Chapter 1: Go the Distance for True Art

The overdue notice crumpled in Leo's fist as he stared at the laptop screen, its pale glow illuminating the dark circles under his eyes. Three months since his last freelance gig. Two months since the electricity company's final warning. One month since he'd eaten anything that wasn't ramen or whatever his neighbor Mrs. Chen left outside his door out of pity.

The apartment felt smaller each day, closing in like the walls of a tomb. Jeremy's film equipment still sat in the corner, gathering dust—the old 16mm camera their dad had bought them to share, back when Leo still believed in dreams and his little brother still believed in his big brother.

What would Jeremy think of you now? The voice in his head sounded disappointingly like his own.

Leo ran his hand through his messy brown hair, a nervous habit that had gotten worse since the funeral. The motion was automatic now, a physical manifestation of the anxiety that lived in his chest like a second heartbeat. He clicked refresh on the job board for the hundredth time today, scrolling past the same collection of corporate video gigs and wedding videography posts that wouldn't even cover his rent.

Then something new appeared.

AETHELRED PICTURES Seeking passionate filmmaker for unique creative opportunity No experience necessary - only dedication to the craft Compensation: Generous Location: Downtown warehouse district Apply immediately

Leo's cursor hovered over the link. No portfolio requirements. No list of software proficiencies. Just a simple form asking for his name, contact information, and a single question: "What drives your artistic vision?"

His fingers found the keyboard almost without permission. "Film is the only language that can capture the weight of memory," he typed, thinking of Jeremy's laugh echoing through their childhood home. "Every frame is a chance to make something permanent from something fleeting."

The response came within minutes.

Interview scheduled for today, 4 PM. 1247 Industrial Boulevard. Ask for Mr. Carruthers.

Leo checked the time: 3:15 PM. He hadn't showered in two days, and his only clean shirt had a coffee stain on the sleeve. But something about the quick response felt urgent, almost desperate. Like they needed him as much as he needed them.

The warehouse district was a graveyard of abandoned dreams—empty lots scattered with rusted machinery and buildings that looked like they'd been gutted by something hungry. 1247 Industrial Boulevard stood apart from the decay, a massive concrete structure with windows too dark to see through and a door that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of black wood.

Leo's reflection in the polished surface showed a man who looked older than his twenty-eight years, worn down by failure and grief. He knocked, and the door opened immediately, as if someone had been waiting on the other side.

"Mr. Vance." The man who greeted him was tall and unnaturally thin, with skin that seemed to have never seen sunlight. His suit was expensive but somehow wrong—too sharp, too perfect, like a costume. "I'm Mr. Carruthers. Please, come in."

The interior defied the building's industrial exterior. Rich mahogany panels lined the walls, and the air smelled of old leather and something else—something organic and slightly sweet that made Leo's stomach turn. They walked through a series of corridors that seemed to stretch impossibly far, past doors that were all closed, all silent.

"Tell me about your brother," Mr. Carruthers said suddenly, without turning around.

Leo stumbled, nearly colliding with the man's back. "I didn't mention—"

"Jeremy Vance. Car accident, three years ago. You were supposed to be in the passenger seat that night, but you stayed home to edit a short film about childhood memories. The guilt is what ended your engagement to Sarah. It's what made you drop out of USC. It's what drives you to create, and it's what's destroying you."

The words hit Leo like physical blows. His hand went to his hair, fingers tangling in the unwashed strands. "How do you—"

"We research our candidates thoroughly." Mr. Carruthers pushed open a door marked 'CONFERENCE ROOM A.' "Please, sit."

The room was lit by candles that cast dancing shadows across the walls. Three people sat at a polished black table, their faces obscured by the flickering light. Leo took the chair across from them, his hands shaking as he gripped the armrests.

"Leo Vance," said the woman in the center. Her voice was cultured, precise, but there was something off about the cadence, like she was reading from a script. "Film school graduate. Promising career cut short by personal tragedy. Currently facing eviction and defaulting on student loans."

"We're not interested in your resume," added the man to her left. His smile was too wide, stretching his face in ways that seemed anatomically impossible. "We want to know about your pain."

The third figure leaned forward, and Leo caught a glimpse of eyes that reflected the candlelight like a cat's. "Pain is the raw material of true art. Suffering is the currency of genius. We believe you have both in abundance."

Leo's mouth went dry. "I don't understand what you're asking."

"We're asking you to bleed for your art," the woman said. "Literally, if necessary. We create films that matter, Mr. Vance. Films that cut through the noise of ordinary existence and show audiences something real. Something that hurts."

"The position pays fifty thousand dollars," the wide-smiling man added. "Plus full benefits. Plus a signing bonus that would clear your debts."

Leo's heart hammered against his ribs. Fifty thousand was more than he'd made in the past two years combined. It was enough to start over, to honor Jeremy's memory with something beautiful instead of this slow suicide of poverty and guilt.

"What kind of films?" he asked.

"Psychological horror. Intimate trauma. The kind of stories that most people are too afraid to tell." The woman's smile matched her colleague's now, that same impossible stretch of lips. "We believe authenticity comes from experience. Our directors don't just imagine suffering—they remember it."

The third figure spoke again, its voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Tell us about the worst thing that ever happened to you."

Leo's vision blurred. The candles seemed to grow brighter, their flames stretching toward the ceiling like grasping fingers. "I don't—"

"Jeremy was driving to pick you up from the lab," the woman said. "You were working late, editing that short film. 'Summer Brothers,' wasn't it? About the fort you built in the woods behind your house when you were kids."

"Stop." Leo's voice cracked.

"He was excited to see the rough cut. He texted you from the car: 'Can't wait to see what you made.' Three minutes later, the drunk driver ran the red light."

"Stop."

"You never responded to the text. You were in the zone, cutting together the scene where eight-year-old Jeremy laughs at something eight-year-old Leo whispered in his ear. The last thing you ever made together."

Leo doubled over, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The room spun around him, the candles becoming streaks of fire in his peripheral vision. "He was coming to get me. He was coming because I called him. I could have taken the bus, but I was tired, and I—"

"You killed him," the third figure whispered.

"Yes." The word escaped Leo's throat like a dying breath. "Yes, I killed him."

The silence that followed was complete, broken only by the soft hiss of the candles. When Leo finally looked up, all three figures were smiling. Not the impossible smiles from before, but something worse—expressions of genuine pleasure, like they'd just tasted something exquisite.

"Congratulations, Mr. Vance," the woman said. "You start Monday."

Leo stumbled out of the building twenty minutes later, a contract in his hand and a signing bonus check for twenty thousand dollars in his pocket. The afternoon sun felt harsh after the candlelit room, and he had to squint to read the address where he was supposed to report.

The same warehouse district. A different building.

As he walked back to his car, Leo caught his reflection in a storefront window. For the first time in months, he looked alive. His eyes held a spark that had been missing since the funeral, a flicker of the old passion that had driven him to film school, to those late nights in the editing room, to that final conversation with Jeremy.

He was going to make films again. Real films. Films that mattered.

He didn't notice the way his reflection seemed to linger in the glass even after he'd walked away, or how its smile looked exactly like the ones he'd seen in the conference room.

By the time he reached his car, Leo Vance was already planning his first project—a tribute to Jeremy that would capture not just his memory, but the weight of losing him. He would pour his grief into the camera, let it bleed through every frame.

He had no idea that bleeding was exactly what they wanted.

The contract in his hand felt warm, almost alive, and somewhere in the distance, he could swear he heard the sound of film running through a projector—that steady, hypnotic clicking that had been the soundtrack to his dreams since childhood.

Monday couldn't come fast enough.