Chapter 2: We're Honoring It

Leo's hands trembled as he gripped the steering wheel, staring at the building that would house his resurrection. The warehouse at 1247 Industrial Boulevard looked different in the harsh Monday morning light—larger, somehow, its concrete walls stretching up into a sky that seemed too gray, too close. The windows were still black, but now they reminded him less of privacy and more of blindness.

The check had cleared over the weekend. Twenty thousand dollars, real money that had transformed from numbers on a screen into the sudden absence of collection calls and the return of his electricity. He'd spent Sunday cleaning his apartment, washing clothes, buying real food for the first time in months. The coffee stain was gone from his shirt sleeve.

But Jeremy's equipment still sat in the corner, untouched.

The same black door opened before he could knock. Mr. Carruthers stood waiting, his pale skin almost translucent in the morning light. His smile was smaller today, more professional, but those eyes—Leo hadn't noticed Friday how they never seemed to blink.

"Right on time, Mr. Vance. Follow me."

The corridors seemed different now, branching off in directions Leo didn't remember from his interview. The air was thicker, humid, carrying that same sweet organic smell but stronger now, mixed with something that reminded him of developing fluid and old blood. Doors lined the hallway, some ajar, and through the gaps Leo caught glimpses of impossible spaces—a room filled with what looked like surgical instruments, another containing nothing but mirrors reflecting infinity.

"Your workspace," Mr. Carruthers announced, pushing open a door marked 'EDITING BAY 7.'

The room was a filmmaker's dream. State-of-the-art equipment lined the walls—digital editing suites, color correction monitors, sound mixing boards that looked like they belonged in a professional studio. But it was the centerpiece that made Leo's breath catch: a fully restored 16mm Steenbeck editing table, identical to the one his father had taught him on, the one Jeremy had learned on too.

"We believe in honoring the classics," Mr. Carruthers said, watching Leo's reaction. "The tactile experience of physically cutting film. The intimacy of handling each frame. You'll find it... enlightening."

Leo ran his fingers over the machine's surface, feeling the familiar texture of metal and plastic worn smooth by countless hands. "It's perfect."

"I'm glad you approve. Your first assignment is waiting for you."

A manila envelope sat on the desk beside the editing table. Leo's name was written across it in handwriting that looked oddly familiar, though he couldn't place it. Inside, he found a single sheet of paper with a scene description typed in standard screenplay format.

FADE IN:

EXT. SUBURBAN STREET - NIGHT

Rain falls steadily. Street lights create pools of yellow light on wet asphalt. A car approaches from the distance, headlights cutting through the darkness.

INT. CAR - CONTINUOUS

JEREMY (25) drives alone, humming softly. His phone buzzes on the passenger seat. He glances at the screen: "LEO" with a heart emoji. He reaches for the phone, taking his eyes off the road for just a moment.

JEREMY (into phone) Hey, bro. Yeah, I'm almost there. Can't wait to see what you made—

The sound of screeching brakes. Shattering glass. Then silence.

FADE TO BLACK.

Leo's vision blurred. The paper fell from his hands, fluttering to the floor like a dying bird. This wasn't possible. He'd never written this scene, never described the accident to anyone in this kind of detail. He'd never even told anyone about the phone call, about how Jeremy had been reaching for his phone when—

"There's been a mistake." His voice sounded hollow, distant. "I didn't write this."

"Of course not." Mr. Carruthers picked up the paper, smoothing it carefully. "This is your assignment. Studio B is prepared and waiting. The actors are already in makeup."

"I can't—" Leo backed away from the desk, his hands going to his hair. "I won't direct this. This is sick."

"Mr. Vance." The man's voice had changed, become something with edges. "You signed a contract. More importantly, you accepted our money. Money that has already been spent, if I'm not mistaken."

Leo thought of his cleared debts, his restocked refrigerator, the rent he'd paid in full for the first time in months. "I'll pay it back."

"With what?" Mr. Carruthers smiled, and Leo saw that his teeth were too sharp, too numerous. "Besides, you're missing the point. We're not asking you to exploit your tragedy. We're asking you to honor it."

The words hit Leo like a physical blow. "Honor it?"

"Your brother's death was meaningful, Mr. Vance. It shaped you, drove you to create. Now you can transform that pain into something beautiful, something that will help others understand loss. Isn't that what art is supposed to do?"

Leo's reflection stared back at him from the black screen of a monitor. He looked older, hollowed out, but there was something else there too—a hunger he'd thought he'd buried with Jeremy. The hunger to create, to matter, to make something that would outlast his own mortality.

"The scene is fiction," Mr. Carruthers continued. "Inspired by truth, but ultimately a performance. Method acting taken to its logical conclusion. You'll be directing professional actors in a controlled environment, creating something that speaks to the universal experience of loss."

"What if I say no?"

"Then you'll leave this building, return to your apartment, and wait for the eviction notice. You'll apply for jobs that don't want you, pitch projects that will never get made, and slowly forget that you ever had the potential to create something important." The man's smile widened. "Or you can walk through that door and direct the most honest scene you've ever filmed."

Leo closed his eyes, and immediately he was back in the editing room three years ago, watching Jeremy's laugh loop endlessly on the monitor. The last thing his brother had ever seen of his work. The last connection between them.

When he opened his eyes, Mr. Carruthers was holding out a director's viewfinder.

"Studio B is down the hall, third door on the left. The actors are waiting."

Leo took the viewfinder with numb fingers. Its weight was familiar, comforting. He'd held one just like it during his first film school project, when everything had seemed possible and Jeremy was still alive to be proud of him.

The walk to Studio B felt endless. Each step echoed in the narrow hallway, and Leo became aware of sounds seeping through the walls—muffled voices, the whir of machinery, and underneath it all, something that sounded like weeping.

The studio was smaller than he'd expected, but perfectly dressed. The street set was meticulous in its recreation of suburban nightmare—wet asphalt that gleamed under artificial streetlights, a car positioned exactly where Jeremy's had been, even the same make and model. The attention to detail was breathtaking and horrifying.

"Mr. Vance?" A young man approached, his face made up to look exactly like Jeremy at twenty-five. The resemblance was uncanny—the same dark hair, the same easy smile, even the same way of holding his shoulders. "I'm Marcus. I'll be playing your brother."

Leo's knees nearly buckled. "How did you—"

"We have excellent researchers." Marcus's voice was different from Jeremy's, but he was working to match the cadence, the rhythm. "I've been studying recordings of him, home videos, that sort of thing. I want to get this right."

"Recordings?" Leo's voice cracked. "What recordings?"

"Don't worry about that now." A woman appeared beside them, clipboard in hand. "I'm Sarah, your assistant director. We're ready to begin whenever you are."

The crew was already in position—camera operator, sound engineer, lighting technician. All of them wore the same expression of professional calm, as if they shot recreations of real tragedies every day. Maybe they did.

Leo raised the viewfinder, framing the shot through its small window. The composition was perfect, cinematic. The rain machine created just the right amount of atmosphere, the lighting captured the exact mood of that terrible night. It was everything he'd ever wanted to achieve as a filmmaker—truth transformed into art, pain made beautiful through craft.

"Action," he whispered.

Marcus slipped behind the wheel of the car, and suddenly he wasn't Marcus anymore. He was Jeremy, driving through the night to pick up his brother, humming the same song he'd been humming that night—a song Leo had never told anyone about. The performance was flawless, heartbreaking, real.

The phone buzzed. Marcus reached for it, taking his eyes off the road for just a moment. "Hey, bro. Yeah, I'm almost there. Can't wait to see what you made—"

The impact came from the side, a controlled crash that sent the car spinning. The stunt was perfectly choreographed, the fake glass shattering in slow motion under the lights. Marcus's performance of death was so convincing that Leo found himself stepping forward, forgetting for a moment that this was fiction.

"Cut!" he called out, his voice stronger than he'd expected.

The crew moved efficiently, checking equipment, adjusting lights. Marcus climbed out of the car, unharmed but somehow changed. There was something hollow in his eyes now, something that hadn't been there before.

"How was that?" he asked, but his voice was different—flatter, more distant.

"Perfect," Leo heard himself say. "Let's go again."

They shot the scene seventeen times from different angles, each take more devastating than the last. Marcus's performance grew more nuanced with each repetition, but also more disturbing. By the final take, Leo could swear he was watching his actual brother die over and over again.

"That's a wrap," Sarah announced, but her smile looked strained. "Excellent work, everyone."

As the crew dispersed, Leo found himself alone with the wreckage of the fake accident. The broken glass caught the studio lights, creating patterns that looked almost like stars. He knelt beside the car, running his fingers over the dented metal.

"Beautiful work." Mr. Carruthers appeared beside him, seemingly from nowhere. "The raw emotion you captured... it's exactly what we're looking for."

Leo looked up at him, and for a moment couldn't remember why he'd been so resistant. The scene had been powerful, meaningful. He'd taken his deepest pain and transformed it into something that could help others understand loss, just as Mr. Carruthers had said.

"What's next?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, we'll show you the dailies. But first, I think you should meet some of your colleagues. The other directors are quite eager to welcome you to the family."

As they walked back through the corridors, Leo caught glimpses through the open doors—other crews shooting other scenes, other directors calling out instructions. In one room, he saw a woman directing what looked like a domestic violence scene, her face twisted in concentration as she called for the actor to hit harder, to make it more real.

In another, a man was filming what appeared to be a child's birthday party, but the children were crying, and the cake was covered in what looked like blood.

Leo's steps slowed. "What kind of films are we making here?"

"Important ones," Mr. Carruthers replied. "Films that matter. Films that change people."

They reached the editing bay, and Leo found himself staring at the Steenbeck again. The machine seemed to pulse in the artificial light, waiting for him to feed it film, to cut and splice and create meaning from chaos.

"Get some rest," Mr. Carruthers said. "Tomorrow we begin post-production. You'll find the process... illuminating."

As Leo drove home through the familiar streets, he couldn't shake the image of Marcus's hollow eyes, or the sound of the fake crash echoing in his ears. But underneath the unease was something else—a satisfaction he hadn't felt in years. He'd directed again. He'd created something.

Jeremy's equipment was still in the corner of his apartment, but for the first time since the funeral, Leo didn't feel guilty looking at it. He'd found a way to honor his brother's memory, to transform their shared tragedy into art.

He didn't notice the way his reflection in the apartment window seemed to smile even when he wasn't smiling, or how the viewfinder he'd left on his kitchen table pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light.

Outside, the city hummed with its usual nighttime energy, but Leo fell asleep to the sound of film running through a projector, that steady, hypnotic clicking that promised tomorrow would bring new scenes to shoot, new truths to capture, new ways to bleed for his art.