Just as Rex had taken a few steps down the gravel path from the garden, the low buzz of conversation was pierced by a sharp, angry voice.
"Stop bothering the guests with your stupid script! What do you think this is, so indie pitch festival? You’re here to serve drinks, not harass VIPs with your film school fantasies."
He turned slightly, curious. A tall, gangly young man in a waiter’s uniform was being scolded by a squat, red-faced supervisor who looked like he’d been plucked straight from a sitcom about failed restaurateurs. The supervisor’s voice carried across the path, sharp and unrelenting.
"One more stunt like that and you’re out. Don’t think I won’t have security toss you on your ass. I don’t care how many rewrites you did. No one here wants to hear your half-baked movie pitch, got it?"
The young man’s cheeks flushed with embarrassnt, turning a deep, angry red. His mouth tightened as if physically holding back a retort. He looked down, shoulders stiff, and mumbled, "I’m sorry. It won’t happen again," the words barely passing his lips. His hands clenched at his sides, and for a mont it looked like he might bolt or crumble on the spot. But instead, he just stood there, the picture of quiet humiliation, eyes fixed on the ground as if willing it to swallow him whole.
The older man gave a final scoff and stalked off, shaking his head and muttering sothing about "wannabe Tarantinos."
Rex narrowed his eyes and felt a flicker of pity for the young man. The raw rejection, the public humiliation—it all hit harder than it should’ve. But just as he was about to step forward, sothing made him hesitate. There was sothing familiar about the kid—the sharp cheekbones, the wide, alert eyes. Not a celebrity, certainly. But still... familiar. He couldn’t quite place it, though, and that uncertainty made him cautious.
Instead of rushing in, he decided to simply observe for now. The young man tucked a folder under his arm and hurried off toward the back garden with a determined look that didn’t quite mask his frustration. A few minutes later, Rex spotted him again, awkwardly cornering a guest near a hedge wall. The young man’s eyes sparkled with eagerness, his earlier scolding already forgotten. He flipped open the folder with both hands, displaying the script like it was a sacred relic, speaking quickly and passionately. There was a hopeful glint in his eye, as though this mont might finally be his break.
The guest—an older man in a tailored jacket with silver cufflinks—let out a mocking chuckle, the kind that dripped with disdain. He didn’t even bother to look at the script at first, simply glanced at the folder as if it were a flyer for a used mattress sale. When the young man persisted, eyes wide and voice trembling with hope, begging him to just give it a chance, the guest’s amusent turned to open irritation.
"Christ, you kids never get it, do you? No one gives a damn about your little dream project," the man sneered. "You think passion is enough? Get in line."
With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he snatched the folder from the waiter’s hands, flipped it open with theatrical disinterest, and flicked through the pages like they were garbage receipts. Without even reading a full sentence, he scoffed loudly and flung the folder onto the gravel path with an exaggerated flourish.
"Keep your masterpiece, superstar," he said, chuckling cruelly as he turned on his heel. "Maybe one day you’ll win a film festival in your basent."
The young man stood frozen, every trace of confidence and hope wiped clean from his face. The folder lay open, pages scattered like fallen leaves. Slowly, like a defeated soldier, he bent down to gather them, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to smooth out the crumples the man’s boot had left behind.
Seeing this, Rex stepped forward without a word. He knelt beside the young man and began helping him gather the scattered pages. The waiter glanced up, startled, then gave a small, grateful nod and tried to give a polite smile, but it ca out all wrong—a lopsided grimace oozing failure and quiet despair. Rex didn’t say anything. He just kept picking up pages alongside him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. No grand gestures, no pity—just quiet presence that made it a little less awful. He collected the pages one by one, smoothing them out, brushing off the gravel.
But just as he was collecting one of the scattered pages, Rex’s gaze landed on sothing that made him pause—a title page.
Paranormal.
He raised an eyebrow. That couldn’t be that Paranormal, could it? he thought to himself. The resemblance of the na tugged at a mory from his past life.
Even though he was curious, Rex didn’t flip the page. He wasn’t about to start reading without permission. Instead, he handed the collected pages back to the waiter.
The young man accepted them with a nod, said thank you deeply, clearly trying to pull himself together. He looked like he was about to leave, shoulders hunched, defeated.
And that’s when Rex said, "Mind if I take a look?" take a look?"
The waiter blinked, startled, but then nodded quickly and handed over the folder. His na tag read: Aren.
"Thank you," he said quietly, this ti with more sincerity. There was still so shakiness in his voice, but the way he handed over the folder—like he was offering a piece of his soul—made Rex take it seriously.
Rex took the folder and flipped through it. Neatly typed pages. Scene headers. Dialogue. The first few lines made him pause.
Wait a second...
He flipped to the next scene. Then another. His expression tightened with curiosity.
These scenes—he’d seen them before. Not exactly, but strikingly similar. His mind clicked. Paranormal—a low-budget supernatural thriller that beca a box office monster in his past life. This script? It wasn’t identical, but it had the sa structure, the sa psychological tension, the sa final reveal.
He closed the folder slowly and looked at the young man. "What’s your na?"
"Aren. Aren Deli."
(End of Chapter)
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