The next few days were a blur for Victor. He locked himself in his apartment, surrounded by crumpled papers, coffee cups, and takeout containers. The Raid script consumed him. Every morning he woke at dawn, revisiting each scene, refining the sparse dialogue, and tightening the action sequences.
He meticulously mapped the building's layout floor by floor, creating a vertical battleground that would showcase Bruce's talents. He sketched crude diagrams of fight choreography possibilities, leaving room for Bruce's expertise to fill in the technical details.
Each villain needed a distinct fighting style—a weapons expert on the fourth floor, a grappler on the sixth, a brutal brawler near the penthouse. Victor structured the progression so Bruce's character would be forced to adapt, to reveal new dimensions of his skill as he ascended.
The emotional arc needed to match the physical journey. Victor trimmed away any unnecessary exposition, letting the combat tell the story. A brother's betrayal. A rookie's evolution into a warrior. Themes of loyalty and survival expressed through fists and feet rather than words.
By the third day, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, but the script had transformed. What began as a rough concept had become a lean, vicious blueprint for something revolutionary.
Three days later, he surveyed his living room wall, now covered with index cards detailing every aspect of The Raid's production needs. He'd broken everything down into categories: cast, crew, permits, locations, equipment. Now came the challenging part—filling those roles with zero budget.
"Passion over payment," Victor muttered as he drafted a casting notice on his laptop. He chose his words carefully. He highlighted the film's potential to revolutionize action cinema while conveniently downplaying the "deferred payment" arrangement.
The next morning, he strode through CAA's gleaming lobby with a stack of printed flyers. He strategically placed them on bulletin boards throughout the building—near the mailroom where hungry assistants gathered, outside the talent department where struggling actors checked in, and by the coffee station where everyone eventually passed.
After plastering CAA with notices, he sent digital versions to local martial arts schools, stunt training facilities, and film schools. He booked a small studio space for Saturday auditions.
That evening, his phone buzzed with the first responses. By Thursday, he had enough interested parties to make the weekend casting viable. Some were drawn by the idea of the movie, others by the promise of showcasing their skills in a pure action film. All were willing to work without immediate compensation.
Victor smiled as he reviewed the growing list of respondents. The project was taking shape, one passionate collaborator at a time.
*****
Victor stepped into the bustling coffee shop, the aroma of fresh espresso and pastries filling the air. His eyes scanned the room, moving past the crowded center tables until they landed on a solitary figure in the far corner. Jamie Vega sat hunched over her laptop, a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the keyboard.
He navigated through the maze of tables, observing her more carefully as he approached. The Red Bull Crew patch on her worn canvas jacket caught his eye. She had the lean, wiry build of someone who spent more time running alongside athletes with a camera than sitting in director's chairs.
"Jamie?" Victor extended his hand. "Victor Grayson."
She looked up, those sharp hazel eyes sizing him up instantly. She closed her laptop and stood, giving his hand a firm shake.
"You're punctual. That's a good start." Her voice carried a clipped efficiency, like someone used to giving directions that needed to be followed immediately.
Victor slid into the chair across from her. "Thanks for meeting me. I've been going through the footage you sent—the parkour sequence in Barcelona and that wingsuit segment in Norway—impressive stuff."
"It's what I do." Jamie took a sip from her mug, waiting for him to continue.
"The way you captured that motocross sequence—handheld but perfectly steady, right in the action without losing clarity—that's exactly the visual language we need for Raid." Victor leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Most directors would have used safety rigs, or shot from a distance with long lenses. You were practically on the back of the bike."
A hint of a smile crossed Jamie's face. "Because that's where the story was. Anyone can shoot pretty pictures from a safe distance."
"That's why I wanted to meet. This project needs someone who understands how to capture authentic movement, someone who won't compromise for convenience." Victor tapped the table for emphasis. "After seeing your work, I think you're the perfect director for what we're trying to create."
Victor pulled out the script from his bag and slid it across the table. "Here's what we're building. A stripped-down action film set in a single location—a high-rise building. Our protagonist fights his way up floor by floor, each level featuring different martial artists with unique fighting styles."
Jamie flipped through the pages, her expression unchanging as she scanned the sparse dialogue and detailed fight descriptions. Victor watched her eyes narrow at certain sections, lingering on the technical notes.
"The hook is authenticity," Victor continued, pulling out his phone. "No stunt doubles, no quick cuts to hide limitations, no wire work or CGI enhancement. Just real martial arts performed by people who've dedicated their lives to it."
He opened a video on his phone and passed it to Jamie. "This is Bruce Lee, our lead."
Jamie watched the footage intently. Bruce moved through a series of complex combinations, his body a blur of precision and power. The phone's small screen couldn't diminish the raw athleticism on display.
"He choreographed this himself?" Jamie asked, eyes still fixed on the screen.
"Every move. What you're seeing is Jeet Kune Do mixed with some Wing Chun fundamentals. He's been training since childhood."
Jamie nodded slowly, watching the second video where Bruce demonstrated a series of lightning-fast strikes against a training dummy. "This isn't Hollywood martial arts. This is the real thing."
"That's the whole point," Victor said. "Most action films are shot to hide the limitations of actors pretending to be fighters. We're flipping that—building a film around actual fighters who can deliver authentic combat."
Jamie handed back the phone and tapped the script. "Your shooting schedule has thirty days for principal photography. That's aggressive for this many fight sequences."
"Bruce can nail these in fewer takes than actors. We're going for a raw aesthetic anyway—handheld, intimate, visceral. Your Red Bull work shows you can capture that energy."
Jamie leaned back, crossing her arms. "Most producers want flashy bullshit that looks good in trailers. This..." she gestured to the script, "this is something else. Something honest." A smile finally broke through her professional facade. "I fucking love it."
Victor leaned forward, his confidence wavering slightly as he prepared to address the elephant in the room. The excitement in Jamie's eyes made what he had to say next even harder.
"There's something we need to discuss before we go any further." He took a deep breath. "The budget situation is... complicated. We're scraping together everything we can, but there's no upfront payment for the director position, or any position for that matter"
Jamie's expression didn't change, but her fingers tightened around her coffee mug.
"I won't sugarcoat it," Victor continued. "We might—and I emphasize might—have money to distribute after we sell the film. But that's just a possibility, not a guarantee."
He expected her to walk out, but Jamie simply nodded, her gaze steady. "I figured as much when you mentioned the budget constraints."
"You're not surprised?"
"Look, I've been an assistant director for six years now. Know how many offers I've had to direct my own feature? Zero." Jamie's voice remained matter-of-fact, without self-pity. "Especially in action. That genre's boys' club is locked up tighter than a bank vault."
Victor watched her carefully. "You deserve better than that."
"Damn right I do." Jamie tapped the script with her finger. "But this industry doesn't give a shit what anyone deserves. It's about who takes chances and who doesn't."
She leaned back, gesturing to her worn Red Bull jacket. "I'm tired of capturing other people's visions. I've got my own. This might be my only shot to prove what I can do with real fighters and real combat."
Victor felt a surge of respect for her pragmatism. "We can't offer money, but we can offer complete creative control. Your vision, your shots, your pace."
"That's worth more than a paycheck." Jamie extended her hand across the table. "I'm in. Let's make something that shakes the shit out of Hollywood."
Victor shook her hand, relief washing over him. Another piece had fallen into place—and not just any piece, but perhaps the most crucial one for bringing his vision to life.