The golden text didn't flicker this time. It burned.
For months, the System had been a silent companion, a passive library of genius that Daniel accessed like a scholar in a restricted archive. But as the "Wrap" on principal photography settled into the "Selection" for Moondance, the interface manifested with a clarity that felt like a physical weight behind his eyes.
---
[MISSION UPDATE: THE DEBUT (PART 1) – COMPLETE]
Objective: Successfully film and edit a feature-length debut.
Status: Verified.
[PENDING REWARD: TO BE UNLOCKED AFTER FIRST PUBLIC SCREENING]
Primary Reward: [???] — (Identity obscured until debut reception is calculated).
Special Ability Unlocked:[TALENT HUNT (RANK: F)]
Description: Allows the User to perceive the latent "Archetype Potential" of actors. This ability highlights individuals whose talent reached iconic status in Earth-199 but remain undervalued or "miscast" in this world.
Limit: 3 scans per month.
---
Daniel stared at the words as he packed his single, worn suitcase. Talent Hunt. It was the missing piece of the puzzle. He had the scripts, the vision, and the memories of legendary performances—but he didn't have the people. In Earth-199, Robert Downey Jr. was Iron Man. In this world, he might be a struggling theater actor or a man who had never even stepped in front of a camera. This ability was a compass for the greatest untapped resource in Hollywood: human potential.
But the excitement was tempered by the immediate reality of their "success."
The invitation from Moondance was a document of high-contrast prestige. Being selected for a "World Premiere" was a tier above the "U.S. Dramatic Competition." It meant the festival was treating 12 Angry Men as a marquee event. They were issued twenty-five official badges for the crew—a staggering number—but the "Full Ride" (airfare and five-star accommodations) was strictly limited to five people.
In a luxury production, the studio would simply cut a check for the other twenty people. In Daniel's world, every dollar was a drop of blood.
"We can't afford to bring everyone, Dan," Tom had said, his voice heavy as they sat in the empty dance studio for the final "Team Meeting." "We have the five tickets. That's it."
The atmosphere had been bittersweet. Daniel looked at Sarah, the cinematographer who had hauled a RED V-Raptor on her shoulder for fourteen hours a day. He looked at Sam, the student who had rigged lights until his hands bled. He looked at the others.
"I'm not going," Sarah had said firmly, though her eyes were shining with unshed tears. "I'm a student, Dan. I have finals. Besides, I look like a swamp monster in a dress. You need the faces. You need the 'Stars.'"
"She's right," Sam added, leaning against a C-stand. "We're the grunts. You take Tom to handle the sharks, and take Elias, Leo, and Victor. They're the heavy hitters on screen. You need them for the Q&A. You need them to look like the next big things."
The three actors had tried to protest, particularly Leo, who felt the "Juror Five" guilt acutely. But the crew had been adamant, making up excuses about "prior commitments" or "hating the cold."
Daniel had sat there, a silent vow hardening in his chest. He looked at Sarah's exhausted, happy face—a face that deserved to be on a stage in Park City—and he promised himself: Never again. He would reach a point where a "budget constraint" would never again be the reason his team was left behind. He would build a studio where the "grunts" were treated like royalty.
---
LAX (Los Angeles International Airport)– March 10th
The airport terminal was a sea of tourists and business travelers, but the small group gathered at Gate 42 looked like they belonged to a different era.
Everyone was in a suit.
They weren't "designer" suits—Elias was wearing a vintage wool charcoal number that smelled faintly of cedar; Victor was in a slim-fit navy suit he'd likely bought at a discount outlet; and Leo's was a bit too broad in the shoulders. But they were pressed. They were sharp. They had scraped together their last bits of "emergency" cash to ensure they didn't look like the "broke indie kids" the industry expected them to be.
The rest of the crew had come to drop them off. It felt like a send-off for soldiers going to a war they had already won in their hearts.
"Don't let the critics smell the sandwiches on you, Dan," Sam joked, clapping Daniel on the shoulder.
Sarah stepped forward, her eyes scanning the five men. "You look like a million dollars. All of you. Now go and make them realize they've been watching garbage for the last ten years."
As they checked into Business Class—a perk of the World Premiere status provided by the festival—the weight of the transition hit them. For the actors, the plush leather seats and the complimentary champagne felt like a dream. For Daniel, it felt like a return to a natural state he had been denied for too long.
When the plane touched down in Salt Lake City, the air was a crisp, biting forty degrees—a far cry from the stifling heat of their North Hollywood "Jury Room." A black SUV with a "Moondance Official" placard was waiting for them at the curb.
"Mr. Miller?" the driver asked, holding a sign.
"That's us," Tom said, his voice trembling just a bit.
The drive into Park City was a blur of snow-capped peaks and high-end boutiques draped in festival banners. They were taken to the Grand Summit Hotel, a five-star lodge nestled at the base of the mountains, mere steps from the Eccles Theater.
The lobby was a microcosm of the global film industry. It was a sea of Patagonia vests, cashmere coats, and the low, frantic hum of deals being brokered over expensive bourbon. Agents with three phones, critics with notebooks, and actors trying to look like they weren't looking for a camera.
"Holy shit," Victor whispered, adjusting his tie as they walked through the lounge. "That's the head of Creative Artists Agency. And that guy over there... he's the lead critic for The Hollywood Reporter."
Daniel scanned the room, but his eyes stopped on a man leaning against the mahogany bar.
He was wearing a casual flannel shirt and a baseball cap, laughing at something a companion had said. He had a sharp, quick wit that seemed to radiate from him even across the room. To anyone else, he was a successful B-list actor known for mid-budget romantic comedies and the occasional indie drama.
It was Ryan Reynolds.
In this world, he was "The Rom-Com Guy." He was talented, sure, but he was seen as a safe, charming utility player. He hadn't found the role that defined him. He was a long way from the "A-List" status he held in Earth-199.
Daniel stared at him, and for a second, the [TALENT HUNT] ability flared.
A semi-transparent overlay appeared over Reynolds. It wasn't a list of stats, but a shifting aura of "Potential." Daniel didn't just see a charming actor; he saw the "Deadpool" of Earth-199. He saw the razor-sharp comedic timing, the capacity for fourth-wall-breaking subversion, and the hidden depth for gritty action.
The System confirmed it: the people were the same. The vessels of talent were identical across worlds. They simply needed the right "Blueprint"—the right script—to unlock their iconic forms.
He doesn't know it yet, Daniel thought, a thrill of excitement coursing through him. But he's a King. And one day, I'm going to give him his crown.
"Daniel? You okay?" Tom asked, noticing his stare.
"Yeah," Daniel replied, turning back toward the elevators. "Just realizing how much work we have to do."
---
Their suite was a sprawling expanse of timber beams, stone fireplaces, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the slopes. It was more luxury than all five of them had seen collectively in a decade.
On the large oak desk in the center of the room sat a thick black binder: THE MOONDANCE ITINERARY.
Daniel flipped it open.
Day 1: Press Junkets (Small Rooms).
Day 2: The "Director's Brunch" at the Steiner House.
Day 3: The World Premiere at the Eccles Theater (7:00 PM).
Day 4: Distribution Negotiations (By Appointment).
Inside the binder were also printouts of the "Initial Buzz" reports. Because 12 Angry Men had been given a World Premiere slot, the industry was already asking questions.
"The dark horse of the festival," one trade blurb read. "A no-name cast, a disgraced director, and a plot that takes place in a single room. Is it a bold artistic statement or a budget-forced disaster? Moondance programmers are betting on the former."
The eyes of these tabloids were sharp, and they had most likely already dug up the drama between Daniel and Julian.
"They're calling you 'The Disgraced Director,' Dan," Victor said, reading over his shoulder.
"Let them," Daniel said, closing the binder. "By Sunday night, they'll have a different name for me."
Tom was already on the phone, his face pale as he looked at a stack of business cards that had been left in their room by "early birds."
"Dan... we have seven requests for private screeners from distributors," Tom whispered, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. "One of them is from Vanguard Pictures."
Daniel's jaw tightened. Vanguard was the subsidiary where Julian Vane's "Golden Boy" influence was strongest. They were likely sent to scout the competition and see if Daniel was actually a threat.
"No private screeners," Daniel said, his voice cold and final. "If they want to see the movie, they can buy a ticket and sit in the dark with everyone else. I want them to hear the audience breathe."
He walked to the window, looking down at the lights of Park City. The "Mountain Exile" had begun in a dusty basement, but it was ending here, in the snow.
"Tom," Daniel said.
"Yeah?"
"Tell the boys to get some sleep. Tomorrow, we start the press rounds. I want them sharp. I want them focused. We aren't here as guests."
Daniel looked at his own reflection in the glass, the System's golden light reflecting in his pupils.
"We're here to take over."