The room was dark.
The curtains were drawn down, and the only illumination came from a flickering light bulb overhead.
It buzzed faintly, casting broken shadows across the floor.
A single man sat hunched at a desk in the middle of the office, surrounded by stacked notes, empty coffee cups, and the dull hum of powered-down equipment.
Evan Cole.
He rubbed at his temples and exhaled, low and tired.
"This damn light…" he muttered to no one in particular. "I'll tell Crawford to get it fixed… again."
He stood up and walked to the window.
The curtains groaned on their tracks as he yanked them open, letting sunlight flood the room.
It hit him square in the eyes.
He blinked into the glare before stepping back, letting the golden rays reveal the quiet chaos of his workspace — multiple monitors, a coffee machine that had clearly seen better days, and scattered papers like the remains of some creative storm.
His personal office. Or rather, a glorified closet with a view.
Outside, the city stretched like a breathing organism.
Cars below honked and shuffled through the morning traffic. The sky was hazy, the air thick with the buzz of ambition that surrounded Haven city.
Evan's gaze drifted across the skyline and locked on a massive digital billboard just across from their building.
There she was.
Melinda.
Long purple hair cascading over her shoulders, pale skin like porcelain, a flawless smile flashing across the screen.
The billboard advertised her upcoming concert on Friday — sold out in less than a day.
She was one of the biggest names in the industry right now.
And Evan? He had just finished writing the script for her next major commercial.
He let out another sigh. "This one's gold. Best one yet."
He returned to his desk, inserted a flash drive into his computer, and saved the final draft.
He gave it one last look, eyes scanning the paragraphs with mechanical precision.
The whole thing screamed three things which were important in the industry:
Confident.
Clean.
Catchy.
He pulled out the drive and slipped it into his pocket.
Time to hand it in.
...
The hall outside his office buzzed with activity. Interns scurried past with tablets and notes, and sleek-looking managers chatted in hushed tones as they walked briskly to meetings.
Evan ignored their glances. He knew what they were thinking.
He looked like hell.
His eyes were sunken, dark circles etched deep from the all-nighters he'd pulled.
His shirt, while ironed, looked rumpled at the sleeves.
His tie was loose.
He hadn't had a full night's sleep in three days, but he didn't care. Not when the script in his pocket was the culmination of everything he'd cooked for three whole days.
They could whisper. He was used to it.
He reached the top floor — Crawford's domain.
Upon entering, Crawford's office looked like a villain's lair from a B-list film.
Velvet furniture, golden sculptures, rare liquors lined on a wall rack, and massive windows that overlooked the city like a throne above peasants.
Evan entered without knocking. He didn't need to.
Inside, Crawford was lounging in a ridiculous designer chair, dressed in an open silk shirt and tailored slacks, grinning like a man who owned the world.
Two women in tight dresses were feeding him purple grapes — literally.
Crawford raised an eyebrow, but then waved the women off like shooing away flies. They giggled as they left, not sparing Evan a glance.
"You look like shit," Crawford said, reclining lazily. "Still playing the starving artist?"
Evan didn't answer. He simply walked up and placed the flash drive on the desk.
"Melinda's script," he said. "Final version. This one… it'll break records."
Crawford stared at the flash drive for a moment, then picked it up between two fingers like it was some kind of contaminated object.
"Hmm. All those sleepless nights, and this is what you bring me? A plastic stick."
Evan's jaw clenched. "It's what's on the stick that matters."
Crawford smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Sit."
Evan hesitated for a moment, but pulled the chair across and sat, his shoulders stiff.
"You've been here for what… five years?" Crawford asked, almost lazily.
"Since the beginning," Evan replied. "Before Melinda. Before the other girls. I helped build this place."
Crawford nodded slowly, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"That's exactly the problem."
Evan blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You've overstayed your welcome."
The room went still.
Crawford's voice was calm, almost too calm.
"You're good, Evan. I won't lie. Hell, your scripts made a lot of our early idols stand out. You know the audience. You understand drama, timing, how to craft a star's image."
Evan narrowed his eyes. "Then why..."
"But you're not marketable. You're not clean-cut. You're not flashy. You're not someone we can parade on stage or in the news. You're a background guy… and we've moved past needing background guys."
Evan stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "You can't be serious."
"I'm very serious."
"I've been here since the start," Evan snapped. His voice was rising now. "This company didn't exist before I got here. You didn't even know what 'idol scripting' meant until I wrote your first goddamn campaign!"
Crawford smirked. "And now I do. And I've got writers lined up around the block willing to work for half your pay."
"You owe me—"
"I owe you nothing."
Crawford reached forward and snatched the flash drive off the desk.
"This belongs to the company," he said coolly. "And the company is mine. You think you're the only one who can write a pretty line? Get over yourself."
Evan's hands curled into fists at his sides.
"You built this company off my work."
"And I paid you for your time. Now it's over." Crawford pressed a button on his desk intercom. "Security."
Evan's breath caught.
"You're serious."
"Oh, I'm very serious."
Two bulky men in black security uniforms appeared in the doorway within seconds. One of them cracked his neck; the other looked like he could bench-press a truck.
"Escort Mr. Cole off the premises," Crawford said with a wave of his hand. "He's no longer employed here. And make sure he doesn't take anything that belongs to my company."
The guards walked up, grabbed Evan by the arms before he could resist.
He tried to struggle, but they were professionals. No punches. Just firm, humiliating control.
"Don't do this," Evan hissed.
Crawford leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.
"You don't belong in the spotlight, Evan. You never did. You're just a script monkey with delusions of grandeur."
Evan was dragged out, his shoes scraping against the floor. Staff members turned to stare, some whispering, others just looking away.
Out of the office.
Down the elevator.
Onto the street.
And then — tossed.
Like trash.