He had been the executive to champion this investment internally, and while the initial budget wasn’t big, a theatrical loss would have still landed squarely on his desk.
Now, a room full of seasoned screeners had just reacted to the picture as if they were watching the birth of a genre classic.
Given the $1.3 million production cost, taking a financial loss was almost impossible.
Dean glanced toward Shay.
The scope of the marketing push was ultimately the president’s call to make, but given the oxygen in the room, Dean already suspected the studio wasn’t going to play this conservatively.
Shay took a moment, weighing his own visceral reaction against the unified praise of his staff, and made the call without hesitation.
“Dean, get the publicity department moving today,” Shay said decisively.
“I’ll have finance free up three million dollars for a comprehensive promotional push around university cinemas across the country.
And reach out to the print media—the critics who actually matter.
I want a preview screening that builds word of mouth before this thing even opens wide.
We are going to do everything we can to make Saw a classic.”
Shay had clearly come to the same conclusion the room had: this film possessed the kind of staying power that went far beyond a single opening weekend.
For a film company, a true classic has an incredibly long revenue lifespan.
Box office receipts usually only accounted for a fraction of the total gross.
Home video, licensing, and syndication kept the revenue flowing for decades, often matching or exceeding the theatrical earnings.
But none of that mattered if the theatrical run flopped.
A classic with a terrible box office was just an unrecognized failure.
Shay turned toward Adam, looking like a man who could already see the large profit margins taking shape.
Adam was thinking the exact same thing, even with only his five percent backend share on the table.
If this film became the cultural phenomenon he knew it was destined to be, five percent of a big hit would still generate generational wealth—without being a number so large that New Line Cinema would feel compelled to turn hostile and manipulate the accounting.
Everything was tracking exactly according to his plan.
“Director Cole,” Shay said, smiling warmly.
“The preview screening for the critics and traditional media is going to require your cooperation.
Is your schedule clear for that?”
Adam nodded.
“Don’t worry, I’ll cooperate fully.
If anything comes up, just tell me directly or go through my agent, Derek.”
That answer satisfied Shay immensely.
Directors with authentic, talent often carried a reputation for being erratic, difficult, and unruly.
Adam had displayed none of those flaws.
He had managed the crew’s funds perfectly, delivered a surplus, and handled the room with total professionalism.
The film hadn’t even opened yet, and Shay had already privately decided he wanted to lock Adam down for a second collaboration.
With the screening behind him, there was virtually nothing left for Adam to do until the preview.
The university semester hadn’t technically ended, but for a senior director who had just delivered a locked feature film, his on-campus obligations were effectively over.
Even if Saw hadn’t been picked up, he was already guaranteed to graduate smoothly.
Marcus and the rest of the crew had their own affairs to manage for a few days, leaving Adam with an unfamiliar amount of free time.
Wandering the city, letting his thoughts drift, he found himself walking toward Broadway.
It wasn’t entirely a coincidence.
As the days passed, Adam felt his memories continuing to merge—the experiences of the transmigrated soul he used to be seamlessly blending with the reality of the young man he was now.
He remembered growing up in an orphanage in this life.
He had realized early on that without family or money, relentless studying and his own sharp intelligence were his only escape routes.
That desperation was what had gotten him into the University of Southern California under such bleak conditions.
But his closest friend—the person who had practically guided him through the realities of Hollywood—was someone connected to the Broadway theater standing just down the street.
Creak.
A heavy iron side door pushed open, and a young man with a square jaw and wildly charismatic, handsome features stepped out into the afternoon light.
“Adam!” he called out, already grinning.
“Let’s go, I’m treating you to a drink.”
Robert Downey threw an arm around Adam’s shoulder, steering him down the block like he was hauling him off somewhere against his will.
Adam went along without much resistance.
They had met by chance in a library years earlier.
Downey was a dropout, but he understood that to survive an acting career, studying the craft was indispensable.
Everyone in town called Downey a natural genius, but Adam knew better; he had watched him put in the grueling hours behind the scenes.
They had bonded over that mutual grind—Adam working desperately for his future behind the camera, and Downey working for his career in front of it.
Downey was three years older and treated Adam entirely like a younger brother.
He bought him meals he couldn’t afford, sponsored expensive textbooks, and fed him invaluable insider information about how Hollywood actually operated.
Adam had drawn a firm line at accepting direct cash, but he had inherited a deep, unwavering loyalty to the actor.
There had been a brief moment during pre-production when Adam had considered casting Downey as Jigsaw.
He had abandoned the idea almost instantly.
Downey’s image was entirely wrong for it.
Clark Gregg possessed an innately approachable, trustworthy aura—the kind of presence that made you feel inherently safe.
Taking that comforting, ‘Agent Coulson’ energy and placing it inside the mind of a devout serial killer who believed he was doing God’s work created a profoundly chilling contrast.
It was far more terrifying than casting someone like Tobin Bell, who naturally looked the part of a hardened criminal.
The contrast elevated Jigsaw from a simple murderer to a terrifying divine servant.
Led by Downey, they arrived at a bar just as the dusk began to settle over Los Angeles.
The moment the sun went down, the quiet venue shifted.
Colorful lights cut through the haze, and the floor instantly turned into a chaotic, crowded dance space.
Through the dim lighting, Adam could already see couples pressing into the dark corners, the atmosphere heavy and uninhibited.
Adam instinctively disliked places like this.
In both his past life and his present one, he had absolutely no patience for the noise and the mess.
Downey, on the other hand, moved freely through the chaos like a fish slipping into water, completely in his element.
It took him a few minutes of navigating the crowd before he finally remembered his younger brother was still standing right behind him.