The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind Elias, instantly muffling the buzzing tension of the waiting room. He stood in a spacious, aggressively air-conditioned office that smelled strongly of stale coffee, hairspray, and corporate desperation.
Seated behind a sprawling, cluttered faux-oak desk were two people. The first was the Casting Director, the stressed woman with the clipboard who had dragged him in here. She was currently staring at Elias with the ravenous intensity of a talent scout who had just struck oil.
The second person was a balding man in a poorly fitted, beige linen suit. His nametag, clipped crookedly to his lapel, read: Greg - Production Manager. He looked like a man who spent his entire life arguing with accountants over lunch receipts.
"Sit," Greg ordered, gesturing with a cheap plastic pen to a folding metal chair positioned directly in front of the desk.
Elias ignored the chair. He remained standing, his posture projecting the casual, untouchable arrogance of a European aristocrat slumming it in a peasant village. He took another slow, deliberate bite of his stolen artisan donut.
Greg’s eyes twitched at the blatant disrespect, but the Casting Director quickly leaned over, whispering furiously into his ear. Greg looked up, squinting at Elias, sizing up the dangerously thin frame, the exotic, unplaceable bone structure, and the raw, unpolished grunge aesthetic that practically radiated off the sixteen-year-old.
"Alright, kid," Greg sighed, sounding like a man who had already surrendered. "Sheila says you’re the look. We’re shooting the Fall ’91 circular for Mervyn’s California. It’s a massive regional drop. Millions of mailboxes from San Diego to Sacramento. We need a fresh face for the teen denim section, and apparently, looking like you haven’t eaten in three weeks is exactly what the demographic wants right now."
Elias swallowed his donut. Mervyn’s California. A mid-tier department store chain that would eventually be liquidated by private equity raiders in 2008. It wasn’t the cover of Vogue, but it was a paycheck. And right now, Elias van Kempen was staring down the barrel of a literal, gastrointestinal execution if he didn’t secure five dollars before noon.
"I’m listening," Elias said smoothly, taking a sip of his stolen Fiji water.
Greg reached into a messy stack of papers on his desk, pulling out a standard, three-page contract. He slid it across the desk toward Elias.
"Two-day shoot. Tomorrow and Thursday out in Malibu," Greg recited, his voice taking on the practiced, rapid-fire drone of a salesman trying to rush a signature. "We’re offering a flat buyout fee. One thousand dollars. No backend, no residuals. You sign away the image rights for the Western seaboard for twelve months. Frankly, it’s a generous offer for a walk-in with no representation."
One thousand dollars.
For a sixteen-year-old immigrant living in a rat-infested motel, it was a fortune. It was enough to pay his rent for a month and eat actual food instead of scavenging.
Elias reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an elegant, silver fountain pen he had "borrowed" from the KLM ticketing desk in Amsterdam. He clicked the cap off, his eyes scanning the first page of the contract.
Then, his eyes hit paragraph four, subsection C.
His hand stopped. The silver pen hovered an inch above the paper.
Payment Terms: Net-90.
Elias’s internal monologue screeched to a violent, comedic halt. Net-90?
In corporate accounting, Net-90 meant the production company had exactly ninety days to process the invoice before they were legally obligated to cut the check. Ninety days. Three months.
Beneath his cool, unbothered exterior, Elias was internally screaming. I am going to projectile vomit blood in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard in exactly three hours if I don’t pay the system five dollars! I can’t wait ninety days! I can’t even wait ninety minutes!
He needed liquid cash. Physical, tangible, paper currency in his hand before he left this room.
Elias slowly placed the silver pen down on the desk. He didn’t blink. He didn’t sweat. He mentally opened the Shameless Capitalist System interface.
[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: CORPORATE X-RAY SCAN.][COST: -5 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 0 CP]
[CHA-CHING!]
A red, translucent grid materialized over the chaotic mess of Greg’s desk, scanning the production schedules, the budget printouts, and the contract itself. The system rapidly processed the data, highlighting specific paragraphs in a blinding, neon red.
[SCAN COMPLETE. THREAT ANALYSIS: STANDARD CORPORATE EXPLOITATION DETECTED.][VULNERABILITY FOUND: LABOR CODE VIOLATION. TARGET IS ENGAGING IN COST-CUTTING MEASURES BY BYPASSING MINOR WORK PERMIT REGULATIONS.]
Elias’s dark eyes gleamed. He leaned forward, resting both hands flat on the glass of Greg’s desk. He looked directly into the production manager’s eyes, dropping his voice to a chilling, silken whisper.
"One thousand dollars, Net-90," Elias said, letting the words hang in the air like a bad smell. "Greg, I am not a local surfer boy you found on Venice Beach. I am a European import, and my family’s legal retainers in Den Haag are very, very thorough."
Greg frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "What the hell does that mean? It’s a standard contract, kid. Take it or leave it."
"I read the fine print, Greg," Elias continued, deploying his Financial Alibi flawlessly. "More importantly, I read the California Labor Code before I flew here. I am sixteen years old. Under state law, any minor working on a commercial set requires an official entertainment work permit, a blocked Coogan trust account for fifteen percent of my gross earnings, and the mandatory presence of a studio teacher on set."
Sheila, the casting director, suddenly dropped her clipboard. The loud clatter echoed in the quiet room.
Greg’s face turned the color of week-old oatmeal. A massive, cartoonish sweatdrop materialized on the side of his balding head.
"You..." Greg stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward the door. "We... we were going to file the paperwork retroactively. It’s an administrative oversight—"
"It is a calculated evasion," Elias interrupted, his voice cutting through the excuse like a razor blade. "You’re shooting a massive regional drop on a shoestring budget. Hiring a studio teacher costs three hundred dollars a day. Filing the permits takes weeks. You were planning to shoot me off the books, classify me as an eighteen-year-old independent contractor, and pocket the administrative overhead to pad your margin."
Elias stood up to his full height, looming over the desk. He looked down at the trembling producer like a hawk examining a field mouse.
"If I walk out of this door and make a single phone call to the Labor Board or the Screen Actors Guild," Elias stated, his tone devoid of any emotion, "they will shut down your Malibu set by tomorrow morning. They will fine the production company ten thousand dollars for unpermitted child labor. And Mervyn’s corporate office will likely fire you before lunch."
"Jesus Christ," Sheila whispered, burying her face in her hands. "He’s right, Greg. We cut the budget too tight. If corporate finds out—"
"Shut up, Sheila!" Greg hissed, pulling at his collar as if he were choking. He looked back at Elias, genuine fear in his eyes. "What do you want? You want more money? Is that it? You want two grand?"
"I don’t want future promises, Greg," Elias said, tapping his finger against the Net-90 clause on the contract. "I want liquidity. Now."
"I don’t have liquid cash!" Greg practically squeaked, throwing his hands in the air. "The checks are cut by payroll in corporate! I literally can’t issue a check today!"
"Don’t lie to me," Elias said, his eyes flicking toward the heavy, gray metal lockbox sitting on the credenza behind Greg’s desk. It was a standard-issue production cash box. "You are running a two-day location shoot in Malibu. Which means you are required, by union standards, to carry a petty cash reserve for emergency wardrobe, craft services, and immediate logistical expenses."
Greg froze, his eyes widening. How did this kid know how an American film set operated?
"Here is my counteroffer," Elias proposed, sitting back down, perfectly relaxed. "I will sign your Net-90 contract. I will act like an eighteen-year-old on set. I will not make that phone call to the Labor Board. In exchange, you will open that gray box behind you, and you will issue me an immediate ’Travel and Subsistence Advance’—a per diem—of five hundred dollars. In cash."
Greg looked like he was about to have a stroke. "Five hundred dollars in petty cash?! That’s half my emergency budget! I can’t justify a five-hundred-dollar per diem to an extra!"
"Then justify a ten-thousand-dollar fine to your boss," Elias smiled, a cold, empty expression that left absolutely no room for negotiation. "I’ll give you ten seconds."
The silence in the room stretched until it felt like a physical weight. Greg looked at the contract. He looked at Elias’s unblinking eyes. He looked at the gray lockbox.
With a profound, tragic groan of a man utterly defeated by capitalism, Greg spun his chair around. His hands were shaking as he fumbled with a small brass key. He unlocked the petty cash box, the metal lid squeaking open.
Elias watched with clinical satisfaction as Greg reluctantly pulled out five crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills.
Greg turned back around, practically throwing the cash onto the desk next to the contract. "Take it. Take the damn money. Sign the contract, and be at the Zuma Beach parking lot by 6:00 AM tomorrow."
Elias calmly picked up the silver pen. He signed his name—Elias van Kempen—at the bottom of the document with an elegant flourish. Then, with a smooth, unhurried motion, he swept the five hundred dollars off the desk and folded them into his jacket pocket.
The moment the cash entered his possession, a violent, deafening alarm sounded in his brain.
[SYSTEM ALERT! 12:00 PM DEADLINE REACHED.][INITIATING PENALTY...]
Elias’s stomach clenched. A sharp, searing pain shot through his abdomen. He gritted his teeth, his hand flying to his stomach. No, no, no!
[WAIT. NEW LIQUIDITY DETECTED.][DEDUCTING DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE: -$5.00 USD.][TRANSACTION APPROVED. SOLVENCY RESTORED. PENALTY CANCELED.]
[CHA-CHING!]
The pain vanished instantly, leaving Elias gasping for a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He wiped a microscopic bead of sweat from his upper lip, silently cursing the loan shark in his skull. He had beaten the clock by less than ten seconds.
"Are you okay?" Sheila asked, noticing his sudden flinch.
"I’m perfectly fine," Elias said, instantly recovering his untouchable aura. He stood up, adjusting his thrift-store jacket. "I just remembered how much I love California."
He turned and walked out of the office, the heavy mahogany door clicking shut behind him.
The waiting room was still packed with the same fifty commercial clones. As Elias stepped out, every single eye turned toward him.
Matt LeBlanc was still standing near his sofa, his arms crossed defensively, trying to salvage his shattered ego in front of his lackeys. When he saw Elias walk out, completely unharmed and radiating the smug satisfaction of a man who had just robbed a bank, Matt’s jaw tightened.
Paul Rudd, who had been pacing near the water cooler, rushed over, his eyes wide with frantic curiosity. "What happened? Were you in there for ten minutes? Did they kick you out? Did they call the cops? I told you, Elias, you can’t just steal a donut from a casting director!"
Elias didn’t answer immediately. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the thick wad of cash. He slowly peeled off a single, crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and held it up between his index and middle finger.
The collective gasp from the waiting room was audible. Matt LeBlanc actually staggered backward, looking as if he had been physically struck. A hundred dollars cash, paid out on the spot in a casting room? It was completely unheard of in the industry. It broke every known rule of commercial acting.
Elias turned to Paul, flashing a devastating, million-dollar smile that currently belonged entirely to him.
"Come on, Paul," Elias said, his voice ringing clearly across the stunned room. "I told you we were bottom-feeders. But today... I’m buying lunch."