Two days had passed since the night at Brad Pitt's estate — two days that had felt both weightless and strangely heavy.
The party's images still replayed in Izaac's mind with the quiet persistence of a song stuck on loop — Tom Cruise grinning at him like an old comrade, Henry Golding's laughter cutting through the music, Madison and Madelyn pretending not to glare at each other across the room.
But the clearest moment came much later, after most of the crowd had drifted home. He'd been leaning against the balcony rail, the Hollywood Hills laid out like a sleeping city beneath him, when Elizabeth Olsen slipped outside. No publicist, no entourage, just a soft cardigan wrapped around her shoulders and a glass of red wine in hand.
They'd talked in low tones, the conversation circling closer, her words brushing against something more personal. There had been a subtle shift — the way she let her fingers rest briefly on his arm, the deliberate pauses before her smile. If she was making a move, it was careful, deliberate.
But Izaac, as polite as he was, let the moment pass. No hints, no hooks taken. She left before finishing her wine, and he didn't follow.
Now, here in the bright late-morning air of a Los Angeles studio lot, there was no room for that memory.
The smell hit first — brewed coffee, hot cables, faint paint from freshly finished set walls. Crew members wove between carts of lighting gear, camera rigs, and prop tables. There was movement everywhere, but no chaos; everyone seemed to know their part.
And then there was the name stamped neatly across the clapboards stacked near the director's chair: Hereafter.
This was his first co-producing credit. A slow-burn psychological drama with a haunting script, the kind that lived in your head long after the credits rolled. Amazon Prime had committed to a prime Friday-night slot, the kind of release window usually reserved for proven hits.
The man in the director's chair was Wyatt Keener — a B-tier director with a reputation for elevated indie films that somehow pulled award buzz despite modest budgets. Keener was lean, mid-forties, with black-rimmed glasses and the sharp, contained energy of someone who noticed everything. His films had a knack for coaxing dangerous vulnerability from his actors, and he clearly intended to do the same here.
The cast was a blend of names carefully chosen for range and buzz:
Aubrey Plaza as the enigmatic lead, her dry wit already infusing the role with unexpected humor.
Dylan O'Brien, a steady high B-tier presence, here to shed his nice-guy image in a darker supporting role.
Lana Condor, fresh off a streaming hit, playing a deceptively quiet character with a violent turn.
And off to the side, not part of the show but still present, sat Madison Beer — in black leggings and a loose hoodie, one knee drawn up as she scrolled through her phone. She was here shadowing the music supervisor, but Izaac had already caught her looking his way more than once.
The first time, he ignored it. The second, he noticed. The third, he looked right back. She dropped her gaze immediately, but not before the faintest curve of a smile.
Henry Golding strolled in halfway through the morning, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. "You're going to ruin people's mornings, looking like that before they've had caffeine," he said, clapping Izaac on the shoulder.
"I'm here to work, not to model for craft services."
Henry smirked. "Keep telling yourself that."
They stepped behind the monitors where Wyatt Keener was watching a rehearsal. Aubrey Plaza was running a scene with Dylan O'Brien — a tense exchange in a dimly lit room, the camera creeping slowly toward her face.
"Her energy's off today," Keener muttered. "She's too guarded."
"Her body angle's wrong," Izaac said quietly. "If she shifts her left shoulder forward, it'll read like she's still deciding whether to trust him, instead of having already decided she won't."
Keener looked at him for a moment, unreadable, then nodded. "Not bad." He relayed the adjustment, and the difference was immediate.
Not everyone was so receptive.
Later, during a break, one of the supporting actors — Connor Stroud, a physically imposing type cast for his presence more than his craft — approached the craft table at the same time as Izaac. Stroud had the easy arrogance of someone used to being the loudest in the room.
"So," Connor said, looking Izaac up and down, "you're the money guy?"
"I'm a producer," Izaac replied evenly.
"Right, right. You write any checks bigger than your ego yet?" Connor smirked, as if he'd scored a point.
Henry, who had wandered over just in time to hear it, raised an eyebrow. "You picking fights with the wrong guy, mate."
Izaac didn't rise to it — at least, not visibly. He picked up a coffee, took a slow sip, and met Connor's stare. "I only invest in things worth finishing. That's why you're here."
The subtle edge in his tone landed — Connor's smirk faltered just enough for Izaac to walk away without looking back.
By afternoon, the first full scene run was underway. Aubrey delivered her lines with a new edge, Dylan matched her beat for beat, and Lana brought unexpected fire to a quiet moment. Keener seemed satisfied.
Madison was still watching him from her corner. When their eyes met again, she didn't look away this time.
It wasn't just the show that was starting. It was the next act of something larger.