Los Angeles, California
Bright California sunlight streamed through the thick wooden shutters of the bedroom, casting golden stripes across the floor. Michael woke up slowly, feeling well-rested after his long trip.For the first time in over a month, he wasn't waking to the sound of a steam engine or the rustle of a tent flap in the wind.
He turned his head to look at the soft figure lying on her side beside him. Evelyn Richards' auburn hair, vibrant even in the dim morning light, was splayed across the silk pillows. She had been in Los Angeles filming and staying in the mansion for the last two months.
Michael watched her for a moment before slowly getting out of bed. He reached for a silk robe, pulling it over his shoulders as he walked across the cool tiles toward the tall French doors that led to the private balcony.
As he swung the doors open, the dry, sage-scented heat of the Los Feliz hills rushed in to meet him. From this elevation, the world looked like a golden empire. Below the foothills, the orange groves of Hollywood were a deep, lush green, and further south, the dusty grid of Los Angeles hummed with the energy of a city on the verge of an explosion.
Michael stepped onto the balcony and closed his eyes, tilting his head back to let the sun wash over his face. A soft footfall sounded behind him. Before he could turn, two warm hands slid under his arms, wrapping around his chest, and her head came to rest against the small of his back.
"Hey," Evelyn murmured, her voice thick with the remnants of sleep. "Good morning."
"Good morning to you too," Michael replied, his voice low and steady.
"Why aren't you in bed?" she asked, her grip tightening slightly as she pressed her face against his silk-covered shoulder.
Michael gestured toward the glowing horizon with a faint smile. "It's a beautiful day, Eve. I just wanted to feel the sun on my face."
"In Los Angeles, you can see the sun like this every day," she teased softly. "You know what? We could just take a day off. We could just stay here, look at the view, and forget the world for twenty-four hours."
Michael turned within the circle of her arms to face her. Evelyn looked up at him, her auburn hair catching the direct light. "We can take a day off tomorrow," he said, offering a small, tired smile as he leaned down to kiss her lightly. "But today, I need to tour the lot and see the progress with my own eyes. Let's go—we need to get ready."
Evelyn's eyes sparkled with a playful, familiar mischief. "Fine. But if we're starting the day early, come to the shower with me."
Michael grinned, the last of his road-weariness seemingly evaporating. "I think I can oblige that request."
******
Michael's M-2 pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the studio lot, with Evelyn sitting by his side in the passenger seat. Above the entrance, a large, newly painted board hung prominently, bearing the name in bold, authoritative letters: KINGSTON STUDIOS.
Waiting there to greet them were Jack Copper and a man in his late thirties with a weary but sharp intelligence in his eyes. This was Barry Johnson, the Head of Operations for Kingston Studios.
Barry was a veteran of the early New York film wars. He had started his own production company years ago, only to lose everything when the Edison Trust buried him in endless lawsuits and legal costs. Jack found him later, working in a quiet photographic lab. After hearing high praise from several actors who worked with him, Jack put him in charge of the Los Angeles lot. For Barry, Michael wasn't just a boss; he was the man who had finally defeated the monopoly that ruined his life.
"Welcome to the frontier, Mr. Kingston," Barry said, stepping forward to shake Michael's hand as they climbed out of the car. He then turned to Evelyn with a professional smile. "And good morning, Miss Richards. It is good to have the both of you here together."
"Lead the way, Barry," Michael said. "I want you to show me exactly what's happening across the lot."
They began a walking tour of the 500-acre expanse. The lot was a sprawling hive of activity. Dozens of massive outdoor sets had been constructed, dominated primarily by high-walled Western towns, rugged saloons, and dusty frontier trails.
"Mostly Westerns right now," Barry explained as they passed a crew prepping a stagecoach. "The public can't get enough of them. But we've started diversifying. We have a few modern dramas and comedies in production now. Most of our films are running between fifty and sixty minutes. We've managed to keep budgets between twenty and twenty-five thousand dollars per picture. Since we reuse the sets and the same core crews, the efficiency is high and our costs are kept firmly in check."
Michael watched a group of riders galloping past a camera rig. "How many films are currently completed and sent to theaters?"
"Eight are fully completed," Barry replied promptly. "Six of those are already playing in theaters across the country. Out of those six, four are Westerns and two are murder mysteries—those are proving surprisingly popular with the urban audiences."
"And what's in the pipeline?" Michael asked as they reached the two-story administrative building in the center of the lot.
"We have one Western and one comedy currently filming," Barry said, his expression clouding slightly. "And we have another in initial pre-production, but we've hit a bit of a snag."
Michael stopped at the door of the office. "What kind of snag?"
"Casting," Barry admitted. "Specifically, the lead male. We haven't found an actor suitable for the role."
"What is the story about?" Michael asked.
Evelyn, who had been walking beside them, answered before Barry could. "It's an adaptation of Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo."
Michael nodded slowly. He knew the storyline well—the young sailor betrayed by his friends and imprisoned for years, only to return as a mysterious nobleman with a massive fortune to exact his justice. It was a powerful choice for the screen, a tale of patience and the man's vengeance.
"So, what's the issue?" Michael asked, turning back to Barry.
Barry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "The issue is that there aren't many talented young actors out here who can carry that kind of weight. Most of the real stage talent is still in New York. They refuse to come west because they think 'flickers' or 'photoplays' are a cheap, lower form of art. They don't want to stain their reputations with the movies."
Michael snorted at that. He knows that as soon as the industry will begin paying film actors significantly more than the stage ever could, the very people currently dismissing the "flickers" would be the first ones boarding the trains for California.
"We could offer more money," Jack suggested quietly.
Michael shook his head. "Leave it. If we have to bribe them to be here, they'll just bring that disdain onto the set. We need someone who understands and respects the medium."
Evelyn looked between the men for a moment, then a slow, mischievous smile spread across her face. "Why don't I suggest something?"
They all turned to look at her.
"Why can't you play the lead, Michael?"
A heavy silence fell over the group. Barry and Jack looked genuinely stunned, their eyes widening at the audacity of the suggestion. Even Michael's stoic expression wavered.
"Evelyn," Michael said, his voice warning but hushed.
"I'm serious," she insisted, stepping closer. "You truly have a talent for this, Michael. Your diction is impeccable, and you used to read those lines with so much depth when you helped me practice back in Boston. To be honest, you were more compelling than half the professionals I ever worked with."
Michael didn't say a word, but a visible flush crept across his face.
Barry looked at him, feeling deeply amused by the sight. Jack, however, was genuinely surprised; in all his years of service, he had never once seen Michael lose his clinical composure or show a hint of embarrassment.
"Michael, try it," Evelyn urged, her voice softening. "It will be fun. And who better to play a man who built his own fortune and returned to claim what's his?"
Michael looked out at the sets, then back at Evelyn. He let out a long, resigned breath. "Fine. We'll film some test shots. See if it even works."
"Oh, thank you!" Evelyn cried, and before he could react, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Barry and Jack both looked away instantly, staring intently at the horizon or the floorboards. In 1909, such a public and spontaneous display of affection—even a kiss on the cheek—was considered highly inappropriate in public.
The silence that followed was thick with polite embarrassment, but Michael just cleared his throat, his stoic mask sliding back into place as he led them into the building.
**********
The results of the Michael's initial test shots were processed and reviewed by the crew. Barry and the technical crew were deeply impressed by what they saw. On camera, Michael possessed a commanding, almost predatory presence that the lens seemed to crave. He didn't just stand; he dominated the frame with a natural ease that avoided the stiff theatricality of overacting.
And Michael's voice translated through the microphone better than any actor Barry had ever worked with. While some voices seemed pleasant in person but became thin or tinny when recorded, Michael's voice was deep, resonant, and carried a natural authority even in recordings.
Even after seeing the results of the test shots prove he was a natural, Michael could still have rejected their request if he had truly wanted to. But he didn't. The truth was, he was curious.
In his previous life as a mercenary and an assassin, acting hadn't been an art; it was a survival mechanism. To live through a mission, he often had to lie, to charm, and to deceive his targets with absolute conviction. He had spent a lifetime wearing masks and playing roles where a single false note meant death. Compared to the life-or-death deceptions of his past, playing Edmond Dantès for a camera was a simple, almost relaxing exercise.
He wanted to see how his old skills could be turned toward something an audience would enjoy, instead of just being used to bury the enemies.