Chapter 9
The packet was still in Blake's hand as he nodded. "Then I'm in."
Dave leaned back in his chair with a quiet smile. "Good."
He got up, walked to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. "You hungry? I'm ordering pizza. You're not going to leave hungry if we're gonna be working together."
Blake chuckled. "I could eat."
They settled back in the study, waiting on delivery. Dave handed him a soda, cracked one open for himself, and put his legs up on the coffee table like they'd been friends for years.
"You know," Dave said after a beat, "your dad never got this part. He was a brilliant writer, but he always stayed behind the page. Never saw what it meant to drag a crew up a muddy hill for a ten-second shot, or rewrite scenes mid-shoot because an actor freaked out. He didn't want it. But I always thought he could've done more—if someone had pushed him."
Blake listened quietly.
"You've got his gift," Dave said. "But you think in images. You think in space. That's rare. Don't waste it."
The pizza arrived twenty minutes later. They ate it right there in the study, slices on napkins, surrounded by old scripts and camera lenses.
For the next couple of hours, they talked. About movies. Sets. Directors they both admired. Dave told a story about a shoot that went six hours over because the rain machine broke, and the only solution was a garden hose and three crew members standing on a scaffold.
Blake laughed until his stomach hurt.
When the clock hit six-thirty, Dave leaned forward and said, "Pre-production hasn't started yet. Come by tomorrow around three—we'll break down the project and you'll meet the team."
Blake stood, packet tucked under his arm. "Thanks, Dave. Really."
"Don't thank me yet. You're gonna earn it."
The sky was stained orange and violet when Blake stepped out of the cab in front of his apartment building. The streets buzzed with life but felt distant. He stared down at the packet.
A beginning. A real one.
His phone rang.
"How did it go?" Uncle Martin asked on the other end.
Blake smiled, watching the last light of day slip over the rooftops. "He loved the script. He said it was crafted. Said he saw my father in it."
A beat of silence. "And The Surgeon?"
"Not yet. He's doing another film first. But he offered me a spot on the crew. Assistant Director."
"You're kidding."
"I'm not. Said not to tell anyone yet. You're the exception."
Martin let out a low, pleased breath. "So... he's coming back."
"Seems so."
They talked for a while. Martin asked about Dave, what the house looked like, what the vibe was like between them. Blake answered everything, feeling like someone slowly returning from the fog.
When the call ended, Blake stood at the steps of his building for a moment longer. Then he went inside.
Tomorrow, he'd step onto the path his father never took.
And maybe—just maybe—he'd walk even further.
The next day, Blake arrived at Dave's house at exactly 3:00 PM. The same quiet street. The same old Mustang parked out front. But this time, Blake didn't hesitate at the door. He was ready.
Before he could even knock, the door opened. Dave stood there, expression unreadable, but something in his eyes had softened.
"Punctual. I like that. Come in."
Blake stepped into the study. The space felt focused, expectant. Dave gestured to a seat and handed Blake a document.
"Before we talk, I need you to sign this. NDA. Standard stuff."
Blake took the pen without hesitation and signed.
Dave nodded and reached for a thick script on the table. "This is the new project. Title's Rage Street."
Blake accepted the script and began reading immediately. No distractions. No shortcuts. Scene after scene, he absorbed the dark, psychological narrative. It was brutal, honest, and unflinching—its rawness unforgettable.
As he finished the final page, one word echoed in his mind: Fight Club.
He looked up. "This is a masterpiece," Blake said, genuinely.
Dave gave a small, knowing smile. "Glad you think so."
Blake hesitated, then added politely, "May I make a suggestion?"
Dave raised an eyebrow. "Any changes to the script?"
"No, not the story or plot. Just the title."
Dave leaned in. "Go on."
"I believe Fight Club suits it better. It captures the theme perfectly—the chaos, the identity fracture, the rebellion. It just fits."
Dave stared at him for a moment. Then slowly, his expression changed. Realization. Approval.
"Fight Club... Damn. Why didn't I think of that?"
He grinned, almost amused. "You're right. That's it. We're going with Fight Club."
Dave stood, energized. "Pre-production starts tomorrow. We'll meet the producer at the office. Be here at 10:00 AM sharp."
Blake nodded firmly. "I'll be here."
A new chapter had begun.
Author's Note:
Well, Here you go the Chapter 9, I hope you guys liked it, Comment down your thoughts,
See you in the next Chapter,
Peace!