Jack Sullivan stood on the Venice Beach boardwalk at midnight, the ocean's growl mixing with the hum of a borrowed Arri Alexa camera that Diego, his barista-turned-DP, swore was "only mildly illegal" to use.
The air was thick with salt and desperation, and Jack's "Before Sunrise"-style short film—two strangers falling in love over one night—was finally rolling, two days from an eviction notice that'd turn his life into a sad montage.
His five-grand budget was stretched thinner than a dollar-store T-shirt, and his crew was a ragtag trio: Diego on camera, a sound guy named Carl who kept sneezing, and Jack himself, juggling director, producer, and existential crisis.
The set—barely a set—was a graffiti-scarred bench under a flickering streetlamp, the perfect backdrop for his leads to trade poetic banter.
Emma Harper, his newly cast female lead, stood nearby, her auburn hair glowing under the light, green eyes scanning her script with a focus that made Jack's pulse skip.
She'd nailed her callback yesterday, turning his system-crafted dialogue into magic.
The male lead, a lanky theater kid named Ethan, was decent but kept flubbing lines, his nerves louder than the seagulls circling overhead.
Jack rubbed his neck, muttering, "If I survive this, I deserve an Oscar for patience."
The Sign-In System had been his secret weapon so far: Shakespeare's Sonnets sparked the script's soul, Storyboard Mastery sold the pitch, and Dialogue Craft gave him words that sang.
But it was also a wildcard, dropping gifts like a drunk uncle at Christmas.
Jack glanced at his phone—12:03 AM, past the system's daily reset.
"Come on, give me something I can use," he whispered, half-expecting another poetry anthology.
Ding!
The robotic voice echoed in his skull: "Sign-In System activated. Claim your daily reward."
Jack stepped behind a dumpster to avoid looking like a lunatic, the golden interface flickering in his vision. The glowing chest pulsed, and he tapped it, bracing for disappointment.
A warm jolt shot through his legs, like he'd chugged a Red Bull and hit a dance floor. His feet twitched, itching to move, and his brain flooded with rhythms—shuffles, taps, spins. He stumbled, nearly knocking over a trash can, and hissed, "What the hell?"
The system chimed: "Tap-Dancing Proficiency acquired. Master rhythmic footwork and choreography with professional flair."
Jack's jaw dropped. "Tap-dancing? Are you kidding me?"
He glanced at the set, where Emma was stretching and Ethan was pacing like a caged cat.
"I'm shooting a romance, not Singing in the Rain!" He tried a tentative step, and his boots clicked a perfect shuffle-tap on the boardwalk, smooth as a Broadway pro.
He froze, half-laughing, half-cursing. "Great. I'm a director by day, Fred Astaire by night."
But a spark hit. The script had a moment where the couple danced under the stars, a beat of joy before their bittersweet goodbye. Jack had planned a simple sway, but with this? He could choreograph something electric, make the scene pop. He pocketed the phone, muttering, "Alright, system, you're on probation."
"Jack, we ready?" Diego called, adjusting the camera's lens with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics.
"Almost," Jack said, jogging back.
He handed Emma and Ethan revised pages, the tap-dance idea scribbled in the margins. "New plan. You two dance here, after the big confession. Nothing fancy—just follow my lead."
Emma raised an eyebrow, her half-smile sharp. "Dance? You didn't mention that in the audition."
"Last-minute inspiration," Jack said, tapping his temple. "Trust me, it'll kill."
Ethan, sweating through his flannel, looked like he'd rather face a firing squad. "I'm, uh, not great at dancing."
"Don't worry, I'll walk you through it," Jack said, the system's proficiency buzzing in his legs.
He clapped his hands. "Alright, let's block the first scene. Emma, you're leaning on the bench, staring at the ocean. Ethan, you approach, nervous but cocky. Action!"
The camera rolled, and Emma slipped into character, her gaze distant, voice soft: "You ever wonder if the stars are just mocking us?"
Ethan stumbled his reply, "Nah, they're jealous we're still trying," but his delivery was stiff, like he was reading a grocery list. Jack cut the take, pinching his nose. "Ethan, loosen up. You're flirting, not filing taxes."
Three takes later, Ethan was still a robot, and Carl's sneezes were ruining the audio. Jack's patience frayed, but Emma stayed steady, feeding Ethan cues with a patience that made Jack grateful. "She's a pro," he muttered to Diego, who nodded, framing a test shot of her silhouette against the waves.
"Let's try the dance," Jack said, needing a win. He demonstrated a simple tap routine—shuffle, step, spin—his boots clicking like a metronome.
The system's skill made it effortless, but Emma's wide-eyed stare threw him off. "What? I'm full of surprises."
"Clearly," she said, smirking.
She mimicked his steps, her sneakers softer but precise, picking it up fast.
Ethan, predictably, tripped over his own feet, muttering apologies.
Jack coached them through it, the system's rhythms guiding his hands as he adjusted their posture.
Emma's laugh, light and unguarded, hit him like a jump cut to the heart. "Focus, Jack," he told himself, but her spark was hard to ignore.
They shot the dance, Diego's camera gliding along a makeshift dolly—really a skateboard taped to a tripod.
The scene worked: Emma and Ethan spinning under the streetlamp, their taps echoing, a fleeting joy captured in grainy light.
Jack called "Cut!" and the crew cheered, even Carl, mid-sneeze.
Emma grinned, catching her breath. "Not bad for a last-minute idea, director.""Told you," Jack said, his chest tight. Her praise felt better than Marty's money.
But the night wasn't done screwing him. At 2 AM, a cop rolled up, flashlight blazing.
"You got a permit for this?" he barked, eyeing the camera like it was a bomb.
Jack's stomach dropped. "Uh, we're just… practicing. Student film, super low-key."
The cop wasn't buying it. "No permit, no shoot. Pack up."
Jack pleaded, dropping Marty's name, but the cop just shrugged.
Diego whispered, "I know a guy who can forge a permit, but it'll cost."
Jack's budget screamed no, but losing the night's footage was worse. He nodded, texting Diego's contact: Permit, ASAP. I'll pay later.
Another debt, another knife to his throat.
They relocated to a quieter stretch of boardwalk, no permit needed but farther from the vibe Jack wanted.
Emma stayed calm, running lines with Ethan, who was finally loosening up.
Jack directed a dialogue scene, using the system's dialogue craft to tweak lines on the fly: "You're running from something, aren't you?" became "You're running, but you're still here. Why?"
Emma's delivery was fire, Ethan's passable. The take was solid, but Jack's nerves were shot.
By 4 AM, they wrapped, exhausted but alive. Diego packed the camera, Carl sneezed a goodbye, and Ethan bolted for a bus.
Emma lingered, zipping her jacket. "You're not half-bad at this, Jack. Crazy, but not bad."
"Crazy's my middle name," he said, grinning. "Thanks for not bailing when the cop showed up."
She shrugged, her eyes warm. "I've seen worse sets. Keep me posted on the edit." She walked off, her silhouette fading into the dark, and Jack felt a pull—something more than director-actor respect.
He shook it off. No time for crushes when his life was a house of cards.
Back at his apartment, Jack collapsed onto the couch, the eviction notice glaring from the table.
His phone buzzed—Landlord: Two days, Sullivan.
He groaned, but the system's glow lingered in his mind, tap-dancing rhythms still in his legs. The footage was good, Emma was gold, and he had a shot. He grabbed his notebook, sketching a final scene, the sonnets creeping in: "Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks." He smirked. "Maybe you're onto something, Will."
Jack closed his eyes, the ocean's echo in his ears. He was broke, in debt, and one cop away from disaster, but for the first time since crashing into this world, he felt like a director. "Roll on," he muttered, and drifted into a dream of stars and spotlights.