The office didn't look like the birthplace of a cinematic revolution.
It was hidden on the fourth floor of an aging commercial building, sandwiched between a closed travel agency and a storage company that specialized in broken vending machines. No logo. No nameplate. Just a reinforced door and tinted windows.
Inside, however, the air was electric.
Avery stood at the head of a scarred wooden conference table. The room smelled faintly of fresh paint and old paper. Three laptops hummed softly, connected to secure servers Elias had insisted on installing himself.
Across from her sat the two men the industry had thrown away.
Leo Vance.Elias Vance.
No relation by blood—but both exiles from the same empire.
Avery didn't waste time.
She lifted a massive binder—thicker than a phone book, heavier than it had any right to be—and slammed it onto the table.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"This," Avery said calmly, "is our next project."
The binder's cover was blank. No title. No logo.
Only a single word stamped in silver ink along the spine:
TITANIC
Leo frowned, then reached for it.
He flipped the first page.
Then the second.
By page ten, his posture had changed.
By page fifty, his cigarette trembled between his fingers.
By the time he reached the section marked ACT III — THE SINKING, his hands were visibly shaking.
"…Avery," Leo whispered hoarsely.
He looked up at her, eyes bloodshot, alive in a way they hadn't been in years.
"This is madness."
He swallowed.
"This is a billion-dollar movie."
Elias leaned forward. "That high?"
Leo let out a shaky laugh.
"That low if the world has any taste left."
He flipped to a page, jabbing a finger at the text.
"This isn't spectacle for spectacle's sake. This is human arrogance versus nature. Class warfare. Love as defiance. Death with dignity."
He looked at Avery as if she were a loaded gun.
"This would destroy the box office."
Then reality crashed back in.
Leo slumped into his chair.
"…But we don't have a studio. We don't have a crew. We don't have investors."
He spread his hands helplessly.
"We don't even have an ocean."
The room fell quiet.
Elias adjusted his glasses, already calculating risks, liabilities, lawsuits.
Avery, however, remained perfectly calm.
"We have the script," she said.
She tapped the binder once.
"And that's the only thing that actually matters."
Leo stared at her.
"Avery—"
"And," she continued, "we have The Aurelian Vault."
Elias's eyes flicked up. "You're thinking—"
"We're not going to beg studios for money," Avery said flatly. "And we're not going to give up control."
She turned her laptop around.
On the screen was the backend dashboard of The Aurelian Vault—traffic numbers climbing in real time, user engagement charts exploding upward, subscription revenue ticking higher by the second.
"The web-novel is already paying for itself," Avery said. "My music catalog is generating independent royalties Titan can't touch. And the Phoenix persona has turned me into a cultural symbol."
She looked at both men.
"We're going to crowdfund Titanic."
Leo blinked. "Crowdfund… a two-hundred-million-dollar film?"
"Yes."
Elias frowned. "That's unprecedented."
"So was a masked singer collapsing Titan Management's stock price," Avery replied coolly.
She clicked again.
A new page loaded.
AURELIAN VAULT — DIGITAL RIGHTS OFFERING (DRO)
A breakdown appeared.
— Limited digital ownership of original songs— Early access to Titanic production logs— Exclusive behind-the-scenes chapters— Profit-sharing for premium backers— Immutable smart contracts (Elias's handiwork)
"We're not selling dreams," Avery said. "We're selling proof."
Leo leaned closer.
"You're monetizing belief."
"I'm weaponizing it," she corrected.
Elias exhaled slowly.
"…If this works, it bypasses studios, distributors, and financiers."
"That's the point," Avery said.
She walked to the window, pulling the blinds down slightly.
"TItan Management controls artists by controlling access. Studios think they're gods because they sit between creators and audiences."
She turned back, eyes cold and sharp.
"I'm removing the middleman."
Leo laughed suddenly—a raw, almost manic sound.
"Do you know what they'll call us?"
Avery raised an eyebrow.
"Outcasts," Leo continued. "Amateurs. Delusional failures."
Elias smirked. "Lawsuits waiting to happen."
Avery smiled faintly.
"Perfect."
She stepped back to the table and placed her hands on the Titanic binder.
"This project isn't just a movie."
Her voice lowered.
"It's a declaration of war against an obsolete system."
The System interface flickered briefly at the edge of her vision.
[System Notification: Core Team Alignment Detected.][Synergy Bonus Activated: +15% Project Efficiency.][Hidden Title Progress: Founder of a New Order.]
Leo stood up slowly.
He picked up the binder again, holding it like something sacred.
"I've been waiting my entire life to make a film like this," he said quietly. "Something that terrifies executives."
He met Avery's gaze.
"I don't care if we film it in bathtubs and parking lots."
Elias rose as well.
"I'll structure the funding, shield the liabilities, and make sure Titan can't touch a cent," he said. "They'll try to sue us into dust."
Avery nodded. "Let them."
Elias smiled thinly. "Good. I've missed court."
The three of them stood there—no studio backing, no industry approval, no safety net.
Just talent.
Just rage.
Just belief.
Avery closed the binder.
"Then it's settled," she said.
"Aurelian Studios' first feature will be Titanic."
She paused, then added softly—
"And this time… it won't sink alone."
Outside, the city roared on, unaware.
Inside that forgotten office, three outcasts had just agreed to build a legend.