This industry is so backward.
I follow them through a maze of hallways, past glass-walled offices and soundproofed conference rooms, until they usher me into the audition meeting room.
I take a second to assess the faces around the table.
The director. Two main producers. The casting director.
And at the far end, sitting with a script in front of her, Melinda James, the author ofThe Chronicles of Persefia.
I didn’t expect her to be here.
And unlike the others, she’s not smiling.
She’s watching me, her gaze steady and unreadable, like she’s trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here.
I like that.
She doesn’t know how many zeros my name will add to the box office numbers.
How many women will show up just to see me take my shirt off.
And unlike the others in the room, she doesn’t seem to care.
It’s refreshing, really.
The director and producers stand to greet me, their smiles wide, their words dripping with the usual Hollywood flattery—how much they admire my work, how thrilled they are that I could make time for this, how they’ve already envisioned me as Anlon. It’s the same spiel I hear in every room I walk into, a rehearsed scene where I nod in all the right places and offer just enough charm to keep them invested.
Melinda James, however, stays seated. Her hands rest calmly on the script in front of her, her expression almostclinical, like I’m under a microscope and she’s cataloguing every flaw.
She reminds me so much of Amy, and I admire her morebecauseof that.
I shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and take my seat. There’s a brief moment of small talk, the usual “How’s filming going?” and “What’s next after this?” before the casting director clears her throat and steers the meeting toward the real reason we’re all here.
“We’re beyond excited to see your take on Anlon,” the casting director says, sliding a stack of papers toward me. “We’ve selected a few key scenes. Moments we feel are critical in capturing his essence. Feel free to take a few minutes to look them over before we begin.”
I already know what’s coming.
A fight scene, probably. A brooding, shirtless moment for the trailer. A few stoic lines delivered over dramatic music. Nothing of substance, just the same mindless, predictable beats Hollywood expects from me.
They don’t actually care if I bring depth to Anlon.
They just want my name in neon lights. Want me to be passable enough so that when the real work is done, when they stack the cast with critically acclaimed supporting actors who will carry the emotional weight, I won’t stick out like a sore thumb.
They’ll be paid three or four times less than I am. But that’s the industry. The art, the message, the story itself? None of it matters.
And to be honest? I never really cared either.
Not until Amy.
Not until she spent hours breaking down what this series meant to her. What Anlon meant to fans like her.
I never understood the depth of his evolution, never saw him as anything beyond the standard fantasy prince-turned-hero until I helped her work through the intricacies of her fan fiction plots.
And now? Now I can’t unsee it.
I flip through the pages and shake my head, tension coiled tight in my chest. “I don’t think this is the right scene.”
The room goes still.
