Lionsgate Offices, Los Angeles.
1:45 p.m.
Lionsgate isn't just any production company.
Known for franchises like The Hunger Games, Twilight, Divergent, and Now You See Me, it's one of the few independent studios that managed to compete in the big leagues.
It's arguably among the most successful independent film and television distribution companies in North America.
In a spacious yet modest casting room located on the building's second floor, the main team was already gathered fifteen minutes before the scheduled time.
There was a rectangular table, a row of black folding chairs aligned in front of it, and a fixed camera on a tripod pointed toward the center. The light was soft, filtered through a tall window.
Josh Andrés Rivera sat to the side, arms crossed, eyes locked on his phone's screen, though he hadn't touched it in minutes. His agent had told him about this audition the night before.
An audition that shouldn't exist. The role of Sejanus Plinth was practically his already. He had done the test, spoken with the lead actors, the director, and one of the associate producers.
Even Rachel Zegler, his former co-star in West Side Story, had said she felt comfortable with him being part of the cast.
All that was left was to sign the contract, and yet, there he was.
Waiting to see some actor he'd never heard of try to steal his role.
Though steal wasn't quite the right word. The contract wasn't signed, so nothing was official yet.
Josh had managed to be present at the audition. It hadn't been a formal invitation, but his agent had intervened.
He said it was important for Josh to be there, as part of the process. And since Josh was already informally linked to the project, they allowed it.
He couldn't show anger; that would work against him. So he kept a neutral expression, his body tense, and remained completely silent.
Only his friend Rachel, who knew him well and was also present, could tell how much rage he was holding back, visible in the barely perceptible twitch of his leg, as if it took effort not to smash something against the wall.
A few meters away from Josh and Rachel sat Francis Lawrence, the film's director, flipping through a few printed pages. His clothes were casual, jeans, a black T-shirt, and a gray jacket.
His face was neutral, dark circles under his eyes, posture slightly slouched. He wasn't against the audition, but he wasn't thrilled about it either.
Debra Zane, the casting director, had insisted, "He's twenty. Closer to Sejanus than Josh," she'd told him.
And she was right.
The character in the books is eighteen, and though Tom Blyth (the lead, Coriolanus Snow) was also twenty-seven or twenty-eight, Lawrence understood that maintaining some physical consistency among the younger characters could be beneficial.
Still, he didn't consider it a big deal. Josh acted well, and Lawrence already knew his work.
"Who's this kid? Where did he come from?" asked the associate producer.
"His career is… a little different from the usual," Debra replied, maintaining her professional tone. "He's produced two short films and one feature. In all three, he's the writer, producer, and actor."
"Has he worked on anything else? Or just his own projects?" the producer asked, with a hint of disdain, the kind that comes from looking at a résumé that feels too self-taught.
"Only his own projects," Debra admitted. "But that doesn't take away from it, quite the opposite. The shorts he uploaded to his YouTube channel got very good engagement and positive comments. One has nearly 500,000 views, the other over 130,000. And the trailer for his feature film, Paranormal Activity, has already surpassed 400,000."
"YouTube…" the producer repeated skeptically, looking down, as if the word diminished everything that came before it.
"The feature was accepted and screened at the Palm Springs Film Festival just a few days ago," Debra added, anticipating the judgment. "And the short films were selected by Short of the Week, which accepts less than 5% of what they receive."
He glanced briefly at Francis and then back at the producer.
"That means the stories are well made. Not just self-financed vanity projects to give himself roles. Short of the Week receives thousands of short films every year, and getting two consecutive ones accepted is a very rare feat."
The room fell silent for a few seconds.
Rachel shifted her gaze toward Debra, as if trying to detect some kind of favoritism, or exaggeration, in the woman's tone, some sign that she was overselling this unknown actor's accomplishments.
Francis, the director, didn't change his expression. He had skimmed through Owen's résumé earlier, and everything Debra said was one hundred percent true.
Josh barely blinked, but his jaw tightened.
Debra continued, "And although it's not on his printed résumé, I'll add it since it's relevant. He recently sold an original screenplay to A24. Full sale."
There was no bias or overstatement in Debra's tone, just a calm, matter-of-fact delivery from someone who understood the weight of what she was saying.
"I'm not saying he's the next Chalamet. I'm just saying that when someone with this kind of profile comes along, and they also fit the character's age well, it's worth seeing their audition. Fifteen minutes, that's all," she added, without dramatics.
No one replied this time, not because they didn't want to, but because they couldn't refute her. Everything she'd said was true.
At that moment, the sound of steady footsteps echoed down the hallway.
An assistant opened the door softly and peeked in.
"He's here," she announced warmly.
"Bring him in," said Debra, straightening in her chair.
The door opened fully, and behind it stepped Larry, calm but alert, and right after him, Owen.
Francis, Josh, Rachel, and the producer hadn't seen Owen's face before; the résumé Debra had brought had no photo.
That's why, when Owen crossed the threshold and took his first steps into the room, there was a brief new silence.
He wore a simple black button-up shirt, no accessories, no distractions. His skin was fair, almost pale, and his face was symmetrical, with defined lines and harmonious features. His jet-black hair fell naturally, just messy enough to look effortless. And his eyes stood out, sharp, focused and impossible to ignore.
He was one of those faces that stay in your mind even before he speaks.
Francis studied him with mild interest. Physically, he fit the role better than expected. Sejanus came from a wealthy, refined family, and that matched Owen's natural bearing perfectly.
Josh's shoulders tightened slightly, though he said nothing. Rachel, watching closely, recognized something that couldn't be faked: a certain natural magnetism.
Larry greeted everyone first, and Owen followed suit politely.
Then Larry remained standing nearby, next to Debra and the others, without interrupting.
"When you're ready, Owen. The scene is Sejanus's monologue we sent you. Would you like me to read the opposite lines?" Debra asked, adjusting the paper in front of her.
"Yes, thank you," Owen nodded, taking a mental breath.
After a moment of silence, he began.
Owen, now as Sejanus, stood upright, hands at his sides, body tense, as if restraining himself before an authority he no longer respected.
"Snow didn't show anything people didn't already know," he said, his voice clear and charged with indignation.
Debra read the next line flatly, simply to keep the rhythm: "I don't need your help, Sejanus."
Owen didn't react to the neutral tone.
Sejanus didn't even hear Snow's words, the indignation coursed through him. "The tributes are human beings. Just like us," he said, pausing and glancing at several imagined classmates in his mind.
"That's why no one watches the Games. Because deep down, everyone knows that a war won ten years ago doesn't justify starving children, or stripping them of their freedom and rights."
His eyes locked again on the authority figure, the professor in the scene who scolded Snow.
His voice didn't rise in volume. He wasn't shouting. But his gaze grew sharper, more intense with every word.
"I don't care what the Capitol's history books say. I don't care what the teachers say. This is wrong. And what's wrong must be named."
Owen lowered his shoulders slightly, returning to his natural stance.
There was a brief silence, which Debra broke after a few seconds.
"Alright… let's move on to the second scene," she said, turning to the next page.
Owen nodded.
The next ten minutes flowed smoothly: first, a short scene in the cage where the tributes were held and Sejanus brought them food; then another during lunch at the Academy with Snow.
Debra read all the opposing lines without any acting intent, simply to mark the rhythm.
Owen stayed perfectly in character, maintaining complete control. He wasn't trying to impress or overact, to show emotions too strong for what Sejanus would realistically express in those moments.
When it ended, there was another brief pause.
Francis remained silent, fingers interlaced, elbows on the table, but his gaze had changed. It was no longer indifferent; it was curious, engaged.
In just a few minutes, he had seen a version of Sejanus he hadn't considered before, one with an elegant, almost aristocratic air. Morally firm, emotional but never theatrical. It felt as if the character's disdain for the Games came from a place of real conviction, not performance.
Francis wasn't someone who changed his mind easily, but there was something about Owen that had struck him, something that fit. Though his face gave nothing away, the thought was there.
Rachel stared at Owen, unable to hide her astonishment. She'd expected to see a nervous newcomer, but instead she saw someone who hadn't made a single mistake in ten full minutes of audition.
The associate producer, who minutes earlier had been the most skeptical and dismissive, also stayed silent, pleasantly surprised. He'd seen it countless times: up-and-coming actors, well-meaning but unpolished, walking into these rooms only to crumble on their first reading.
They stammered, skipped lines, asked to start over.
It was normal.
But this kid showed none of that. Not a tremor. Not a hesitation. Not even the faintest sign of nerves.
Josh, meanwhile, kept his composure, though it was clear that Owen's calm confidence had thrown him off more than he cared to admit. Now he felt uneasy, not just because the newcomer could act, but because he did so with the poise of someone who'd been doing it for years.
"Very well, Owen. Thank you. We'll let you know through Larry within three days," said Debra, her tone calm but with a faint approving smile.
"Thank you for the opportunity," Owen replied, equally calm, with a polite smile of his own.
He gave a small nod to each of them, no handshake, as was customary in these rooms, and left with Larry.
Out in the hallway, as they walked away from the casting room, Larry kept his hands in his pockets.
He glanced sideways at Owen and asked, "Do you know what's most impressive about you?"
"What?" Owen asked.
"That you never seem nervous. I know I haven't known you for long, but nothing ever throws you off. Not when I told you I could get you an audition for a hundred-million-dollar movie, and not now, after facing a seasoned director, the lead actress, the casting director, and the actor you were replacing. Is there anything that makes you nervous?" Larry asked.
Owen smiled faintly, not looking at him as they kept walking.
"Of course there are things that make me nervous. I've just learned to hide it well. I'm an actor, after all," Owen replied.
Larry let out a short laugh. "Well played."
Outside the Lionsgate building, Larry looked at Owen with a grin.
"You did great. Francis had you repeat scenes, he even gave you an extra one that wasn't in the sides we sent. He doesn't do that unless he's interested. The odds are good you'll get it, especially considering your age fits the character's perfectly," he said confidently.
"Let's hope so. Thanks, Larry, for the audition. I'll be waiting to hear back," said Owen, giving him a brief pat on the shoulder.
Larry stayed on the sidewalk for a moment longer, watching Owen walk away, a small smile on his face. He'd chosen well in giving him that audition.
Even if Owen didn't get the part, he was now on Debra's and Francis's radar, they'd seen his talent and knew his résumé. Even Lionsgate would take notice, unless that associate producer was blind.
Besides, Owen didn't just have talent, he had character, manners, and gratitude.
And that, in Hollywood, was rare.
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