Hollywood alpha

making friends and enemy

The sublet was a joke, a glorified closet off La Brea with walls thin enough to hear the neighbor's microwave ding like a sad trombone and a bed that sagged like a rejected plotline. But after Lena's drop-off, it felt less like exile and more like a green room between acts. I crashed hard, the treatment doc open on my laptop till 2 a.m., orphan hooks bleeding into beats that twisted like wet dreams. Her text pinged at 1:47, *Midnight's close enough. Sleep. Sequel dreams later.*, and I did, finally, with the taste of lime still ghosting my tongue.

Dawn cracked rude and relentless, smog-filtered light stabbing through the blinds like a director yelling "Action!" on take one. Coffee from a pod machine that spat like it held a grudge, fitting, got me vertical, and by 8:45, I was back in the Apex hive, badge beeping me through the glass jaws. The floor thrummed early: whiteboards freshly smeared with fresh arcs, the coffee station a battlefield of oat milk cartons and passive-aggressive Post-its (*Refill the beans, Karen*). My pod waited like a loyal dog, ficus still wilting in silent judgment. I fired up Slack, the treatment auto-saved and emailed to Vic and Lena, *Neon Requiem: Orphan Code - Treatment v1. Hooked and hollow. Feedback?*, and exhaled. Survived night one. Barely.

But the universe, being the sadistic showrunner it is, doesn't do encores without callbacks. Derek's shadow hit my desk before the screen fully bloomed, his bulk blocking the light like a bad eclipse. He was in full armor today: crisp button-down rolled to the elbows, showing off a Rolex that screamed *daddy's money*, and a smirk polished to a venomous sheen. "Morning, sunshine. Or should I say, morning *star*? Vic's buzzing about your little brainstorm magic. Paired with Ruiz too? Must be that Midwestern charm, or did you bribe her with deep-dish promises?"

I leaned back, keeping it cool, pulse ticking up, but no flinch. "Just pitching veins, Derek. You know, the pulsing kind. How's the budget armor holding? No leaks?"

His laugh barked out, too loud, drawing glances from the pod farm, Theo's head popping up like a meerkat, Marla's snort carrying from across the aisle. He planted both hands on my desk, leaning in close enough for his cologne to choke, something aquatic and aggressive, like shark piss. Up close, the whitening strips couldn't hide the cracks: faint crow's feet from too many "networking" squints, a jaw clenched like it was grinding axes. "Leaks? Kid, I've been plugging those since you were finger-painting with crayons. Three years at Apex, schmoozed the execs, buried the flops, even pulled *your* reel from the slush pile when Vic was hungover on rosé. And what do I get? Shadow duty for the flavor-of-the-week import."

There it was, the grudge cracking open like a bad seam, spilling backstory in bitter chunks. I held his gaze, hazel to whatever shade of spite burned in his blues, piecing it fast: the "established network" from his LinkedIn wasn't just fluff. Derek Voss, golden boy from USC film school, the guy who'd networked his way from PA to assistant producer on Vic's coattails. But coattails fray, and in this town, one stalled pilot could turn you from heir apparent to has-been-in-waiting. My reel, raw, unconnected, must've been his Hail Mary, a "look what I found" to Vic, buying time on a sinking promo track. Then bam: I land, survive the fishbowl, snag the pairing with Lena, the script whisperer who'd dodged his "babe" bait like a pro. Suddenly, the new meat wasn't just hazing fodder; he was the threat, the glitch in his upward crawl.

"Buried my reel?" I said, voice low, testing the wound. "Appreciate the assist. But if it's promo you're chasing, maybe less latte orders, more orphan hooks. Vic's got a nose for rot, yours or mine."

His knuckles whitened on the desk edge, the Rolex ticking like a bomb. For a beat, the mask slipped, raw envy flashing, the kind that simmers from too many doors slammed on nepotism's face. "Rot? Listen, Rivera, Chicago's cute for bootstraps tales, but LA eats orphans for breakfast. I *made* you visible, and now you're playing house with Lena like you invented subtext? She's off-limits, got it? Been circling that fire for months, dinners that turned into 'brainstorms,' her laughing at my takes till I thought it was a lock. Then you waltz in, all brooding hazel and 'bleed me dry' bullshit. Step light, or I'll make sure your sequel's a straight-to-DVD delete."

The threat hung, oily and real, Derek's world, where favors were IOUs and grudges were scripts he directed himself. Whispers from the forums I'd skimmed on the flight: Voss, the "Viper's Viper," known for Slack sabotage and anonymous tips to the trades. Bury a rival's draft in revisions? Child's play. Leak a "creative difference" to Variety? His love language.

Before I could fire back, Lena's voice cut the tension like a jump scare, her boots scuffing up behind him, curls still damp from a shower that smelled like vanilla dawn. "Problem in paradise, boys? Or just measuring d***s over desk space?" She slid between us, hip-checking Derek casual as a fade-out, her hand brushing my shoulder, light, but loaded, fingers lingering on my collar. "Vic's pinged the treatment. Wants a polish sesh in ten. You in, Derek? Or too busy polishing grudges?"

He straightened, mask snapping back, but the damage was done, the grudge laid bare, a live wire humming. "Wouldn't miss it, Ruiz. Team player, remember?" He shot me one last glare, *this ain't over*, and sauntered off, polo straining like his ego.

Lena dropped into my guest chair, legs kicking up on the desk with a thud that scattered my pens. "He spill? Derek's got a PhD in passive-aggressive, thinks every fresh face is auditioning for his spotlight. Buried my first spec too, back when I was the import. Called it 'poetic diarrhea.' Charming, right?"

I chuckled, tension uncoiling under her grin, but the grudge lingered like aftertaste, Derek's axe now mine to dodge. "Yeah. Thinks I stole his thunder. And you."

Her foot nudged my knee, playful, electric. "Stole? Honey, I'm no one's prize pig. But if you're offering sequels..." She trailed off, eyes wicked, as Vic's intercom crackled: *Fishbowl. Now. Polish or perish.*

We rose in sync, her arm looping mine for the trek, solidarity, spark. Derek's grudge? A subplot I'd rewrite or outrun. But as we filed in, his eyes locking on our linked elbows like crosshairs, I felt the grindstone turn: grudges don't fade in this town; they sharpen.

Little did I know, his first swing was already in motion, a doctored draft hitting Vic's inbox, orphan code twisted into sabotage. But that's the hook for the next reel.

To be continued…