One sip, and his eyes widened. He could swear it was the best coffee he’d ever had. Then again, the only coffee he’d known were those cheap instant packets he mixed at ho, so maybe he wasn’t qualified to judge. Still, whatever this was, it tasted like another world, a world that until now he had only seen from the outside.
That was when Aren began to notice. He’d seen people treat Rex with courtesy last night, sure, but sitting here, in this polished office filled with the lawyer’s achievents, it struck him harder. Each small act, from the lawyer’s asured tone to the way he personally handled the coffee, carried a weight Aren couldn’t ignore.
Leaning back uneasily in his chair, Aren realized how out of place he felt. Every fra on the wall seed to judge him, every book in the shelves reminding him that he didn’t belong here.
But thankfully, no one seed to be paying him much attention. Rex was focused on his coffee, taking quiet, unhurried sips as if he had all the ti in the world. Colin’s eyes were on Rex too, his smile bright as he watched him enjoy the drink, as though seeing Rex enjoy sothing simple brought him its own satisfaction.
Of course, that didn’t an Colin had forgotten about Aren. He had greeted him warmly when they ca in, his tone polite and genuine, but his attention naturally gravitated back to Rex. It wasn’t about looking down on Aren, it couldn’t be far from it.
It was just clear where the center of importance was in the room. Rex carried a presence that drew focus, and Colin, with the kind of efficiency expected from a man who valued his ti, gave it where it was due.
After Rex set the cup down, Colin leaned forward with a smile that seed both professional and pleased.
"Here is the preliminary contract we finalized last night," he said, sliding a neat folder across the polished desk. The pages inside were clipped in order, their edges perfectly aligned, the kind of precision that only ca from a man who lived in paperwork.
Rex flipped it open casually, scanning without much urgency, as if the outco was already certain. Colin, however, took his ti to go through the essentials, explaining each part with a clarity that made it hard to miss the intent.
"And this..." he said, sliding another stack of papers, "This covers the authorization for to act fully as your lawyer in all negotiations moving forward. No third party can push through anything without it coming across my desk first. That keeps us in control, avoids surprises." He tapped lightly on the page before moving on.
"Now, as for the detailed copyright transfer, I’ve structured it so the rights fall squarely in your favor. This version formalizes things, with proper lawyer authorization. The essentials are the sa, but I’ve polished and expanded sections to close any potential gaps.
What you’ll find here," he flipped a page smoothly, "is a detailed copyright transfer agreent. All rights, sequels, spin-offs, rchandising, even derivative works... everything... falls under your ownership. That ans no studio or distributor can later claim a slice of creative control, unless you choose to give it."
Rex nodded once, his expression calm, though Aren noticed how his eyes narrowed slightly, as though weighing each word carefully. He wasn’t just a client passively listening, he was evaluating, dissecting.
Colin went on, his pen tracing a line down the margin. "You’ll notice clauses protecting against what we call ’backdoor clauses.’ Hollywood studios often slip them in. For example, they’ll propose sothing harmless-sounding like distribution support rights or archival rights. In practice, that ans they quietly secure permission to duplicate your material, repackage it, or sotis even use it to create sequels without you. Most first-tirs miss this. Even so seasoned producers get tricked when pressed by deadlines."
A faint, knowing smile tugged at Rex’s lips. "So they basically give you an apple but keep the orchard."
"Exactly," Colin said, a note of approval in his voice. "And they make it look generous too. That’s how they secure long-term revenue streams while the creator is left with only a one-ti check."
Of course Rex knew. He had heard and read plenty of such stories in his last life... directors who lost their films, writers who lost their worlds, musicians who never saw a cent past their first deal. That was precisely why he took this seriously, why he was listening so carefully now. Colin’s words weren’t warnings to him, they were confirmations of things he already understood, and reminders of pitfalls he had no intention of stumbling into this ti around.
Rex leaned forward now, resting his forearm on the table. "And here?" he asked, tapping the clause. "What safeguards this from being twisted later?"
Colin’s smile grew more professional. "Good eye. Here, I’ve anchored every transfer under irrevocable authorial ownership. It ans no revisions, no alternate interpretations. And in case a studio tries to reinterpret wording, I’ve tied it to existing legal precedents in California courts. They’ll have no wiggle room."
Rex took a mont, reading over a paragraph, then asked, "And royalties? If Aren’s project expands into, say, foreign distribution or gets adapted further, how is that balanced here?"
"I’ve included an expansion clause." Colin pulled another sheet. "You’ll retain creative and financial control globally. Any adaptation, translation, or spinoff is impossible without your approval. For directing—" he turned toward Aren briefly, "—I’ve added a provision. Aren is officially credited as director for this film, and the studio cannot replace him without your signature.
Normally, studios push to insert a clause that lets them replace ’creative talent’ at their discretion, citing budget concerns or delays. That’s the industry norm. But here, I’ve cut that power entirely. You decide who directs, edits, and ultimately has final cut."
Rex’s eyes flickered toward Aren, and Aren felt his chest tighten.. half from nerves, half from awe.
Rex returned his gaze to Colin. "What about the usual budget control gas? I’ve heard stories... hidden charges, inflated service fees."
Colin nodded slowly, almost as though pleased Rex asked. "Another classic trick. Studios will pad budgets by running costs through their own subsidiaries... say, renting equipnt from a company they also own at double market rate. Then, when profit-sharing calculations happen, they claim the film barely broke even, even if it grossed millions. This is what’s called Hollywood accounting. That’s how many blockbusters magically show no profits on paper."
Rex tilted his head, interest sharp in his eyes. "And you’ve closed that loophole here?"
"I’ve done more than that." Colin slid another contract forward. "I’ve tied reporting to independent third-party audits. Studios are obligated to open their books to us, and the audits are binding. That ans if they cook numbers, they’re exposed legally. Few ever agree to such terms, but you’re in a rare position... they want this project, and you’re walking in with leverage most newcors never have."
Rex smiled faintly, tapping the papers once with a fingertip. "Good. I don’t like playing gas I didn’t design."
Aren, sitting there with the papers spread before him, couldn’t even imagine the scale of what was being discussed. For him, the sight of his na in the directing clause alone was overwhelming. But Rex treated it all with that sa steady calm, asking sharp questions, absorbing every detail as if nothing here could rattle him.
(End of Chapter)
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