….
[Next Day | LIE Studios]
Damian Prescott stepped into the entrance of the building.
When Damian pulled into the visitor bay near Stage 5, he half-expected a security guard to wave him off or demand an escort badge.
Instead, as soon as he stepped out into the area, a young man with a headset crooked over one ear came jogging toward him.
"Director Prescott?" Gavin asked, catching his breath and extending a polite hand–
"I am Gavin, key floor coordinator on 'Train To Catch'. Mr. Seraphsail asked me to bring you straight inside. We're just wrapping the morning setup before lunch."
Hearing the title, 'Director Prescott' spoke with respect after two solid weeks of being treated like a failure nearly knocked the wind out of Damian's chest.
"Thank you, Gavin." Damian said, managing a steady nod. "Lead the way."
They stepped through the double doors of Soundstage 5, and the outside world sunlight instantly vanished.
What he saw was unimaginable.
Hovering three feet above the concrete floor, mounted on a massive steel scaffold supported by eight heavy hydraulic pistons, was a full scale, sixty foot passenger train carriage.
Surrounding the entire perimeter of the rig are ultra high definition LED panels displaying photorealistic blur landscapes at simulated ninety mile per hour velocity.
"Hold that track! Camera A, tighten focus on the door jamb!"
The voice came through the overhead comms.
Damian stopped dead in his tracks, his instincts instantly locking onto the monitors at the video village.
Inside the narrow aisle of the train set, Keanu Reeves was crouched low, shielding a young girl behind a row of passenger seats.
Standing in the center vestibule, blocking a shuddering glass door with his massive frame, was a towering man whose forearms were wrapped entirely in heavy silver duct tape.
"Pneumatics to twelve degrees! Bank left!" the voice commanded.
The four-ton steel carriage suddenly tilted on its hydraulic axis, forcing the actors inside to fight against genuine physical inertia. At the far end of the vestibule, fifteen infected performers slammed their bodies against the safety glass in a terrifying, joint-popping human avalanche.
Behind the master monitor console sat–
Regal Seraphsail.
"Push Camera B through the partition gap... hold the low angle... Rock, hit the lock!" He spoke into his mic.
The massive man in the train slammed his taped forearm across the sliding metal latch with a bone jarring CRACK that resonated through the stage.
"And... CUT!" Regal called out.
The hydraulic pistons released with a hiss and the roaring audio of the train tracks faded from the stage speakers.
"Check the gate on A and B." Regal instructed.
From the camera crane, the lead operator leaned down. "Clean gate, Director."
"That's a print." Regal announced, standing up and stretching his shoulders. He raised his voice so it carried across the entire eighty-person crew–
"It's lunch, everyone! Forty-five minutes. Stunt team, get some hydration, and reset for the platform sequence at one fifteen."
A collective, cheerful cheer erupted across Soundstage 5.
Damian stood frozen near the sound baffles.
In twenty-eight years of directing, he had rarely seen a set run with such efficiency, with no wasted setups or endless retakes caused by directorial indecision. Every single lighting cue, hydraulic shudder, and camera move had been calculated down to the millimeter.
Gavin leaned in toward Regal, speaking softly and gesturing toward the back of the stage.
Regal turned, his blue eyes locked onto Damian.
For a fraction of a second, the thirty year age gap between them flashed through Damian's mind with dizzying clarity.
In Hollywood terms, Regal was a wunderkind kingpin at the absolute summit of global entertainment, while Damian was an aging director whose last project had just set fire to a quarter billion dollars of studio money.
He braced himself for the customary Hollywood power dynamic: the polite, patronizing smile, the rushed five-minute pleasantry before being handed off to a junior development executive.
Instead, Regal immediately walked across the soundstage floor, completely ignoring the production assistants trying to hand him scheduling clipboards.
He stopped right in front of Damian, extending a firm, open hand.
"Director Prescott." Regal said, greeted in sincerity. "Thank you for making the drive out to Burbank. I know how brutal the midday traffic on the 101 can be."
Damian took the young man's hand. The grip was steady, respectful, and entirely devoid of corporate posturing.
"The pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Seraphsail." Damian replied, his voice slightly gravelly. "And please... 'Damian' is more than fine."
"Only if you call me Regal." the younger director replied.
He glanced around the bustling stage where grips were wrapping cables and heading toward the catering tables–
"It's too noisy around the soundstage while they reset everything. We can find somewhere quiet outside the staging tent and talk."
Regal led him past the pneumatic train gimbal to an open-air place set up between Stages 5 and 6.
He then grabbed a paper plate, scooped a portion of food onto it, and set a bottle of water in front of Damian before pulling out a metal folding chair and sitting down.
"Stephen Sr. called me last night." He began.
Damian took a slow seat across from him, feeling the lingering tension in his chest begin to ease. "I can't thank Stephen Sr. enough. To be honest, I spent twenty years carrying his card, never believing I would have to use it."
"I don't know much about those cards." Regal said softly, "but I can safely assume they aren't handed out just to make people feel better."
He paused before continuing. "And I was also told about Winter Harbor. Apparently, this is the first time I've heard Stephen Sr. speak so highly of someone from an entire production team. From what I understand, he considered you one of the most impressive people involved."
Regal gave him a faint smile. "Not that you needed Stephen Sr.'s endorsement to prove anything. Anyone who has watched the films you've made over the years can see the kind of director you are."
For a moment, Regal's thoughts drifted back to the night he had first met Stephen Sr., unexpectedly crossing paths with him on the street while out for an evening stroll with his sister Seren and Keanu.
Damian looked down at his water glass, a bitter, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "It didn't save me from making a disaster at Pixy."
The silence settled between them for a moment.
Damian took a breath, ready to deliver the painful, humiliating explanation he had practiced on the drive over. "Regal, I won't hide behind excuses. The box office numbers over the weekend were catastrophic. Pixy Studios is already running their PR campaign to bury me, and honestly, the final cut that hit theaters was a mess. If you're hesitant about associating LIE Studios with a director who just delivered a historic flop, I completely understand."
Regal took a slow sip of his tea, setting the glass down on the table with a soft click.
When he looked back up, his eyes were steady, sharp, and remarkably understanding.
"Damian, do you think I don't know who Richard Bethell is?" Regal asked quietly. "Pixy is notorious for taking advantage of creative people, stripping away their rights, and leaving them with nothing. I know exactly how they operate."
Damian blinked, caught off guard. He never expected the generational director to badmouth such a prominent studio this blatantly and openly.
Heck, even after suffering so much due to them, he doesn't even have the guts to come out and say anything close to blaming.
However, Regal continued. "And as for the Christian Isaac casting…."
Regal said, his tone softening with genuine empathy. "I know how much it hurts when you can't get the lead actor your story needs. Honestly, the movie would have been twice as good with Christian Isaac. But that's just the business. We made our offer fair and square, and he chose Bruce Wayne."
Damian nodded. "I understand…."
"Good. Then let's focus on what's ahead." Regal reached into the leather satchel resting on the chair beside him. "LIE Studios is expanding quickly, and my own schedule is already packed. I need someone I can trust to help oversee our MarvelD projects while also developing an entirely new franchise."
"A new franchise?" Damian asked.
"Yes, I think you will be the perfect candidate for it. Of course we have to run a trial position for a few months before finalizing anything. But I trust in your abilities, and before that…."
Regal reached into the leather satchel resting on the spare chair beside him and pulled out a few comics.
And all of them are–
[X-Men]
Regal slid the file across the table, and Damian stared down at them.
"I want you to completely work on these franchises if possible, and you believe it's worth it for you." Regal continued smoothly. "I don't have full scripts, but I have the framework of how I want to be and will be involved in script development at most stages. However, I am mostly gonna oversee them, and wanna leave the detailed development to you."
"Regal..." Damian's voice cracked, the disbelief palpable. "...you are joking right?"
Regal smiled faintly, a spark of fierce, uncompromising pride shining in his eyes. "I want LIE Studios to be the best studio to ever produce films, Damian. And I wish to join you on board and make it true."
Regal stood up, stepping closer and offering his hand once more. "Take your time, but I hope I will hear a positive response."
Damian stood up from his chair.
He looked at the multiple comic books on the table, then looked at the twenty-eight-year-old director standing before him.
He grasped Regal's hand with both of his own, bowing his head slightly in an act of profound, heartfelt reverence.
"Thank you, Regal." Damian whispered. "You have no idea what you just saved today."
"Trust me I do. I am just hoping the whole world will see it one day." Regal replied softly, squeezing the older director's hand with quiet warmth.
As the afternoon bell signaled the end of the lunch break, Damian gathered the folder and walked back toward his car.
His head was held high, his stride was steady, and the creative passion inside him burned brighter than it had in twenty eight years.
.
….
[To be continued…]
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