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After the purge, the conference room felt as if it had lost weight.
It also felt more dangerous.
The people who remained had survived the first cut, which meant they were now listening for the second.
An assistant brought in a stack of scripts and development folders high enough to make Ethan’s mood worsen before he opened the first cover.
“These are the projects in production, preproduction, or active consideration for next year,” she said.
Ethan pulled the first file toward him.
A Guy Thing.
Mainstream romantic comedy.
Medium budget.
No clear reason to exist beyond the hope that a few recognizable faces could drag audiences into theaters.
He set it aside.
The next folder was Good Boy!, a family film built around a talking-dog premise and the youth market.
He set that aside too.
The third was Out of Time, with Denzel Washington attached and contracts already moving.
That one made him pause.
He remembered the film, but not fondly enough to protect it.
A respectable star could not save a project that lacked urgency in the market.
Ethan also remembered enough trade gossip from the old timeline to know the production had not been a clean machine.
He kept reading.
Most of the stack gave him the same answer.
Weak hooks.
Unclear audiences.
Budgets that made the upside too small.
Projects approved because someone had always approved projects like them.
Then he reached Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde.
Finally, something with a pulse.
The sequel’s budget had climbed, and Ethan did not love that, but the brand was real.
The first film had goodwill, Reese Witherspoon had a strong audience, and ancillary revenue could help.
With discipline, it could still be a worthwhile play.
There was also the Bond picture already too locked into its own machinery to be treated like ordinary development.
Everything else made him want aspirin.
He closed the folder and looked at the room.
“Legally Blonde 2 continues,” he said.
“Tighten the budget wherever we can without damaging the film people expect to see.
The Bond release stays on its existing track unless Charles says otherwise.
Everything else in this stack is paused pending review.”
The room went still.
Charles looked at him.
“Some of those have signed contracts.”
“Then legal tells us what it costs to stop, delay, or restructure them.”
“We could lose millions.”
“We will lose more by pretending bad projects improve because money is already spent.”
Charles did not answer immediately.
The room watched him.
This was the point of the agreement between them.
Charles would steer the company, but Ethan held final authority over film and television selection until the first major project under his leadership failed.
Charles hated wasting money.
He hated looking weak more.
“Proceed as Ethan said,” Charles ordered.
“Contract status, production status, and sunk costs all go to legal and finance.
No further spending without approval.”
No one looked happy.
That was fine.
Judy raised a practical question.
“Then the near slate is Barbershop, the Bond release, and next year’s Legally Blonde 2.
Red Dragon isn’t a project we control.
We need new projects.”
“We do,” Ethan said.
“And I already have the first target.”
He let the word hang for a beat.
“Transformers.”
Several people blinked.
Ethan had thought about this for weeks.
Arriving in 2002 sounded wonderful until he listed the franchises he could no longer steal.
Harry Potter was already with Warner. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
The Lord of the Rings had already begun its run.
The Fast and the Furious had launched in 2001.
Pirates of the Caribbean was deep inside Disney’s machine.
Jurassic Park and Star Wars belonged to older eras.
Spider-Man had just reminded every studio in town that superheroes could print money, but Spider-Man himself was Sony’s prize.
Most of the obvious doors were closed.
Transformers was one of the few still standing open.
“The live-action film rights are not locked away yet,” Ethan said.
“Hasbro has the brand, the toys, the lore, and global recognition.
We approach quietly.
No announcements until we control the option.”
A production executive named Martin Wolff nodded.
Charles had recruited him from a smaller company after twenty years of surviving on practical judgment.
“I can make contact.”
“Do it,” Ethan said.
“Discreetly.
I do not want Paramount, DreamWorks, or anyone else realizing we are moving until the paper is signed.”
Marvel tempted him even more, but that move needed timing.
DC was locked inside Warner’s world.
Marvel, meanwhile, was still independent and battered, with its crown jewels scattered across other studios: Spider-Man at Sony, X-Men and Fantastic Four at Fox, Hulk at Universal, Blade at New Line, and other characters tied up in options that would take lawyers to untangle.
The company itself was the real target, but Ethan could not ask Charles to swallow another acquisition before MGM had produced proof under their ownership.
Next year, he told himself.
First, MGM had to win something.
Then he turned to television.
“I also want a zombie series.”
That got a different reaction.
“A series?” Billy asked from the side of the room.
“A survival drama.
Global infection.
A small group of survivors trying to stay alive after society collapses.”
The Walking Dead was the obvious future prize in Ethan’s memory, but in 2002 it was not a published comic yet.
That made the move delicate.
He had to reach the creators early, shape a clean deal from the beginning, and avoid sounding as if he had stolen an idea no one had pitched.
“Television is not secondary anymore,” he said.
“Broadcast has reach, but cable has room.
Basic cable can push darker material than the networks.
Premium cable can go further.
The audience is already learning to follow serious serialized stories.”
He kept the lecture short on purpose.
In 2002, the broadcast landscape still meant CBS, ABC, Fox, NBC, the WB, UPN, and PBS.
The CW did not exist yet.
Broadcast could reach more homes, but its standards were tighter and its patience for blood, profanity, and moral rot was limited.
Cable was messier, more fragmented, and far more interesting.
Basic cable still had advertisers to satisfy, while premium channels could push adult material harder.
In his old timeline, AMC would become a basic-cable powerhouse with Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul, and The Walking Dead.
HBO had already taught the industry to think differently with The Sopranos, Sex and the City, Band of Brothers, and its own promise: It’s Not TV.
It’s HBO.
The future was not just theaters.
It was worlds people returned to week after week.
“Billy,” Ethan said, “work with marketing and legal.
Comics first.
Find Robert Kirkman and Tony Moore.
I want to discuss an original zombie comic and secure a clean adaptation option from the start.
Three days.”
Billy straightened.
“I can do that.”
“Good.”
Ethan looked toward the creative department.
“George R.
R.
Martin.
Who knows him?”
One manager raised a hand carefully.
“Novelist, screenwriter.
Worked in television.
His books have a strong reputation, though adapting them would be difficult.”
“A Song of Ice and Fire,” Ethan said.
“I want the rights explored before everyone else wakes up.”
The room was taking notes now.
“Also send me every promising horror script in the building.
Low budget does not mean low value.
Sometimes it means high discipline.”
When the meeting finally broke, people left with the exhausted relief of survivors.
Judy was halfway through the door when Ethan called after her.
“Judy.
Stay a minute.”
She turned back, one eyebrow lifted.
“What do you need, boss?”
With the others gone, her tone lost its boardroom polish.
Ethan pulled a magazine from his folder and opened it to a page he had marked.
“You still have family contacts in Israel, right?”
“A few.
Why?”
He turned the page toward her.
The photo showed a smiling Israeli teenager with striking features, long limbs, and the kind of screen presence that survived even cheap paper and bad lighting.
“Her name is Gal Gadot.”
Judy studied the picture.
“Pretty.
Very pretty.
Since when do you scout models?”
“Since models sometimes become movie stars.”
“Based on a magazine photo?”
“Based on instinct.”
“That is a fancy word for face.”
“Sometimes the face is the product.”
Judy laughed despite herself.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find a legitimate contact path.
Family, agency, school, whatever is appropriate.
No pressure, no weird approach, no promises we cannot explain.
She is under eighteen, so everything goes through adults and stays professional.
If she has interest in entertainment later, we want to be the first serious American door she remembers.”
That killed the teasing edge in Judy’s expression.
“Good,” she said.
“Because for one second I was about to throw something at you.”
“I enjoy not being sued.”
“I enjoy not representing a creep.”
“Then we are aligned.”
Judy looked at the photo again.
“Long-term development?”
“Exactly.
English, acting, modeling, maybe a long-term development relationship if her family and representatives are interested.
Nothing urgent.
Nothing romantic.
Nothing stupid.”
“I can handle that.”
“I know.”
She tucked the magazine under her arm.
At the door, she glanced back.
“For the record, your instincts are either insane or terrifying.”
“Usually both.”
Judy smiled and left.
Ethan turned back to the empty conference room.
Transformers.
Zombies.
Westeros.
Horror.
Gal Gadot.
Pieces on a board no one else could see yet.
Now he had to move them before the rest of Hollywood learned where to look.
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