Victor strode across the red carpet, a blur of camera flashes illuminating his path like lightning strikes. The roar of the crowd washed over him as photographers called his name, jostling for his attention. He adjusted his tailored suit—a far cry from the threadbare jackets he'd once worn while begging casting directors for five minutes of their time.
"Mr. Grayson! Over here!"
He turned toward the voice, practiced smile already in place. This was his moment. After years of struggle, he'd finally—
"Mr. Grayson!"
The voice sharpened, cutting through the glamorous scene like a knife. The red carpet dissolved around him, the flashing lights fading into darkness.
"Mr. GRAYSON!"
Victor's eyes snapped open. The dream evaporated, leaving him disoriented in an unfamiliar waiting area. Plush leather chairs surrounded him, arranged in a tasteful semi-circle around a glass coffee table stacked with industry magazines. The walls displayed framed movie posters—all blockbuster hits from the past decade.
He blinked, trying to reorient himself. This wasn't The Rusty Nail. This wasn't his cramped office. This was... somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with understated wealth and influence. The kind of place where careers were made or broken over morning coffee.
"Mr. Grayson, for the third time." The voice now carried an edge of impatient annoyance.
Victor turned toward the reception desk where a woman in her thirties regarded him with thinly veiled irritation. Her immaculate appearance—sleek bob, designer glasses, and what looked like a Cartier watch—matched the upscale surroundings.
"Sorry," Victor mumbled, embarrassment heating his face as he realized he'd dozed off in the waiting area of what was clearly an important company.
The receptionist's perfectly shaped eyebrow arched slightly. "Mr. Jones will see you now." She gestured toward a hallway of frosted glass doors. "Second door on the right. He doesn't appreciate being kept waiting."
Victor's body moved on autopilot, rising from the chair and straightening his jacket with practiced precision. The receptionist's words had triggered some professional reflex buried deep in his muscle memory. He nodded politely and began walking toward the hallway, his footsteps muffled by plush carpeting that probably cost more than his monthly rent.
As he approached the door marked "Jones," the fog in his mind began to clear. Wait. Where the hell was he? The last thing he remembered was leaving The Rusty Nail, the weight of Jackson Stokes' departure crushing his already battered spirit. How had he ended up in this sleek, high-end office?
Victor slowed his pace, glancing around for any clue to orient himself. The walls displayed framed movie posters for blockbusters he recognized—all represented by CAA talent. Creative Artists Agency? That couldn't be right. What business would he have at one of the most powerful agencies in Hollywood?
And who was this Jones character? The name stirred nothing in his memory. Victor had spent a decade memorizing every casting director, producer, and industry player who might advance his clients' careers, yet "Jones" registered as a complete blank.
His hand hovered over the door handle. Should he turn around? Make some excuse? But the receptionist was still watching him with that impatient stare.
"Screw it," Victor muttered under his breath, grasping the handle and pushing the door open.
Victor stepped into the office, still disoriented but trying to mask his confusion. The space exuded power—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Los Angeles, minimalist furniture that likely cost more than his car, and walls adorned with framed photos of celebrities and industry executives.
Behind an imposing glass desk sat a man in his early fifties with slicked-back dark hair streaked with gray. His tailored navy suit looked effortlessly expensive, and his sharp brown eyes assessed Victor with calculated precision.
"Mr. Grayson, come in." The man gestured to the chair across from him. "I'm David Jones."
Victor crossed the room and shook the outstretched hand, feeling the firm grip of someone who closed million-dollar deals with a handshake.
"Please, sit."
Victor sank into the chair, his mind racing. Who was David Jones? Why did this feel so familiar yet foreign?
Jones opened a folder on his desk. "I have to say, I'm impressed. Your resume is quite good for someone your age. The degree from UCLA and your previous work experience are nice foundations." He looked up, those calculating eyes studying Victor. "It's not every day that a 24-year-old gets to join CAA as an agent."
Twenty-four? Victor fought to keep his expression neutral. He hadn't been twenty-four in... wait. Something wasn't right. The age felt simultaneously wrong and correct.
"But let me caution you," Jones continued, leaning forward slightly. "Don't let it get to your head. Becoming an agent is one thing—anyone with the right connections and a decent education can become one." His voice hardened. "But staying as an agent and becoming successful? That's something else entirely."
Victor nodded, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him. He'd heard these words before—or perhaps spoken them himself to eager newcomers after he'd gained some experience. Yet everything felt slightly off, like a movie set of his life where the details weren't quite right.
Victor watched as Jones leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. There was something methodical about the man, as if every word and gesture had been carefully calibrated for maximum effect.
"Being an agent isn't just about schmoozing at parties and making phone calls," Jones said, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "It's about relationships—real ones. Not the fake Hollywood bullshit where everyone's your best friend until they're not. You need to understand your clients better than they understand themselves."
Victor nodded, feeling strangely like he'd lived this conversation before. The advice resonated with lessons he'd learned the hard way—lessons he somehow already knew yet was hearing for the first time.
"This is CAA, Grayson. Creative Artists Agency. We represent the best because we are the best." Jones gestured toward the window, where the Los Angeles skyline stretched beneath them. "But make no mistake—we don't babysit our agents here. You've got your work cut out for you."
Jones fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Whether you succeed or fail depends entirely on you. We provide the platform, the resources, the name. What you do with it is your business. We won't spoon-feed you clients or opportunities."
The words hit Victor with unexpected force. This was exactly what he'd always wanted—a chance to prove himself without anyone holding his hand or limiting his potential. Yet why did it feel like he'd already failed at this very challenge?
Jones slid a document across the desk. "Your contract. Read it carefully."
Victor picked up the thick document, scanning the first page as Jones continued.
"This is our standard contract for a low level agent. You should understand the compensation structure." Jones tapped the relevant section. "You won't receive a salary or base compensation of any kind. Your income comes exclusively from commissions on your clients' earnings. In simple terms—if your clients don't work and get paid, neither do you."
Victor's eyes lingered on the commission percentages—numbers that seemed both familiar and foreign. Five percent of nothing was still nothing, a mathematical reality he somehow knew intimately despite his apparent youth.
"That's the game," Jones said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Some agents here make millions. Others wash out within months. The difference isn't luck—it's hunger, instinct, and relentless work ethic."
"Don't overthink it," Jones said, tapping his Mont Blanc pen against the desk with growing impatience. "The contract's standard for every junior agent."
Victor flipped through the pages, scanning clauses about exclusivity, non-compete agreements, and commission structures. The words blurred together, yet somehow he understood every term as if he'd read it before. His fingers traced over the signature line, a strange certainty settling over him that this moment was pivotal.
Jones leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the desk. "As a perk for joining, we'll give you a starting point — a rare opportunity. We have two aspiring actors that we think are worth representing. They'll be your first clients." Jones paused, fixing Victor with a sharp gaze. "Whether you make something of them — and yourself — is up to you."
Jones stood, pacing slightly behind his desk. "Also," he added casually, "you'll be working under me."
"Under you?" Victor asked.
"That's right," Jones said, giving him a pointed look. "I handle B-list clients. Steady work, consistent pay. If you've got questions, I'll answer them, but don't expect hand-holding." He stopped and gestured toward the contract. "Read the terms, sign the contract, and get to work. Because trust me — if you think joining CAA was hard... staying here is even harder."
Victor picked up the pen, its weight substantial in his hand, and signed with a flourish that felt both foreign and familiar. As he slid the contract back across the desk, Jones nodded with brisk approval.
"Welcome to CAA." Jones closed the folder and set it aside.
"We have two aspiring actors that our talent scouts flagged as promising." Jones pulled out two headshots from his drawer and placed them on the desk. "They'll be your first clients"
Victor picked up the headshots, studying the faces of people who would become his first clients at CAA. A strange sense of determination washed over him—these wouldn't be just another Jackson Stokes or failed prospect. This time would be different.