Jack Sullivan's apartment was a crime scene of empty coffee cups and Post-it notes, his laptop humming like an overworked stagehand as he raced to finish the Before Sunrise-style short film. The clock glared 3:14 AM, and today was do-or-die: his landlord wanted $1200 by noon, or Jack's stuff would be curbside art, and Marty Klein expected a polished screener by tonight for a shot at the indie film fest. His budget was down to $87, most of it burned on a forged permit and Diego's sound studio. Jack rubbed his bloodshot eyes, muttering, "If I pull this off, I'm framing my eviction notice as a trophy."
The rough cut was solid—Emma Harper's scenes were electric, her green eyes carrying Jack's system-crafted dialogue like she was born for it. Ethan's performance, after reshoots, was passable, and the tap-dance scene, born of the system's absurd gift, was a heart-stealer. But the film needed polish: the colors were flat, the sound mix was muddy, and Jack's attempt at a spoken-word score using Shakespeare's Sonnets sounded like a high school poetry slam gone wrong. "This world deserves better than "ThunderSquad"," he grumbled, "but I'm not sure I'm the guy to deliver it."
The Sign-In System had been his edge: Sonnets gave the script heart, Storyboard Mastery sold the pitch, Dialogue Craft sharpened the words, Tap-Dancing Proficiency saved the dance, and Editing Mastery turned his footage into something watchable. But it was a loose cannon, spitting out gifts like a piñata with a vendetta. Jack glanced at the laptop's clock—past midnight, time for the daily reward. "Alright, system, don't screw me now," he said, cracking his knuckles. "I need a miracle, not a lute lesson."
Ding!
The robotic voice hit like a jump scare: "Sign-In System activated. Claim your daily reward."
Jack leaned forward, the couch groaning. The golden interface flickered, its glowing chest pulsing like a disco ball in a dive bar. He tapped it, half-expecting another Renaissance prank.
A warm buzz flooded his eyes, sharpening his vision like he'd swapped contacts for 4K lenses. His brain clicked, analyzing light, hue, saturation—every frame of his film suddenly screaming for tweaks: a warmer grade on Emma's close-up, a cooler tint for the night shots. He blinked, stunned, as Premiere's color tools felt like an extension of his hands.
The system chimed: "Color Grading Mastery acquired. Enhance visual tone and mood with professional precision."
Jack's mouth fell open. "System, you beautiful bastard." He dove into Premiere, the color wheels bending to his will. He warmed Emma's pier scene, her auburn hair popping against the starry night. The boardwalk's gritty blues deepened, giving the film a soulful edge this world's Ninja Beach could only dream of. "Spielberg, who?" he muttered, grinning like a kid who'd just nailed a skateboard trick.
But polish couldn't fix his bigger problems. The landlord's deadline was hours away, and Jack's $87 wouldn't cut it. He'd pawned his old guitar yesterday for $200, leaving him $1000 short. Marty's screener was due by 6 PM, and the film still needed a final sound mix—Diego's studio session was tomorrow, too late. Jack's stomach churned. He texted Diego: Any chance we can sneak into the studio today? Need sound ASAP. Diego replied: Tight, but I'll try. $50 extra. Jack groaned, replying: Fine. I'll eat ramen for a month.
He needed feedback before the screener, someone with a sharp eye. Emma's name flashed in his mind—her instincts during reshoots had saved Ethan's scenes. He texted her: Got a rough cut. Can you swing by Ground Zero, 10 AM? Need your take. Her reply was quick: Only if there's coffee. Deal. Jack smirked, her sass a lifeline in his spiraling day.
At Ground Zero, the coffee shop buzzed with the usual wannabe actors, their headshots littering tables like confetti from a failed premiere. Emma was already there, her auburn hair tied back, sipping a latte with a script in hand. "You look like death warmed over," she said, sliding him a coffee. "This film better be worth it."
"It's my masterpiece," Jack said, half-joking, setting up his laptop. "Or at least not The Last Bus." He played the rough cut, the tap-dance scene filling the screen, colors now vibrant thanks to the system. Emma watched, her eyes narrowing, lips twitching at the dialogue: "You're running, but you're still here. Why?"
When it ended, she leaned back, sipping her latte. "Damn, Jack. It's… good. Like, really good. The colors pop, the dance is magic. Ethan's still a bit stiff, but you made it work."
Jack's chest warmed, her praise hitting harder than a festival award. "Thanks. You're carrying it, though. Your scenes are the heart."
She raised an eyebrow, a playful glint. "Flattery won't get you free coffee. But seriously, tighten the opening—it drags a bit. And the poem-score thing? Bold, but it's weird."
Jack nodded, scribbling notes. The system's color grading had elevated the visuals, but Emma's feedback was gold—human, sharp, grounded. "Got it. Any ideas for music? I'm broke, and stock tracks suck."
"Know a guy who does lo-fi beats," she said. "Cheap, maybe free if I sweet-talk him. Want me to call?"
"You're a lifesaver," Jack said, catching her gaze a beat too long. Her half-smile lingered, and he felt that pull again, like a scene he hadn't storyboarded. He cleared his throat. "I'll owe you one.""Add it to my tab," she said, standing. "Don't screw up the screener, director. I'm rooting for you." She left, her script tucked under her arm, and Jack's heart did a tap-dance of its own.
By afternoon, Jack was back at his laptop, tweaking the opening per Emma's advice, the system's editing mastery making cuts seamless. He warmed the colors further, giving the film a dreamy glow. But the landlord's deadline loomed. He scrounged $300 from an old savings account, leaving him $700 short. Desperate, he called his neighbor, a grizzled PA named Tony who'd worked on "ThunderSquad."
"Any gigs going? I need cash, fast."
Tony laughed. "You and every dreamer in LA. Try extra work—Ninja Beach 2 needs bodies tomorrow. Pays $150."
Jack groaned but signed up. $150 wasn't enough, but it was something. He texted Marty: Screener's almost done. You'll get it by 6. He prayed Diego's studio pull-through would fix the audio. The system's glow lingered, a nagging mystery. Why was it helping him? Was it a glitch, a gift, or a trap?
At 5 PM, Diego texted: Studio's a go. Meet me at 6, bring $50.
Jack rushed to the studio, a cramped room smelling of stale pizza and ambition. Diego worked the soundboard, cleaning Carl's sneezes and boosting Emma's lines.
Jack layered in Emma's lo-fi contact's demo track—free, thank God—a soft beat that fit the film's vibe. The system's color grading made the visuals sing, and the audio was finally crisp.
By 5:55 PM, Jack exported the screener, burning it to a USB drive. He sprinted to Marty's strip mall office, dodging LA traffic like an action hero. Marty was there, sipping an energy drink, Ninja Beach posters glaring from the walls. "You're cutting it close, Sullivan," he said, grabbing the USB. "This better not suck."
"It won't," Jack said, heart pounding. "It's got heart, something this world's missing."
Marty grunted, plugging in the USB. The film played, Emma's face filling the screen, the tap-dance scene hitting like a gut punch. When it ended, Marty leaned back, silent for an agonizing beat. "Not bad, kid. Not ThunderSquad, but it's got something. I'm sending it to the fest. Don't get cocky."
Jack exhaled, relief flooding him. "Thanks, Marty. You won't regret it."
"Don't bet on it," Marty said, but his grin wasn't all shark. Jack left, the LA night buzzing with possibility. His phone buzzed—Landlord: Noon tomorrow, or you're out. The $700 gap loomed, but the screener was done, Emma believed in him, and the system was still in his corner. Jack smirked, muttering, "Alright, universe. One more scene to shoot."