cheap thrills. It was more work. More late nights.
More cigarettes burned down to the filter while he stared at sketches and spreadsheets.
But somehow, he pulled it off.
Everything kept moving forward.
Until—