Jack Sullivan stood outside a strip mall office in downtown LA, his thrift-store blazer barely hiding the sweat stains from a sleepless night. It was 11:45 AM, June 24, 2025, and he had fifteen minutes until his pitch meeting with Lena, the producer who saw potential in his Before Sunrise-style short after its Audience Choice win at the LA Indie Film Fest. The $500 prize had bumped his bank account to $737, but with $1500 due to his landlord Vince by noon tomorrow, he was still $763 short of keeping his apartment. Jack clutched a USB drive with his festival poster and a mock-up pitch deck, both polished by the system's Promotional Design Mastery.
"If I bomb this," he muttered, "I'm directing Cardboard Box Diaries from an alley."
The short was his golden ticket—Emma Harper's electric performance, the tap-dance scene sparked by the system's absurd gift, and his color-graded visuals had wowed the festival crowd. But turning it into a feature meant convincing Lena to bet on a nobody with a rap sheet of flops. Marty Klein's text from last night—Investor's at the meeting. Don't screw it up—was both a lifeline and a noose. Jack's stomach churned. "This world's got no When Harry Met Sally," he grumbled, "but I'm about to meet my maker."
Emma was meeting him here, her presence a boost he couldn't admit he needed. Her faith in the film—and that charged moment at the festival party—kept replaying in his head, her green eyes and sharp laugh cutting through his panic.
He texted her: Here. Ready to charm Lena? Her reply: Born ready. Don't faint, Sullivan. Jack smirked, her sass a spark in his grim day.
"Alright, system, give me something to seal this deal," he said, leaning against a graffiti-tagged wall.
Ding!
The robotic voice hit like a budget sound effect: "Sign-In System activated. Claim your daily reward."
Jack tapped the glowing chest in the golden interface, bracing for another curveball.
A warm buzz shot through his brain, and ideas flooded in—story arcs, character beats, three-act structures that felt like they'd been brewing for years. His fingers twitched, itching to write a feature script that could carry Emma's fire and his short's heart. He blinked, stunned, as a logline formed: Two strangers, one night, a city that dares them to stay.
The system chimed: "Screenwriting Mastery acquired. Craft compelling, professional scripts with intuitive depth."
Jack's jaw dropped. "System, you're my goddamn fairy godmother." He grabbed his notebook, jotting a feature outline: a deeper dive into the short's lovers, their pasts unraveling over a sprawling LA night. It was raw, real, and marketable—perfect for Lena. He muttered, "Cinderella's got nothing on me."
Emma arrived, her auburn hair catching the noon sun, green eyes sharp with focus. "You look like you're plotting a heist," she said, nudging him. "Ready to sell this thing?"
"With you? I could sell sand in a desert," Jack said, his charisma and new screenwriting spark buzzing. Her laugh was a shot of adrenaline, and they walked into Lena's office, a cramped space with "Ninja Beach" posters and a desk buried in scripts.
Lena sat with a guy in a cheap suit—Marty's investor, Carl, who looked like he'd rather be golfing. "Alright, Sullivan," Lena said, sipping coffee. "Your short was solid. Audience Choice is cute, but features are big money. Why should we back you?"
Jack's Public Speaking Mastery kicked in, his voice steady, laced with the system's charisma. "Because this story's got heart in a world drowning in "ThunderSquad" noise. It's about two people finding each other against the odds—raw, real, universal." He slid the USB drive across, his festival poster glowing on his laptop: Audience Choice Winner. "This deck's got the vision—same vibe, bigger canvas. Emma's the soul, and I've got the script to back her."
Emma jumped in, her voice clear. "The short was just a taste. A feature lets us dig deeper—why they're running, what they're chasing. It's a story people need." Her eyes locked with Jack's, a quiet trust that made his chest tighten.
Carl, the investor, leaned forward, skeptical. "Your last film tanked. The Last Bus was a mess. Why trust you with my cash?"
Jack didn't flinch, the system's screenwriting mastery sparking a rebuttal. "The Last Bus was me swinging too big, too soon. This is focused—lean storytelling, built on what worked in the short. I've got a feature outline ready, three acts, character arcs that'll gut you." He opened his notebook, showing the fresh logline and beats. "Test me. I'll write a scene right now."
Lena raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Bold. Alright, let's hear it."
Jack's fingers flew, the system's mastery guiding him. He pitched a scene: the lovers on a rooftop, dawn breaking, their truths spilling out. "You think you can outrun your past?" he voiced for Emma's character. "No, but I can face it if you're here." The words crackled, raw and alive. Emma's eyes widened, and even Carl nodded, scribbling notes.
Lena leaned back. "Not bad, Sullivan. I'm in for a development deal—$10,000 to draft the feature script. Deliver a first draft in six weeks, and we'll talk production." Carl grunted agreement, and Jack's heart soared. $10,000 could clear his debt and keep him afloat.
"Deal," Jack said, shaking Lena's hand, his charisma sealing it. Emma grinned, her pride palpable. "Told you you're not half-bad," she whispered as they left the office.
Outside, the LA sun was brutal, but Jack felt lighter. He texted Vince: Got $1500 coming tomorrow. Hold off the locks. Then he turned to Emma. "We did it. Feature deal. You're my good-luck charm."
She smirked, brushing hair behind her ear. "Don't get cocky, Sullivan. You owe me a beer for this." Her green eyes held his, a spark that wasn't just professional. Jack's heart did a tap-dance, but he played it cool. "Add it to your tab."
Back at his apartment, Jack collapsed, the $500 prize check in hand, Lena's deal a lifeline. His phone buzzed—Marty: Heard you nailed the pitch. Don't blow the script. Jack grinned, opening his laptop to start the feature outline. The system's screenwriting mastery made it flow—scenes, beats, dialogue pouring out like he'd been writing blockbusters his whole life.
The system's glow lingered, a mystery he couldn't unravel. Why was it pushing him? Was it fate or a cosmic prank? The sonnets echoed: "Love's not time's fool." He smirked. "Better not be, Will. I've got a script to write."
Jack leaned back, the city's hum outside. A deal, a chance, a spark with Emma. "Pitch perfect," he muttered, ready for the next frame.