Chapter 438: Plans
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[LIE Studios | The Executive Room]
The room on the eighteenth floor of LIE Studios was bathed in the crisp, golden light of late spring, but the atmosphere inside was entirely electric.
This was the nerve center of Regal Seraphsail’s empire.
The walls were lined with towering digital projection screens displaying real-time box office analytics, production schedules, casting grids, and visual effects rendering queues.
It was a room designed to manage the impossible, and right now, the impossible was operating at maximum capacity.
Regal stood at the head of the conference table.
He wore his usual dark henley and jeans, a stark contrast to the immaculately tailored executives seated around him.
Samantha, standing to his right with a tablet tucked under her arm, cleared her throat. "Let’s start with the current operational slate."
"As of this morning, [John Wick] has officially crossed the $750 million mark globally. It’s been out for months, but the legs on this film are staggering. Home media and streaming presales are breaking records."
That performance wasn’t entirely unexpected.
Although several weeks had turned into months since [John Wick] premiered, and numerous major releases had arrived in the meantime, the film continued drawing audiences through exceptionally strong word of mouth.
Its daily box office numbers had naturally declined, but the steady stream of repeat viewers and late adopters kept it profitable long after most action films would have disappeared from theaters.
Regal nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Keep the momentum going on the digital front, but start scaling back the aggressive marketing. The film sells itself now through pure word of mouth. What’s next on the immediate docket?"
He genuinely believed that.
By his estimate, [John Wick] had already reached the overwhelming majority of its potential audience, and while its exceptional word of mouth would continue driving ticket sales, most of the remaining revenue would come from repeat viewings rather than large waves of first-time moviegoers.
Even under the most optimistic projections, he expected the film to finish its theatrical run at around $750 million worldwide.
Simon, acting as the primary point man while Darren was famously secluded in a makeup trailer three floors down, tapped his stylus against his notepad. "Next week, we drop [What Remains] day tomorrow. Stephen Jr.’s film. We’re giving it a highly targeted, prestige limited release before expanding it nationwide."
Regal’s expression softened slightly.
[What Remains] wasn’t a LIE Studios production in the traditional sense, but it carried the ’Regal Seraphsail & Keanu Reeves Present’ banner.
It was a quiet, devastating indie drama, a film that Regal had personally championed.
"I already informed this but make sure the indie circuits treat it with the respect it deserves." Regal instructed. "It’s a palate cleanser. A reminder to the audience and the industry that we don’t just deal in explosions and capes, but also human stories. And it’s the perfect emotional counter-programming for what drops right after it."
"Exactly twelve days after [What Remains] expands." Samantha chimed in, swiping her screen to bring up a massive, magical crest. "Harry Potter takes over the world again."
The room seemed to take a collective breath.
The latest Harry Potter installment, [Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix] trailer juggernaut waiting to be unleashed.
....
The air inside the private screening room was thick, almost suffocating.
For a film shot on a shoestring budget in a cramped fifth-floor walk-up, the weight of the crowd gathered to watch it felt disproportionately massive.
David, the young director, sat with his hands clamped tightly between his knees, his knuckles white. Next to him, Maya, the assistant director, was staring fixedly at the blank silver screen.
Sarah, the actor who portrayed the mother character and had anchored the film’s quiet emotional core, sat rigidly beside them, her eyes distant, braced for the storm.
But the real reason the room felt entirely devoid of oxygen was sitting just two rows back.
Stephen Hawking Sr. and Ross Oakley.
The two legendary, terrifying titans of the industry sat side-by-side.
And right between them, entirely oblivious to the decades of cinematic intimidation flanking her, sat Stephen Jr.’s three-year-old daughter.
She was currently treating the two most formidable men in Hollywood like a personal playground.
Her tiny fingers reached up, casually tugging on Ross Oakley’s silver-streaked beard before shifting targets to poke at the wrinkled, stern skin near Stephen Sr.’s cheek.
Stephen Sr. didn’t flinch.
He merely leaned slightly to the side, his sharp eyes cutting toward the man beside him. "What are you looking at, Ross? Jealous? You should have married when you had the chance instead of being a playboy."
Ross let out a gravelly, dramatic scoff, gently untangling the toddler’s small hand from his hair. "Don’t kid me... it was your family drama that killed any hope for me to start a family. It’s just too much stress. I am so glad I did what I did."
It was a known, unspoken truth within their inner circles.
Regal had never explicitly brought it up, but Ross had never married. And while his defense carried a grain of truth, Stephen Sr. wasn’t the type to care about anyone else’s version of reality.
Ross’s eyes drifted past the toddler, settling on Stephen Jr., who was sitting a few seats down next to his wife, January.
"He got his shit together, I guess." Ross muttered, his tone shifting into something uncharacteristically quiet.
Stephen Sr. didn’t look up, his large, weathered hand gently patting the little girl’s head as she twisted his shirt button. "It’s better you didn’t get married. Can’t hold your tongue even around a kid. Hopeless."
"This... bast–" Ross caught himself mid-syllable, closing his mouth hard.
"See?" Stephen Sr. murmured smoothly, his tone flat and unyielding. "You still can’t."
A few seats away, Stephen Jr. let out a long, silent sigh, rubbing his temples. The contrast was almost too much to process.
The man currently letting a toddler pull his skin was the exact same stiff, unyielding grandfather who had made Stephen Jr.’s childhood feel like a permanent military drill.
But as his eyes lingered on Ross, Stephen Jr. knew exactly what the older actor’s comment meant.
Ross had watched his career like a hawk.
During the filming of [Death Note], Ross had seen the brilliant, unhinged spark of potential when Stephen Jr. stepped into the skin of L.
But during [The Hangover] screening, there had been a brief, terrifying moment where Stephen Jr. looked like a complete disaster, a young man losing his grip on his own path.
To hear Ross Oakley acknowledge, even gruffly, that he had pulled himself together... It meant everything.
January reached over, squeezing his hand tightly, her warm smile anchoring him.
Beside them, their daughter giggled, completely unbothered by the heavy atmosphere.
Then, the house lights began to dim, plunging the theater into a deep, heavy darkness.
The chatter died instantly, and the silver screen hummed to life.
....
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[Release Day of [What Remains] | Private Screening]
The audience was immediately introduced to Owen, a twenty-six-year-old man walking away from a shattered vehicle.
The cinematography was stark, utilizing the natural, unforgiving California sun to bleach out the frame, making the empty streets feel vast and isolated.
As the film transitioned into Owen returning to their apartment, a collective, heavy realization washed over the theater.
The camera tracked Owen through the agonizing simplicity of a routine: figuring out what a toddler eats when the person who always knew is gone.
The suffocating quiet of a Tuesday afternoon, and the crushing, repetitive task of just getting through to Wednesday.
It was just a man, a child, and the quiet, agonizing persistence of living.
Then, the narrative shifted.
The heavy wooden door on screen opened, and Regal entered the frame as Daniel Cole; the child welfare officer.
The dynamic in the theater changed instantly.
Regal’s character wasn’t a cartoonish villain.
He was simply the institutional conscience of the state, a man who genuinely wanted Owen to be okay, but whose job dictated that he could never, under any circumstances, assume that he was.
Stephen Jr.’s Owen sat opposite him, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white.
"I already have a job lined up." Owen’s voice cracked on screen, the desperation bleeding through the theater’s surround-sound speakers. "It starts next week... the hours are flexible, I can drop Nora at daycare, and–"
"The issue, Mr. Hayes, isn’t just financial."
In the row behind, Stephen Sr. sat perfectly still, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the sheer restraint in Regal’s performance.
Next to him, Ross Oakley’s eyes narrowed.
They recognized what Regal was doing, and he was creating an immovable brick wall for Stephen Jr. to smash himself against.
On screen, Owen flinched as if physically struck. "I didn’t leave her. I was right there. I just... couldn’t breathe. It was a bad day. My wife used to buy that brand of cereal, and it just hit me. But I am completely fine now."
Regal finally looked up on screen, and his gaze was terrifyingly surgical, as he didn’t even blink.
"Four minutes is a long time for a two-year-old to be unattended near moving vehicles, Mr. Hayes." Regal said softly.
The quietness of the delivery was devastating.
In the theater, Sarah let out a soft, involuntary sob, covering her mouth.
The sheer, unyielding reality of the system’s cold logic hit every person in the room like a physical blow.
Then came the break.
Owen’s eyes pooled with tears that felt entirely unscripted.
The raw, unfair weight of the scene pushed Stephen Jr. into a performance that transcended acting.
"Please." Owen whispered on screen, his voice shattering into a million pieces, the polished actor completely vanishing into the broken soul of a father fighting for his child. "She’s all I have left. If you take her... there’s nothing left. Please."
Regal held eye contact on screen for three long, devastating seconds, offering no comfort, or reassurance.
He simply looked down, flipped a page, and began to write.
The harsh scratching of his pen echoed through the dead-silent theater before the screen faded to black.
The fourth and final appearance of Daniel Cole defined the emotional resolution of the film.
It was a rainy Wednesday morning and the final assessment.
The apartment was pristine, but the air on screen was thick with the terror of a final verdict.
Owen stood by the window, his posture completely hollowed out, waiting to see if his daughter would be taken away.
The apartment was entirely silent, save for the rhythmic thud of plastic blocks against the hardwood floor.
Nora was sitting on the rug, absorbed in her own little world, while Owen stood frozen by the window, his entire body braced for a final verdict.
A sharp knock rattled the front door.
Owen exhaled a ragged breath, walked over, and opened it.
Daniel Cole stepped inside, his trench coat damp from the rain.
He walked straight over to the living room rug and sat right down on the floor next to Nora, quietly offering her a blue plastic block.
Owen turned around slowly, the suspense eating him alive. "Just tell me, Mr. Cole. Are you taking her?"
.
....
[To be continued...]
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