"Here." Webb handed him a bottle of Evian. "So. Questions."
"About what?"
"The project. The character. Me. Whatever."
Jamie twisted the cap off the water. "Why this story? There are a million sci-fi scripts floating around Hollywood."
"Because it's not really about sci-fi. It's about identity. About what happens when you can't trust your own memories." Webb pulled his own water from a mini-fridge. "The source novel is heavy on the technology, light on the emotional truth. I want to reverse that."
"How?"
"Focus on Michael's psychological journey instead of the world-building. Make it intimate. Make it hurt."
"Character study disguised as genre work."
"Exactly." Webb smiled for the first time all morning. "You get it. Most actors read this and want to play the action hero. You understand it's really about trauma."
Jamie nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure he'd understood anything beyond what the sides required. He'd learned to mirror whatever energy people projected at him. Webb wanted depth, so Jamie reflected depth back to him.
"What's your timeline?"
"Fast. We start pre-production in six weeks if everything falls into place." Webb paused. "There's something else I want to show you."
He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small jewelry box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a silver ring with a dark stone that looked like obsidian.
"This belonged to my mother. She died when I was fifteen." Webb lifted the ring carefully. "She was an actress. Never famous, but she understood the craft better than anyone I've ever met."
Jamie stared at the ring. The silver had been polished recently, but the stone showed its age in tiny scratches that caught the light.
"I want you to wear this while we're shooting. Connection to the character, to the process. To something bigger than just making another movie."
"I can't—"
"You can. She would have wanted it worn by someone who understands what we're trying to do here."
Webb held out the ring. Jamie took it without thinking, surprised by how heavy it felt. The band was sized for a woman's finger, but it slipped onto his pinky comfortably.
"It fits."
"She had small hands. Always said it helped her gesture more expressively on camera." Webb's voice softened. "Wear it home today. See how it feels. If it doesn't feel right, bring it back."
Jamie looked down at his hand. The ring seemed to belong there, like it had been waiting for him to claim it. Which was impossible, but the feeling persisted anyway.
"Mr. Webb—"
"Marcus. We're going to be working very closely together if this happens. Might as well skip the formalities."
"Marcus. This is...a lot."
"Good art requires a lot. From everyone involved." Marcus stood and walked to the window, pulling aside the dark fabric to reveal the Pacific Ocean in the distance. "You know what separates working actors from movie stars?"
"Luck?"
"Commitment. Stars commit to something beyond the role. They find the truth in pretending." He turned back to Jamie. "You have the talent. The question is whether you have the courage."
Jamie twisted the ring around his finger. It caught the light streaming through the window, sending tiny reflections across the walls of the garage.
"When do you need an answer?"
"About the ring? Take all the time you need. About the role?" Marcus smiled. "I'm offering it to you. Right now. If you want it."
The words hung in the air between them. Jamie felt like he was standing at the edge of something enormous, looking down into depths he couldn't measure.
Two months ago he'd been waiting tables at a restaurant in Studio City, saving money for acting classes and hoping for commercial work. Now Marcus Webb was offering him a lead role and his dead mother's ring.
"I want it."
"Good. Sarah will get the contracts tomorrow. We'll do this properly—scale plus ten, gross participation, all the things agents fight for. But I need to know you're all in."
"I am."
"Excellent." Marcus walked him toward the door. "One more thing. This stays between us until everything is finalized. Industry gossip kills more projects than bad scripts."
"Of course."
They shook hands at the garage door. Marcus's grip was firm but brief, like someone accustomed to making deals quickly and moving on.
"Drive safely. That ring is irreplaceable."
Jamie walked back to his Honda, hyperaware of the weight on his pinky finger. The morning fog had burned off while they worked, and the Malibu sun felt warmer than it had when he'd arrived.
Everything looked slightly different now—sharper around the edges, more vivid. Like someone had adjusted the color saturation on his life.
He sat in the car for a moment before starting the engine, processing what had just happened. Marcus Webb wanted him for a lead role. Marcus Webb had given him his dead mother's ring. Marcus Webb thought he had the courage for something bigger than he'd imagined.
But sitting there in the driveway, looking back at the converted garage where film strips hung like memorials, Jamie felt less like he'd been discovered and more like he'd been claimed. The ring seemed to pulse against his finger, warm and insistent.
He checked the time: 11:32 AM. The callback had run longer than expected, but Marcus hadn't seemed concerned about schedules. Men like Marcus Webb made their own time.
Jamie started the engine and backed out of the driveway. The Pacific Coast Highway stretched ahead of him, winding back toward the city where his real life waited.
But the ring stayed warm against his skin, and Marcus's words echoed in his head: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦.
He drove toward Studio City thinking about courage and commitment, about his father's absence and Marcus's intensity, about the difference between working actors and movie stars. The ring caught sunlight streaming through his windshield, sending small rainbows across the dashboard.
By the time he merged onto the 405, Jamie had convinced himself that everything was going to change now. The ring was proof. Marcus Webb's attention was proof. The callback that felt more like an initiation was proof.
For now, he had Marcus Webb's attention, Marcus Webb's faith, and Marcus Webb's mother's ring. It felt like the beginning of everything he'd ever wanted.
The drive to Studio City took forty-five minutes through mid-morning traffic. Jamie kept glancing at the ring on his pinky finger, catching glimpses of it in his peripheral vision as he gripped the steering wheel. The weight of it felt foreign but not unwelcome.
By the time he pulled into his apartment complex at noon, the emotional residue from the callback had settled into a low-grade exhaustion. He'd given Marcus Webb more of himself than he'd intended, accessed feelings he usually kept buried. But Webb had offered him the role. That made the vulnerability worth it.
Jamie climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartment, fishing keys from his pocket. The complex was quiet—most of his neighbors worked day jobs or had already left for afternoon auditions.
He unlocked his door and stepped inside, immediately noticing the blinking red light on his answering machine.
Three messages.
He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and hit play, expecting callbacks from restaurants where he'd applied for weekend shifts. Instead, Sarah Kim's voice filled the small living room, breathless with excitement.
"Jamie, it's Sarah. Call me the second you get this. I have another opportunity for you—same material, different director, and this one's big budget. I mean BIG budget. Call me. This could be incredible."
The timestamp read 10:47 AM. While he'd been in Marcus's garage, wearing a dead woman's ring and excavating his father issues, Sarah had been lining up another audition.
Jamie stared at the answering machine, Marcus's ring suddenly feeling heavier on his finger. Another opportunity. Same material.
He reached for the phone.
The Honda merged into traffic, carrying Jamie toward a future he thought he was choosing for himself.