Jack Sullivan sat at his wobbly kitchen table, his laptop glowing in the pre-dawn gloom of his mildew-scented apartment.
It was 3:22 AM, June 25, 2025, and he was supposed to be writing the first draft of his Before Sunrise-inspired feature script, due to producer Lena in six weeks.
The $10,000 development deal was a lifeline, enough to clear his $1500 rent debt to his landlord Vince by noon today and keep him afloat. But his bank account still held just $737, including the $500 Audience Choice prize from the LA Indie Film Fest, and the check from Lena wouldn't hit for days.
Jack rubbed his eyes, muttering, "If I don't get words down, I'm scripting Starving Artist from a dumpster."
The short film—two strangers falling in love over one night—had been a hit, thanks to Emma Harper's electric performance, the system's tap-dance scene, and his polished visuals. Now, the feature demanded more: deeper characters, a sprawling LA backdrop, and stakes that hit harder than his looming eviction.
Lena's words echoed: "Deliver a draft, or we're done."
Jack's pitch, fueled by Screenwriting Mastery, had sold her, but staring at a blank Final Draft screen, he felt the old panic creep in. "This world's got no Eternal Sunshine," he grumbled, "but my brain's stuck in a loop."
Emma had been his rock, her faith in the project—and that spark at the pitch meeting—keeping him grounded. Her green eyes and sharp laugh haunted him, a distraction he couldn't afford but didn't want to shake. He'd promised her a beer to celebrate the deal, but with no cash, he'd texted her yesterday: Beer IOU. Wanna read my first scene tomorrow?
Her reply: Only if it's good. Don't suck, Sullivan.
Jack smirked, her sass a jolt to his tired soul.
Jack glanced at his phone—time for the daily reward, even if it was 3 AM.
"Alright, system, keep me from writer's block," he said, cracking his knuckles.
Ding!
The robotic voice hit like a late-night radio ad: "Sign-In System activated. Claim your daily reward."
Jack tapped the glowing chest in the golden interface, bracing for another wild card.
A warm buzz flooded his chest, and his senses sharpened—sounds of the city, the hum of his fridge, the rhythm of his own breath weaving into a soundscape. His brain clicked, layering audio ideas: a street busker's guitar for the lovers' first meet, a distant siren for their argument, waves for their quiet moment.
He blinked, stunned, as his laptop's Audacity software felt like a playground.
The system chimed: "Sound Design Mastery acquired. Craft immersive, professional audio landscapes with intuitive precision."
Jack's jaw dropped. "System, you're my sound guy now?"
He opened Audacity, messing with the short's lo-fi track, layering in ambient LA sounds—traffic, gulls, a faint bar hum. It elevated the vibe, making the short's score feel like a feature's.
For the script, he jotted notes: Sound cues—busker guitar fades to silence as she walks away. It wasn't cash, but it could make his feature sing, giving Lena a richer vision. "Tarantino, eat your heart out," he muttered, grinning.
But the real world wasn't so kind. Vince's deadline loomed, and $737 wouldn't cut it. Jack texted him: Got a $10K deal. Check's coming. Can you wait till tomorrow?
Vince's reply was instant: No games, Sullivan. $1500 by noon, or your stuff's on the curb.
Jack's charisma from the system's boost was useless against Vince's wrath. He needed $763, fast.
Tony's "ThunderSquad 3" gig today offered $100, but even that left him $663 short.
Desperate, Jack called Diego, his barista-turned-DP. "Any side hustles, man? I'm drowning."
Diego paused, then said, "My cousin needs a promo video for his taco truck. $200, one-day shoot. You in?"
Jack jumped: "Hell yeah. Text me the details."
$200 plus $100 got him to $1037—still $463 short, but closer. He'd have to beg Vince for mercy.
He turned back to the script, the system's Screenwriting Mastery guiding his fingers. The opening scene flowed: EXT. LA ROOFTOP – NIGHT. The city hums below, stars faint. She leans on the ledge, he hesitates.
Dialogue came alive—"You're not staying, are you?"
"I want to. That's the problem."
It was raw, real, Emma's voice in his head. But writer's block lurked, the pressure of Lena's deadline choking him.
Emma showed up at noon, knocking just as Jack sent Vince the $500 festival check via e-transfer, stalling the landlord.
She carried two coffees, her auburn hair loose, green eyes sharp.
"You look like a zombie," she said, handing him a cup. "Script any good yet?"
"Working on it," Jack said, his charisma kicking in. "Got a scene. Wanna read?" He opened his laptop, the system's sound design notes scribbled beside the dialogue. Emma scanned it, her lips twitching.
"This is… solid," she said, surprised. "The rooftop bit's got heart. And these sound cues? Fancy. Where'd you learn this?"
Jack dodged, grinning. "Just a guy with a laptop and too much coffee."
Her praise hit harder than Lena's deal, and he caught himself staring as she read. "You'd kill this scene," he said, softer than intended.
She smirked, nudging him. "Don't get mushy, Sullivan. But yeah, I'd make it sing." Her hand brushed his, a spark that wasn't just caffeine. "Keep writing. I want a role worth fighting for."
They spent an hour brainstorming, Emma's instincts sharpening his beats.
The system's mastery made his words flow, but her feedback—"Make her less perfect, more broken"—gave the script soul. By the time she left, Jack had three pages, a soundscape outline, and a dangerous warmth in his chest.
"Focus, idiot," he muttered, but her laugh lingered.
He rushed to Diego's cousin's taco truck shoot, a sweaty hour filming in a parking lot with the borrowed Arri Alexa.
The $200 was his, pushing him to $537. Back home, he begged Vince: Sent $500. Got $537 now, more tomorrow. One day, please.
Vince's reply: You're testing me, Sullivan. $1000 by noon tomorrow, or you're out.
Jack's heart sank—$463 short, but he'd bought hours.
He dove back into the script, the system's Sound Design Mastery layering audio ideas: Crickets for their first kiss, fading to silence. The feature was taking shape, but Lena's six-week clock ticked louder than Vince's threats.
His phone buzzed—Marty: Script better be good. Lena's impatient.
Jack gritted his teeth, the sonnets echoing: "Love's not time's fool." He smirked. "Hope not, Will. I'm writing for my life."
Jack leaned back, the city's hum blending with his laptop's whir. $537, a script, a spark with Emma.
"Words on the page," he muttered, ready for the next shot.