Chapter 6
The city buzzed faintly outside his window—muffled engines, distant horns, and the occasional bark of a dog echoing from the alley below. Life carried on, as if unaware or uninterested in Blake Cross's small victory.
The apartment greeted him with its usual melancholy. The door creaked softly as he shut it behind him, the sound oddly final. A single overhead bulb flickered once before steadying into a low, amber glow, casting long shadows across the modest space.
The apartment smelled faintly of old books, reheated meals, and worn-out ambition.
Blake dropped his keys on the wobbly side table beside the door. They landed with a dull clink. He didn't bother taking off his shoes yet. Instead, he stood motionless for a moment, as though the act of crossing the threshold had drained the last of his momentum.
Under his arm was a manila envelope, creased slightly from the walk home.
He stared at it.
Then, with measured steps, he approached the old wooden desk by the window, placed the envelope down, and slowly sank into the creaky chair.
It was done.
Inside the envelope were the contracts. RCA now held the Film Rights to The Spectacular Now and Safety Not Guaranteed. He'd signed them both this afternoon, his hand steady, his heart fluttering.
Sixty thousand dollars.
Thirty-five for the first. Twenty-five for the second. Howard said the money would be wired within forty-eight hours. Enough to finally exhale. Rent for six months. Groceries. Maybe even a used car. Some breathing room at last.
He should feel relief.
He should feel triumphant.
Instead, the quiet pressed in around him like a heavy blanket.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and opened the envelope. The contracts lay inside, neatly stacked, legal font, bold signatures, official stamps.
Real.
And yet...
It didn't feel like a win.
He whispered aloud, "I didn't even celebrate."
No drinks. No calls. No one to call, really. Just the long walk back from the meeting, his mind chewing over doubts with every step. The bulb overhead flickered again.
He exhaled slowly and rubbed his face with both hands.
This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Recognition. Validation. Money. A chance to climb.
So why did he feel like a fraud?
The system had handed him both ideas. Compact summaries, genre tags, tones, themes. He'd done the work—yes. He'd written the scripts line by line, crafted dialogue, shaped characters, edited scenes by candlelight when the power flickered last week. But the spark hadn't been his.
Was he a writer? Or a middleman? A delivery boy with decent prose?
He stared at his laptop. It sat closed, quietly patient.
He opened it.
The familiar boot-up chime echoed through the room. A few dust motes drifted in the light from the window. The screen flickered to life. In the bottom right corner, the small System icon blinked—a tiny silver camera inside a black circle.
Waiting.
He didn't click it.
Instead, he opened Bulby—the search engine of this world—and typed in a name.
Dave Flincher.
The name from the business card his uncle had handed him at lunch. RCA's in-house director. A rising star in this timeline.
The results populated instantly.
Photos. Interviews. Behind-the-scenes footage. Awards.
Blake clicked on the first article.
The man looked familiar. Thick-rimmed glasses. Stern jaw. A kind of focused intensity behind the eyes, like he saw through the lens even when off-camera.
The film titles were different—strange wordplay and unfamiliar names—but the tone, the composition, the use of shadows and stillness… unmistakable.
This was this world's David Fincher.
And his films were slow burns. Psychological thrillers. Stories that whispered, not shouted. Every frame loaded with tension, every silence charged with implication.
Blake leaned back slightly.
Could Paranormal Activity work here?
He imagined pitching it to Flincher.
A found footage horror film. Small budget. Heavy on execution, light on substance.
Flincher would see it as derivative. Gimmicky. A trend-chaser's project.
Blake closed the tab with a soft sigh.
The city outside grew quieter as the evening wore on. A distant siren wailed. Somewhere, a bottle shattered.
He stared at the blinking cursor in his scriptwriting program.
Blank.
And then—
Like a ghost whispering through the corridors of memory—a name surfaced.
Monster.
He froze.
The title hit him like a forgotten melody.
He hadn't thought about it in years.
Not a movie. Not even a script.
A manga.
A masterpiece.
About a surgeon. A decision. A child who wasn't what he seemed. And a journey into obsession, guilt, and human darkness.
He whispered to himself, "Kenzo Tenma."
The name felt sacred.
He sat up straighter. Fingers flew across the keyboard.
Monster manga
No results.
He frowned. Tried again.
Psychological thriller manga doctor
Nothing.
Naoki Urasawa.
Blank.
Johan Liebert. Eisler Memorial Hospital. Serial killer manga. German setting. 2000s.
Still nothing. The web had thrillers. Manga. Even some medical dramas. But not Monster.
It didn't exist here.
His heart pounded as the realization sank in. It was like waking from a dream only to discover the dream was real—but the world had forgotten it.
Blake stood and began to pace.
What if…?
What if he wrote it?
No.
Not Monster. Not a copy.
But a reinterpretation. Inspired. Grounded in the same moral ambiguity. A slow-burning character study. With his own voice, his own vision.
He turned back to the laptop. Sat down again. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then, with a deep breath, he opened a new document.
Title:
THE SURGEON
The cursor blinked.
Author's Note:
So What you guys think? Let me know in the comments