The heavy, industrial-grade broom in Tyler's hands felt like it weighed forty pounds.
He was nineteen, surviving entirely on stale breakroom pretzels and a highly caffeinated soda he had snuck from the fountain an hour ago. He leaned his shoulder against the carpeted wall of the multiplex hallway, staring up at the digital clock mounted above Theater 4.
10:28 PM.
The late showing of Joker was supposed to let out two minutes ago.
Tyler hated closing shifts on the weekends, especially for comic book movies. Usually, a superhero flick meant the theater was going to be an absolute disaster zone. Teenagers sneaking in, throwing popcorn at each other, spilling sticky blue slushies all over the cupholders, and leaving a thick layer of candy wrappers glued to the floor. He mentally prepared himself to spend the next forty-five minutes scraping gummy bears off the upholstery.
A heavy, muffled baseline rumbled through the walls, vibrating the floorboards under Tyler's cheap sneakers. It was the end-credits track.
A minute later, the thick, soundproof double doors of Theater 4 finally pushed open.
Tyler stood up straight, gripping his broom, waiting for the loud chatter, the obnoxious laughing, and the chaotic rush of people debating post-credit scenes.
Instead, the first group of people walked out in total, unnerving silence.
It was a group of four college-aged guys. They weren't talking. They weren't looking at their phones. They just walked past Tyler with their heads down, their hands shoved deep into their jacket pockets. One of them looked pale, staring blankly at the ugly patterned carpet of the theater lobby like he had just watched a car crash.
Tyler frowned, shifting his grip on the broom.
More people started pouring out into the hallway. The sheer lack of noise was actually creeping him out. A couple walked past him; the guy was chewing nervously on his thumbnail, and the girl had her arms wrapped tightly around her own ribs, shivering slightly even though the theater heating was cranked up.
Nobody was smiling. Nobody was joking about the explosions.
An older man walked out, tossed a perfectly clean, folded napkin into the trash can, and let out a long, heavy exhale that sounded completely exhausted.
It took five minutes for the sold-out auditorium to completely empty out. By the time the last person walked down the hall, Tyler felt a weird, heavy tension sitting in his own chest, completely absorbed from the crowd's energy.
He pushed through the double doors and walked into the massive, stadium-seating auditorium. The house lights were fully up, aggressively bright.
Tyler grabbed his heavy plastic trash bag and walked down the steps to the front row, ready to start the miserable cleanup process.
He stopped at the first row. He looked at the seats.
They were clean.
He walked up to the middle section, the prime viewing seats that were usually destroyed by high school kids. He looked down the aisle.
Sitting perfectly in the cup holders were massive, thirty-two-ounce buckets of popcorn. They were almost entirely full. Dozens of them. Large sodas were sitting right next to them, the ice completely melted, the cups barely touched. Unopened boxes of Milk Duds and M&Ms were resting neatly on the armrests.
Tyler just stood there, his broom resting against his leg, staring at the untouched food.
It wasn't that the crowd was unusually polite. He understood exactly what he was looking at. The movie had been so heavy, the tension on the screen so incredibly tight and suffocating, that three hundred people had physically forgotten to eat. They had bought twenty dollars worth of snacks at the concession stand, sat down, and simply stopped moving for two straight hours.
Tyler slowly looked up from the full popcorn buckets.
He stared at the massive, blank, completely dark IMAX screen looming over the auditorium. He hadn't seen the movie yet. He had been working shifts all weekend, purposely avoiding spoilers. But standing right there, standing in the heavy, lingering, physical atmosphere of the empty room, he suddenly understood exactly why the internet was having an absolute meltdown.
The guy who made the movie wasn't just a director. He was a menace.
---
Two thousand miles away, the afternoon sun in California was bright, casting sharp shadows across the terracotta tiles of the Bel Air patio.
Margot sat in a plush outdoor chair, her legs tucked under her, holding a thick, glossy folder bound with a silver clip. She was wearing a simple white tank top and denim shorts, but her heart was racing like she was about to step onto a red carpet.
Elena Palmer, Daniel's PA, was sitting across from her, drinking a glass of iced tea.
Daniel was sitting at the edge of the table. He wasn't looking at the folder. He had a massive, rolled-up sheet of architectural blueprints spread out over the glass tabletop, using a coffee mug to hold down one corner while he sketched a lighting schematic with a pencil.
Florence was lounging on a sunbed a few feet away, reading a script.
"This is just the early shortlist," Elena clarified, tapping the glossy folder in Margot's hands. "The official announcements aren't for another month. But these numbers are pulled directly from the internal tracking data of the voting committees. They're basically locked."
Margot turned to the second page. Her eyes scanned the columns of text, stopping on a specific highlighted section.
Best Supporting Actress.
Her name was printed right there at the top of the list, flanked by three legendary, veteran actresses who had been working in the industry since Margot was in elementary school.
"Oh my god," Margot whispered, her hand actually trembling slightly as she touched the edge of the paper. She looked up at Elena, her eyes wide. "They're actually going to nominate me? For real?"
"You're not just nominated," Elena smiled warmly, setting her glass down. "The tracking shows you as the clear frontrunner. The critics are completely obsessed with the Harley Quinn dynamic. You brought a level of chaos to the screen that completely balanced the tone of the movie. It's a lock, Margot."
Margot let out a shaky breath, pressing her hand to her chest. She looked over at Daniel.
"Dan," Margot said, her voice tight with excitement. "Dan, look at this."
Daniel didn't look up from his blueprint. He just kept sketching a camera rig trajectory with his pencil. "I told you that you were going to blow people away. I'm not surprised."
"Look at the next page," Elena instructed.
Margot flipped the heavy paper over.
Best Actor.
Daniel Miller's name was sitting alone at the top of the column, highlighted in bright yellow. Below him were the names of actors who usually commanded twenty million dollars a picture.
"You're sweeping it, Dan," Elena said, her professional tone laced with a deep, undeniable satisfaction. "The Golden Globes, the SAG awards, the Academy. They are universally placing you at the top of the ballot. The straight-razor scene is literally all the industry trades are talking about. Warner Bros. wants to launch a massive 'For Your Consideration' campaign starting next week."
Daniel finally stopped drawing.
He didn't look excited. He didn't smile. He tossed the pencil onto the blueprints and looked at Elena.
"Tell Warner Bros. to save their money," Daniel said flatly.
Margot blinked, completely derailed by his reaction. "What? Dan, this is the Academy Awards. This is the biggest stage in the world."
"It's a marketing tool," Daniel corrected her, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "It's a manufactured television broadcast designed to sell Blu-rays and boost streaming rights. The voting committees are made up of old studio executives who vote for their friends."
"Daniel, you're the absolute frontrunner," Elena pushed gently, knowing exactly how stubborn her boss could be. "If we just do a small press tour—two magazine covers, maybe one round-table interview with the other nominees—we secure the statue."
"I'm not doing a press tour," Daniel said, his tone leaving absolutely zero room for negotiation. "I'm not going to sit at a cocktail party at the Four Seasons, holding a glass of cheap champagne, shaking hands with studio executives I despise, and begging them to vote for me. I did the work. The movie is on the screen. It speaks for itself. If they want to give me a piece of gold-plated metal for it, fine. If they don't, I don't care. I've got the metal in my office already."
Margot stared at him, genuinely shocked. Any other actor in Hollywood would be crying tears of joy, calling their publicists, and immediately booking fittings for a tuxedo. Daniel looked like he was annoyed by the interruption.
Florence let out a rich, knowing laugh from the sunbed.
"I told you," Florence said, turning her head to look at Margot, a deeply affectionate smile on her face. "He doesn't care about the trophies. He never has. When 12 Angry Men won all those independent awards, Tom literally had to drag him by the collar to the ceremonies. You get used to it."
"I have a movie to shoot, Elena," Daniel said, turning back to his blueprints and picking up his pencil. "I'm not putting Vice City on hold so I can play industry politics. Tell Gantry if he wants to buy billboards for the movie, he can. But I'm not doing the circuit."
Elena sighed, recognizing the immovable object she was dealing with. She nodded, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "Alright, boss. I'll let WB know you're unavailable. But you better at least show up to the actual ceremony."
"I'll think about it," Daniel muttered, already sketching out the dimensions for the Ocean Drive set.
---
A week later, the atmosphere inside Soundstage Two on the new Miller Studios lot in the San Fernando Valley was intensely focused.
The cavernous, warehouse-style building was massive, completely dwarfing the older facilities in Burbank. Dozens of heavy, high-wattage studio lights hung from the steel grid above, casting a brilliant, hot, flawless white light over a completely blank gray backdrop.
This wasn't a rehearsal. This was the final, critical camera and wardrobe screen test.
Before a single frame of the movie was shot on the backlot, Daniel needed to see exactly how the aggressive, highly saturated pastel colors of the 1980s wardrobe interacted with the heavy film stock and the specific lighting setups his cinematographer had designed.
Daniel stood behind the primary camera monitor, wearing a headset around his neck, holding a cup of iced coffee.
"Bring them out," Daniel called out to the PAs.
From the dressing rooms off to the side, the three core actors walked onto the gray soundstage floor.
Al Pacino stepped onto his tape mark in the center. He was wearing the bright, aggressive cyan silk shirt covered in yellow palm trees, the stonewash jeans, and the white sneakers. The feathered hair and heavy stubble completed the look.
Jamie Foxx stepped up to his right. He was wearing a crisp, immaculate, mint-green tailored suit over a black t-shirt, wearing a pair of dark aviator sunglasses indoors. He looked effortlessly slick, the epitome of cocaine-era Miami wealth.
Steve Buscemi scurried over to Pacino's left. He was swimming in a terribly fitted, heavily wrinkled, awful shade of brown suit. His tie was loosened, his hair was a mess, and makeup had strategically applied a layer of fake sweat to his forehead and upper lip.
"Alright," Daniel said, his voice echoing slightly in the large space. "Let's see the dynamic. Just stand there. Don't act. Just breathe in the clothes."
Daniel leaned over the monitor, watching the feed.
It was absolute magic.
Pacino didn't do anything theatrical. He didn't try to look tough. He had completely internalized Daniel's note from the wardrobe fitting. He stood perfectly still, his shoulders dropped, his neck stiff, his jaw locked. The dead-eyed, heavy, predatory gravity radiating off the man was so intense that it completely overpowered the ridiculous, brightly colored shirt he was wearing.
It didn't look like a costume anymore. It looked like the skin of a very dangerous animal.
To his right, Jamie Foxx couldn't stand perfectly still. He was buzzing with a natural, nervous energy. He kept shifting his weight, adjusting the cuffs of his mint-green suit, tilting his head back slightly to look down his nose through the aviators. It was the perfect portrayal of a guy trying entirely too hard to look like he belonged in the criminal underworld.
And on the left, Buscemi looked like he was actively having a panic attack. He was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, his eyes darting toward the massive camera lens like it was a loaded gun.
The contrast between the three of them was visually stunning. Pacino was the anchor, a black hole of violent potential, completely flanked by neurotic, chaotic energy.
"Bob, how are the colors reading?" Daniel asked, looking up at his cinematographer, Bob Elswit, who was checking the light meters.
"The cyan is popping beautifully, Dan," Bob confirmed, adjusting a dial on the camera. "It's highly saturated, but the film stock is holding the contrast in the shadows around Pacino's face. The mint green suit looks incredibly sharp. It's giving us exactly that synthetic, neon feel you asked for."
"Perfect," Daniel said, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
He didn't need to hear them speak right now. He just needed to see them exist in the frame. The visual language of the movie was locked. It wasn't the dark, oppressive dread of Gotham. It was vibrant, aggressive, and completely untrustworthy.
"That's a cut on the tests," Daniel announced loudly, clapping his hands once. "Get out of the clothes, get some rest. I will see all of you tomorrow night at sundown. We start shooting for real."
---
The sun began to dip behind the Santa Monica Mountains, casting a brilliant, fiery orange glow over the San Fernando Valley.
But out on the massive exterior backlot of Miller Studios, the real light show was just beginning.
Daniel stood in the center of the fake Ocean Drive, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a light jacket. The temperature was dropping, but the energy on the set was actively burning hot.
The Ocean View Hotel facade loomed above them. As the natural light faded, the electrical team threw the massive breakers.
Click. Buzz.
Miles of custom-made, heavy glass neon tubing flickered to life simultaneously. The entire street was suddenly bathed in violent, electric shades of hot pink, cyan, and deep purple. The massive, art-deco curves of the hotel glowed against the darkening sky.
Two massive water trucks had just finished their passes, completely soaking the specially sealed black asphalt. The neon lights reflected perfectly in the wet pavement, creating a mirror image of the 1980s aesthetic stretching down the block.
The set was completely alive.
Dozens of background extras were hitting their marks. Women in high-cut pastel bikinis and leg warmers were lacing up classic four-wheel roller skates. Men in loud, unbuttoned shirts were holding massive, boxy prop boomboxes.
Parked at the curb, directly in front of the neon-lit hotel entrance, was the hero car.
A pristine, blindingly white 1986 Ferrari Testarossa.
The aggressive, wedge-shaped lines of the car, combined with the signature side strakes, made it look like a spaceship parked on the street. The engine was currently idling, emitting a deep, throaty, mechanical growl that resonated in Daniel's chest.
Tom Wiley walked up next to Daniel, holding a clipboard and a walkie-talkie. Tom looked around at the neon, the cars, and the massive camera cranes slowly moving into position.
"I'm not going to lie," Tom said, shaking his head with a massive grin. "This is a hell of a lot more fun than a dirty alleyway in Gotham."
"It's a different kind of monster," Daniel smiled, pulling the headset over his ears. He looked over at the massive stage speakers set up around the perimeter of the street. "Cue the track. I want everyone in the rhythm before we roll."
A production assistant hit a switch on a soundboard.
The heavy, pulsing, undeniable synth bassline of Self Control by Laura Branigan blasted out over the backlot. The music echoed off the fake hotel walls, instantly transforming the atmosphere. The extras on roller skates started moving to the beat. The camera operators tapped their feet. The entire crew synced up to the 1980s tempo.
Daniel walked over to the director's chair set up near the video village monitors, but he didn't sit down. He preferred to stand right next to the camera for the first shot.
Tonight, they weren't shooting the hotel scenes. They were starting with the inciting incident. They were starting with the betrayal.
The crew moved down the street, away from the hotel, toward a specialized, heavily fogged section of the backlot designed to look like the Vice City docks. It was dark, humid, and lit only by the low, amber glow of fake industrial streetlamps.
Al Pacino and Jamie Foxx were already in position.
They were standing near the trunk of an old, boxy sedan. Two actors playing the cartel contacts were standing opposite them. Two massive, silver aluminum briefcases were resting on the trunk of the car. One was open, revealing stacks of prop hundred-dollar bills. The other was closed.
Pacino looked completely in his element. The bright shirt was partially hidden by the shadows, but the heavy, intimidating posture was locked in.
"Alright, settle down," Tom Wiley's voice echoed through his megaphone, cutting through the low hum of the music. "We are rolling picture on Scene One, Take One."
"Sound speeding," the mixer confirmed, adjusting his dials.
"Cameras are rolling," Bob Elswit said from behind the primary lens, tracking the focus on Pacino's face.
A grip stepped in front of the lens with the black and white clapperboard.
"Vice City. Scene One. Take One. Mark."
Clack.
The grip ducked out of the frame.
The set fell completely, suffocatingly silent. The heavy fog rolled slowly across the wet asphalt, swirling around Pacino's white sneakers.
Daniel took a slow breath, feeling the familiar, electric thrill of a new world coming to life in front of his eyes. He didn't yell. He didn't use a megaphone. He just leaned forward and spoke clearly.
"Action."
The scene started in mid-conversation.
"Fifteen years," Pacino said.
His voice wasn't loud, but the raspy, gravelly weight of it immediately commanded the entire space. He wasn't looking at the money. He was staring directly into the eyes of the lead cartel actor across the trunk.
"Fifteen years in a box up north," Pacino continued, his eyes dead and unblinking. "And Sonny sends me down here to buy baking soda in the humidity. Open the case. Let's get this over with. I want to go back to my hotel and take a shower."
The cartel actor, playing the intimidation perfectly, nervously unlatched the second briefcase. He popped it open, revealing neatly packed, sealed bricks of pure white powder.
Jamie Foxx, standing slightly behind Pacino, let out a low whistle, shifting his weight nervously. "That is a lot of snow, Tommy. Sonny is going to be very happy."
Pacino didn't look at the drugs. He didn't break eye contact with the cartel man. He slowly reached into his pocket.
The cartel guys tensed, hands drifting toward their waistbands.
Pacino pulled out a silver switchblade. He flicked it open with a sharp, metallic snick that echoed in the quiet air. He didn't act fast. He moved slowly, deliberately, reaching over the trunk to slice open the corner of the top brick. He dipped his pinky finger into the powder, bringing it up to rub against his gums.
He held the silence for three agonizing seconds.
"It's good," Pacino finally muttered, folding the knife shut and slipping it back into his pocket. He reached for the handle of the briefcase full of money. "Pleasure doing business with you boys."
"Wait," Daniel whispered under his breath, watching the monitor.
The cue was perfect.
High above the set, on a practical catwalk hidden in the shadows, the special effects coordinator hit a button on a remote.
CRACK.
A massive, deafening, amplified sound of a high-caliber sniper rifle shattered the quiet tension of the scene.
Simultaneously, a practical squib hidden inside the prop briefcase full of money violently detonated. The briefcase exploded, sending a massive, cinematic shower of fake hundred-dollar bills flying into the air, fluttering down like green snow in the amber streetlight.
The reaction was flawless.
The cartel actor took a blank round to the chest, a blood squib bursting through his shirt as he was thrown backward against the pavement.
Jamie Foxx screamed, genuine panic in his voice, diving behind the rear tire of the sedan and covering his head.
But Pacino was the money shot.
He didn't scream. He didn't flail. The second the gunshot went off, his fifteen years of prison-hardened survival instinct kicked in instantly. He dropped low to the wet asphalt, moving with terrifying speed, pressing his back against the bumper of the car.
The camera pushed in fast, catching him in a tight close-up.
Pacino didn't look scared. He looked up at the briefcases resting on the trunk. The money was gone. The drugs were gone. The deal was an ambush.
A cold, dark, terrifying realization washed over Pacino's face. The muscle in his jaw feathered. He realized, in that split second, that his boss hadn't sent him to Miami to make a deal. He had sent him to die.
Pacino slowly raised his head, looking out into the foggy darkness where the shooter was hidden. The scowl that formed on his face was pure, unadulterated, psychopathic murder.
"And cut!" Daniel called out, his voice sharp and loud.
The tension on the set evaporated instantly. The heavy silence was broken by the crew letting out a collective breath.
Pacino relaxed his jaw, wiping a piece of wet, fake money off his shoulder as he stood up from the pavement. He rolled his neck, looking over at the video village.
Daniel was staring at the playback monitor, watching the close-up of Pacino's face right after the gunshot. The aggressive cyan shirt, the wet asphalt, the green money falling through the air, and the absolute, raw intensity of the actor's eyes.
"How was it, Dan?" Tom Wiley asked, stepping up next to the monitor, his own adrenaline pumping from the practical explosion.
Daniel didn't look away from the screen. A slow, massive, entirely satisfied smile spread across his face. He hit the spacebar, pausing the footage on Pacino's terrifying glare.
"It was perfect," Daniel said quietly, turning around to face the crew. He raised his voice so the entire set could hear him. "That is a print! Reset the squibs. We're moving on to the escape sequence!"
The crew erupted into motion, the heavy synth-wave music kicking back on to keep the energy high.
Daniel stood in the middle of the fake Miami street, the neon lights reflecting in the wet pavement around his shoes. He had just successfully stepped into the neon jungle.
-------
A/N: Read ahead on Patreon: patreon.com/AmaanS
Have a great weekend! See you on Monday!