Jack Sullivan woke to the sound of his landlord pounding on the apartment door like a B-movie mobster, each thud a reminder that his $1200 rent was due in three hours. The clock read 9:02 AM, and his bank account was a tragic $237, scraped from pawning his guitar and a humiliating day as an extra on "Ninja Beach 2", dodging fake punches in a neon wetsuit. His Before Sunrise-style short film was in Marty Klein's hands, submitted to the LA Indie Film Fest last night, but the verdict was days away, and eviction was now. Jack rubbed his face, muttering, "Great, I'm one bad cut away from starring in Homeless Director: The Movie."
The film was his best shot yet—Emma Harper's electric performance, the tap-dance scene sparked by the system's absurd gift, and his color-graded visuals made it sing. But it was out of his hands, and the waiting was torture. Marty's grunt of approval ("Not bad, kid") was the only thing keeping Jack's hope alive, but hope didn't pay rent. His fridge held a single beer and a questionable yogurt, and his budget was down to $87 after Diego's sound studio. "This world's got no Titanic," he grumbled, "but it's sure sinking me."
Jack glanced at his phone—past midnight somewhere in the system's weird logic. "Alright, system, I need cash or a miracle," he said, slumping onto his couch, the eviction notice glaring from the coffee table.
Ding!
The robotic voice hit like a late-night infomercial: "Sign-In System activated. Claim your daily reward."
Jack's heart skipped, half-expecting a lute or a quill pen. The golden interface flickered, its glowing chest pulsing like a low-rent rave. He tapped it, bracing for nonsense.
A warm buzz shot through his throat, and his voice deepened, smooth as a radio DJ's, words flowing like he could sell ice to penguins. His brain sparked with charm—phrases, gestures, the knack for winning a room.
He blinked, stunned, and tested it: "Jack Sullivan, visionary director, here to change the game." His voice dripped confidence, no trace of his usual stammer.
The system chimed: "Charisma Boost acquired. Command attention and persuade with professional finesse."
Jack's jaw dropped. "System, you're pulling out the big guns." He paced, testing his new swagger. "Hey, landlord, how about a week's extension? I've got a film that'll blow your socks off." The words felt like they could crack open Fort Knox. This wasn't just charm—it was a weapon. If he could talk his way out of eviction, maybe he could pitch to bigger fish at the festival. But first, survival.
He grabbed his phone and called his landlord, a gruff guy named Vince who sounded like he gargled gravel. "Vince, it's Jack. I'm short on rent, but I've got a film in the festival—big potential. Can you give me a week?"
Vince snorted. "Sullivan, your last film was a dumpster fire. Pay by noon or you're out."
Jack's new charisma kicked in, his voice steady. "Look, Vince, this one's different. It's got heart, buzz, maybe even investors. Cut me some slack, and I'll make it worth your while—say, $1500 next week." He was bluffing, but the words flowed like a Scorsese monologue.
Vince paused, a rare crack in his armor. "One week, Sullivan. $1500, no excuses. Screw me, and I'll sell your couch for scrap." He hung up, and Jack exhaled, shaky but alive. "Charisma one, eviction zero," he muttered, grinning.But $1500 was a fantasy. He needed cash, fast. Tony, his PA neighbor, had mentioned a networking event tonight at a downtown bar—indie filmmakers, small-time producers, maybe someone with a checkbook.
Jack texted Emma: Networking thing tonight, downtown. Wanna come? Could use your vibe.
Her reply was quick: Only if they serve decent beer. I'm in.
Jack's heart did a little tap-dance, her presence a boost he couldn't admit he needed.
He spent the morning tweaking the screener, the system's color grading mastery making every frame glow. The spoken-word score, built from Sonnets, was still rough, but Emma's lo-fi contact had sent a new track—free, thank God—that fit like a glove. Jack exported a backup, just in case Marty's USB failed. The festival's response could come any day, and the waiting was like sitting on a live wire.
By evening, Jack was at The Rusty Anchor, a dive bar packed with pretentious auteurs and producers in cheap suits. His denim jacket felt out of place, but the system's charisma boost made him stand taller, voice smoother. He scanned the room, spotting Emma by the bar, her auburn hair catching the neon light, a beer in hand. She waved him over, smirking. "You clean up nice, director. Ready to charm some wallets?"
"Born ready," Jack said, his new charisma humming. "You're my secret weapon, though. Those eyes could sell a script to a brick wall."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. "Save it for the suits, Sullivan. I'm here for the beer." She nodded at a cluster of producers, including a wiry guy named Lena, who Tony said had funded a few shorts. "That's your target. Don't choke."
Jack approached Lena, his voice sliding into gear. "Lena, right? Jack Sullivan, director. I've got a short in the LA Indie Fest—raw, real, a love story that cuts through the "ThunderSquad" noise." He leaned in, charisma dialed up. "Looking for backers to take it to the next level, maybe a feature."
Lena raised an eyebrow, sipping her whiskey. "Heard about your Last Bus flop. Why should I bet on you?"
Jack didn't flinch, the system's boost steadying him. "Because I've learned, and this one's different. It's got heart, grit, and an actress who'll steal your soul." He nodded at Emma, who was chatting up another producer, her laugh carrying across the bar. "Screen it. If it doesn't grab you, I'll buy your next drink."
Lena smirked. "Bold. Send me the link. If it's good, we'll talk." She handed him a card, and Jack pocketed it, his pulse racing. Charisma: two points.
Emma joined him, her beer half-gone. "You're smoother than I expected," she said, her green eyes teasing. "Almost didn't recognize you without the panic."
"It's a new look," Jack said, grinning. Her presence was grounding, like a steady cam in his shaky world. They worked the room together, Jack's charisma weaving through small talk, Emma's charm disarming skeptics. By the end, he had three cards—small fish, but fish—and a flicker of hope.
Back at his apartment, Jack collapsed, the eviction clock ticking. His phone buzzed—Marty: Fest liked the screener. You're in the shortlist. Don't screw up the Q&A. Jack's heart leapt. Shortlist wasn't a win, but it was a lifeline. He texted Emma: We're shortlisted! Q&A soon. You in? Her reply: Hell yeah. Let's make them cry.
The system's glow lingered, a mystery he couldn't crack. Charisma had bought him a week, but $1500 loomed. Jack stared at the ceiling, the sonnets echoing: "Love's not time's fool." He smirked. "Hope you're right, Will. I'm running out of time."
He closed his eyes, the bar's neon and Emma's laugh in his head. One week, one shot, one film. "Game on," he muttered, ready to roll.