The heavy gates of CBS Radford closed with a solid, metallic clank behind Elias van Kempen.
He stood on the sun-baked sidewalk of Studio City, the heat radiating through the soles of his worn boots. Inside those walls, he had just hijacked a national commercial campaign, intellectually humiliated two brand executives, and secured the principal role in a David Fincher production. By all standard Hollywood metrics, this was the moment an aspiring actor would hail a yellow cab, crack open a bottle of overpriced champagne, and celebrate.
Elias, however, turned his back on the line of waiting taxis and began the grueling four-block trek toward the nearest RTD bus stop.
Fifty dollars for a taxi, Elias’s internal monologue scoffed, disgusted by the very concept. I would rather walk to Hollywood on my hands.
When the city bus finally wheezed to a halt, Elias climbed aboard. He fed exactly one dollar and fifty cents in loose change into the mechanical fare box. He watched the coins drop with a brief, profound twinge of phantom physical pain. Every cent out the door was a tragedy, but the logistics of urban transit were, unfortunately, unavoidable.
He took a seat in the back, the sticky vinyl clinging to his vintage leather jacket. The ride back to Hollywood was a miserable, stop-and-go crawl through the afternoon gridlock. Elias didn’t mind. The slow pace gave him time to run the financial models of the impending negotiation.
By the time he stepped off the bus on Sunset Boulevard, it was 4:30 PM. His stomach let out a hollow, demanding growl, reminding him that a few stolen catering sandwiches could only sustain a sixteen-year-old metabolism for so long.
He spotted a dingy, standalone burger stand on the corner. The neon sign buzzed erratically, advertising a ’Happy Hour Slider Special’. Elias approached the grease-stained window and initiated a brutal internal debate. To spend, or to starve?
Paul requires caloric energy to function as a corporate proxy, Elias reasoned with himself. A fainting secretary is bad for business.
With immense reluctance, Elias slid two crumpled single-dollar bills across the metal counter. "Two sliders. No fries, no drinks. Just the meat and the bread."
He received a greasy brown paper bag in return. Total capital expenditure for the afternoon: three dollars and fifty cents. It felt like bleeding out.
At exactly 4:45 PM, Elias pushed open the glass door to the lobby of The Pelican Motel.
The blast of stale, air-conditioned air was a relief, but the atmosphere inside the small room was thick with absolute, hyperventilating panic.
The motel manager was pacing behind the front desk, his stained undershirt practically soaked through with nervous sweat. When he saw Elias walk in, his eyes bulged.
"Where the hell have you been?!" the manager hissed, keeping his voice down but practically vibrating with anxiety. He pointed a trembling finger at the black rotary phone on the desk. "It’s been ringing every ten minutes! Some guy named Brad. He says he’s a senior legal counsel from FCB! Foote, Cone & Belding! That’s one of the biggest ad agencies on the planet, kid! I told him Sovereign Media was in a meeting, but he sounded like he wanted to rip my head off through the receiver!"
Elias calmly walked over to the lobby sofa, where Paul Rudd was currently sitting with his head between his knees, rocking back and forth.
Elias reached into the greasy brown bag and dropped a small, slightly squished burger onto the cushion next to Paul’s ear.
"Eat," Elias commanded softly.
Paul snapped his head up, staring at the burger. He grabbed it, ripping the wrapper off with shaking hands. "Elias, the manager is right. It’s FCB. Foote, Cone & Belding. They handle Levi’s, they handle Taco Bell, they handle everyone. The guy on the phone sounded like a corporate assassin. He asked for the Managing Partner. He wants to talk about your contract. Elias, I can’t do this. I’m going to throw up the burger you just gave me."
Elias took a slow, methodical bite of his own slider. The meat was terribly overcooked, but the protein was necessary. He chewed, swallowed, and looked at the clock on the wall.
4:53 PM.
"You aren’t going to throw up, Paul," Elias said, his voice a low, soothing hum of absolute control. He pulled the small, spiral-bound notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. "We have the high ground. They are calling us at the end of the business day because they are desperate to lock the contract before the production schedule collapses. Panic is a buyer’s emotion. We are the sellers."
RIIIIIING.
The sudden shrill cry of the rotary phone echoed like a gunshot in the cramped lobby.
The motel manager visibly jumped, pressing himself against the back wall of the office. "That’s them! That’s the assassin!"
Elias didn’t rush. He pulled the Anti-Awkwardness Sunglasses from his pocket—the cheap plastic system item that had cost him 5 CP the night before. He stepped over to Paul, who was currently frozen mid-chew, and slid the dark lenses onto Paul’s face.
The system item engaged. The effect was instantaneous and utterly comedic.
The terrified, trembling actor vanished. Paul’s spine snapped straight. He chewed the last bite of his burger with slow, deliberate arrogance. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and strutted over to the reception desk. He looked at the ringing phone with the profound annoyance of a billionaire whose golf swing had just been interrupted.
Elias stood directly beside him, his pen poised over the blank notepad. He gave Paul a single nod.
Paul picked up the heavy receiver.
"Sovereign Media, Paul speaking," he drawled, his voice laced with smooth, dripping condescension. "To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Bradley Vance, Senior Legal Counsel at FCB," a sharp, aggressive voice barked through the earpiece, loud enough for Elias to hear. "I’m calling regarding the talent contract for Elias van Kempen. Who am I speaking to? Are you the kid’s father?"
"I am the Senior Managing Partner of this firm, Bradley," Paul replied, leaning his elbow on the motel’s cheap linoleum counter as if it were a mahogany boardroom table. "And I don’t appreciate your tone. Let’s make this quick. We have a hard out at five."
"A hard out?" the lawyer scoffed, his corporate bullying tactics kicking into high gear. "Listen to me, Paul. I don’t know what kind of amateur operation Sovereign Media is running, but I just got off the phone with the brand executives at Levi’s. They are telling me your client walked into a closed read, threw our million-dollar storyboard in the trash, and demanded First-Dollar Gross on backend syndication. Is this some kind of joke?"
Elias’s pen flew across the notepad in sharp, aggressive strokes. He slid the paper under Paul’s sunglasses.
It read: KAMI TIDAK PERNAH BERCANDA TENTANG PERSENTASE. ITU SYARAT MUTLAK. (WE NEVER JOKE ABOUT PERCENTAGES. IT IS A HARD REQUIREMENT.)
"We never joke about percentages, Bradley," Paul recited flawlessly, a smug smirk playing on his lips. "It is a hard requirement. Elias gave you the creative direction that will save your Q3 catalog. First-Dollar Gross is the price of his intellectual property."
"First-Dollar Gross is reserved for A-list movie stars, you arrogant hack!" the lawyer exploded over the line. "He is a sixteen-year-old extra! We are offering a flat buyout of three thousand dollars, standard SAG day rates, and not a penny more! Do you hear me? You take the buyout, or we shred his contract right now!"
Paul flinched slightly. The aggressive shouting was threatening to pierce the magical confidence of the sunglasses. He looked at Elias, a bead of real sweat forming on his brow.
Elias’s dark eyes were perfectly cold. He didn’t blink. He knew the industry. He knew the players. Foote, Cone & Belding was a massive entity, but the commercial was being produced by Propaganda Films—David Fincher’s home turf.
Elias deduced the boardroom dynamic instantly. The ad agency executives were terrified of Fincher. Fincher was a notoriously stubborn auteur who refused to compromise his vision. If Elias was Fincher’s chosen muse for the ’bathtub scene’, Fincher would absolutely burn the set to the ground before he let some corporate lawyer replace his lead actor with a generic surfer boy.
Elias began writing with brutal, sociopathic speed. He capitalized every letter.
TANTANG MEREKA. KATAKAN KEPADA MEREKA UNTUK MENGGANTI SAYA. TAPI KITA TAHU DAVID FINCHER DARI PROPAGANDA FILMS AKAN MOGOK KERJA JIKA MEREKA MERUSAK VISINYA. (CALL THEIR BLUFF. TELL THEM TO REPLACE ME. BUT WE KNOW DAVID FINCHER FROM PROPAGANDA FILMS WILL WALK IF THEY RUIN HIS VISION.)
Paul read the note. He took a deep breath, the magical arrogance of the sunglasses surging back to the forefront.
"You know what, Bradley?" Paul sighed loudly into the receiver. "You’re right. Three thousand dollars is a lot of money. Why don’t you just keep it?"
"Excuse me?" The lawyer sounded momentarily derailed.
"Shred the contract," Paul challenged, his voice dripping with icy disdain. "Go outside, grab one of those blonde, spray-tanned mannequins waiting in your hallway, and put him in the bathtub instead. I’m sure it will look fantastic."
Silence on the line.
"But we both know you can’t do that, Bradley," Paul pressed, leaning into the mic. "Because David Fincher is directing this spot. And Fincher is a Propaganda Films guy. He doesn’t take orders from FCB lawyers, and he certainly doesn’t compromise his aesthetics. If you force him to shoot a generic catalog model instead of my client, Fincher will walk off that set before breakfast tomorrow, and your entire production schedule goes up in flames. So, shred the contract. See what happens."
The silence on the other end of the line was no longer angry. It was heavy. It was the terrifying, suffocating silence of a corporate bully who had just realized his opponent had a live grenade and was entirely willing to pull the pin.
The motel manager, watching the exchange, literally had to grip the edge of the counter to keep his knees from giving out. He was witnessing a high-stakes, multi-million-dollar game of corporate chicken being played from a payphone next to a vending machine.
For ten agonizing seconds, the line was dead quiet. Elias simply took another bite of his cold burger, chewing rhythmically, utterly unbothered. He knew the math. The lawyer had no move left.
Finally, a heavy, exhausted sigh crackled through the earpiece.
"Look, Paul," the lawyer said, his voice dropping the aggressive bark, shifting into the weary tone of a man desperate for a compromise. "First-Dollar Gross is fundamentally impossible. The accounting department at Levi’s will reject it. It sets a precedent they will not allow. I cannot legally put that clause in the contract."
Elias anticipated this. You ask for the sun to get the moon. He wrote a final, rapid note on the pad and slid it over.
"I can offer you an alternative," the lawyer continued cautiously. "We can’t do a flat percentage of gross, but we can do a Progressive Residuals Scaler. Every time the commercial airs beyond the initial three-month broadcast cycle, Elias’s residual rate multiplies based on territorial volume. If the campaign goes global, the payout scales exponentially. It’s standard for principal talent on high-rotation spots."
Paul looked at Elias’s note.
The note simply said: DEAL. TUTUP TELEPONNYA. (DEAL. HANG UP.)
Elias knew the math. A Progressive Residuals Scaler on a campaign that was destined to become a defining piece of 1990s pop culture was a gold mine. It was mathematically equivalent to the backend gross, just disguised in union-friendly terminology that the FCB accountants could swallow.
Paul adjusted his sunglasses one last time.
"A Progressive Residuals Scaler," Paul mused, faking a sigh of profound reluctance. "It’s a bit pedestrian, Bradley, but I suppose it will appease the accounting department. Draft the paperwork. Have it couriered to our office by nine o’clock tomorrow morning."
"What’s the address for Sovereign Media?" the lawyer asked, a hint of exhaustion in his voice.
"We use a private P.O. Box in West Hollywood for unvetted couriers," Paul lied smoothly, rattling off the number of the cheap postal box Elias had rented earlier that day. "Pleasure doing business with you, Bradley."
Paul slammed the receiver down onto the cradle.
The loud CLACK echoed through the motel lobby.
One second passed. Two seconds.
Paul Rudd reached up with trembling fingers and pulled the Anti-Awkwardness Sunglasses off his face.
Instantly, the magical arrogance evaporated. Paul let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-sob. His knees literally buckled, and he slid down the front of the reception desk, collapsing into a heap on the cheap linoleum floor. He hugged his knees to his chest, staring blankly at the wall.
"I’m a dead man," Paul whimpered, rocking back and forth. "I just blackmailed a Fortune 500 company. They’re going to investigate us. They’re going to find out Sovereign Media is operating out of a motel next to a broken ice machine. The FBI is going to send me to federal prison, Elias."
The motel manager grabbed a rag and vigorously wiped the thick layer of sweat off his face. "Kid... I don’t know what you just did, but if the feds show up, I am telling them you held me hostage."
Elias van Kempen didn’t reply immediately. He sat on the edge of the lobby sofa, finishing the last bite of his two-dollar burger. He wiped his hands on a cheap paper napkin, his face an absolute mask of aristocratic calm.
He had just negotiated a contract that would yield hundreds of thousands of dollars over the next five years, using a terrified actor, a pair of plastic sunglasses, and a payphone in a slum.
Deep inside his cerebral cortex, the loan shark finally offered its applause.
[CHA-CHING!]
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: DAILY MISSION COMPLETE - THE PHANTOM AGENCY HACK.][EVALUATION: YOU SUCCESSFULLY CONVINCED A FORTUNE 500 LEGAL TEAM THAT A SWEATY MOTEL LOBBY WAS A EUROPEAN TALENT CONGLOMERATE. YOUR ABILITY TO WEAPONIZE ILLUSIONS IS MASTERFUL.][REWARD: +15 SHAMELESS POINTS (CP)]
Elias stood up, stretching his long legs. He looked down at the trembling actor on the floor.
"Stand up, Paul. You are not going to prison," Elias said, his voice smooth and deeply satisfied. "You just negotiated a masterclass in progressive residuals. Tomorrow, we shoot a masterpiece. And next week... we cash the first check."