….
January 16, 2011 - the night Hollywood gathered once again at the iconic Beverly Hilton Hotel for the 68th Golden Globe Awards.
Paparazzi, and security were full of energy as the crowd and fans began to amass near the entrance of the Hotel, glowing under the California night sky.
The red carpet was already laid out, while the flashing cameras as celebrities arrived in dazzling gowns and sharp tuxedos.
The air buzzed with anticipation, and curiosity as the biggest names in film and television stepped onto the red carpet, knowing that in just a few hours, their names could be etched into Hollywood history.
And for the first time in history, the youngest debut director - with no known lineage, no formal schooling nor a traceable origin was walking the red carpet - Regal Seraphsail.
His film [Following], a haunting, intimate psychological thriller about a man who becomes obsessed with the life of a stranger he secretly follows, had taken the indie circuit by storm.
Quiet, slow-burning, and intricately crafted, the film had earned him a nomination for Best Direction, placing him in the same category as titans who had been sculpting cinema for decades.
And yet…
Regal wasn't holding his breath.
….
The black car glided to a stop beneath the velvet canopy, its glossy exterior catching every flash of the paparazzi's assault.
The first door cracked open.
Regal stepped out.
Midnight-black three-piece suit. Hair neat, expression carved from stone, measured calm under the chaos of lights.
Behind him, his squad followed him.
Samantha emerged next, heels clicking with precision, her emerald gown sculpted and sleek.
Darren showed up in a brown suit that looked charmingly wrong.
And finally, Simon stepped out like a hitman from a noir film - sunglasses still on, even though the moon was the only light in the sky. Half for mystery, half because anxiety looked better behind tinted lenses.
Simon muttered, deadpan as ever. "That Brown suit makes you look like an overcooked caramel, Darren."
Darren didn't flinch. "Says the guy dressed like Regal's private security. You planning to take a bullet or block one tonight? And what's with the shave? You polish it special for this?"
Simon snorted. "Mock the glasses, mock the vibe, sure, but my shaved head and body are off-limits."
"They are doing it again." Samantha said dryly. "Bickering at each other to avoid being called out nervous."
"We are not nervous." - "We are not nervous."
Simon and Darren snapped in eerie unison, then glared at each other like it was the other's fault. But somehow, all three of them naturally fell in line behind Regal as he took the first step onto the red carpet.
For a breath, Simon and Darren froze, two deer in tailored suits caught in the camera glare.
Then the reporters surged.
"Regal! Over here!"
A mic swung in his direction. "First nomination, Mr. Regal, what's running through your head tonight?"
Regal gave a grounded smile. "Gratitude. Mostly."
"Do you think you will win?"
He paused, just enough to make it real. "There are stronger films in the mix. But I believe we earned the right to sit at the table."
A few more questions followed, tossed like darts. He answered with grace, the team flanking him like a well-dressed phalanx.
Then, a flicker in the periphery. Regal caught it mid-step. A familiar face, framed in a pocket of camera flashes.
Brad Carter. Pixy Studio's prized bulldog. Mid-interview.
Their eyes met for half a second. Regal's face didn't change.
But it was clear… He was a little irritated already.
Brad's jaw also tightened like a trap about to snap. He turned briskly to the reporter, voice rising, something clearly bitten down. The interview ended with an abrupt scowl as he stormed off.
Regal had barely moved five steps before the same reporter twisted toward him, scenting drama.
"Sir, a quick one, your upcoming film [Death Note] is set to premiere the same week as [Mastor], Pixy Studio's latest. Any thoughts on the clash?"
Regal blinked. Ah. So that's why Brad looked like he had swallowed a lemon.
He turned slightly, voice calm but lined with steel. "I wouldn't call it a clash. We are an indie film. [Death Note] is being distributed by Red Studios, yes, but at its core, it's still a lean, sharp production. [Mastor] is a mainstream beast. We are not competing on scale... but I hope the audience shows up for both. Especially ours."
And with that, he pivoted and walked on, the rest of his team forming a quiet orbit around him.
Inside, the noise faded. But the tension didn't.
Not yet.
….
"Regal… is it just me, or are you drawing way more attention than usual?" Samantha asked, her eyes narrowing slightly behind her lashes as they walked the corridor, flashes of cameras still trailing behind them like ghosts.
She wasn't accusing, just observing. And she was rarely wrong about these things.
Regal didn't even look at her. But he was cursing in his mind -
Damn these womens and their instincts… first it was Gwen now she. Why can't they just be the clueless meathead like the two men following him behind.
"It's just you." He said smoothly, not missing a beat.
But it was a lie. He was indeed drawing more attention. The reward, his third [Unique Skill] he had gotten from that performance in the LA Got Talent was the reason.
His first time truly 'entertaining' a live crowd as himself.
That skill name is - [Eyes On Me]
A passive charisma-type skill, but with unnatural pull. It didn't hypnotize or glamor, it just made people notice.
Lean in. Look twice. Ask why they were paying attention, and then feel stupid for not knowing.
He smiled faintly as another camera flash lit up beside them, followed by a whisper of his name he didn't even need to turn toward.
Samantha squinted. "You are smiling."
"Am I?"
"That's never good."
He didn't respond. "...."
….
•-----[SKILL SLOTS]-----•
» [Slot-1:] Director (Rank – World-Class) [In-active]
» [Slot-2:] Writer (Rank – World-Class) [In-active]
» [Slot-3:] Drawing (Rank – Master)
» [Slot-4:] Cinematographer (Rank – Intermediate)
•--•
Ⓘ [Unique Skill:] Insight
Ⓘ [Unique Skill:] Polyglottery
Ⓘ [Unique Skill:] Eyes On Me
•----------------------•
Soon as the most actors and celebs reached for the event, the focus shifted inside - to the grand ballroom, where guests took their seats.
As people are still greeting each other with friendly conversations - Ricky Gervais - today's host walks onto the stage, microphone in hand, with his signature smirk.
"Hello, and welcome to the Golden Globes - where the world's most beautiful people come together to give each other awards... while pretending to be humble about it!"
The auditorium erupts in laughter, though some celebrities exchange nervous glances.
Ricky Gervais continued. "Tonight, we celebrate the best in film and television, or as Charlie Sheen calls it - 'a quiet weekend.'"
The audience watching live clearly enjoyed his batter while laughing comfortably, seeing through awkward smiles of the famous celebs.
Nevertheless, most of the time the Grand Hall was a symphony of polished elegance and subtle ego battles. Every table held filmmakers with entire continents behind them. Movie titles floated in the air:
[Dust City], a sci-fi epic that redefined visual storytelling.
[This Hollow Crown], a period drama laced with political treachery and haunting performances.
[She Sang to the Wind], a poetic, arthouse slow-burn that critics had devoured.
And [Following], the quiet underdog that somehow clawed its way into the big leagues.
Regal sat with his team at Table 17, near the middle. Not too far from the stage, but definitely not in the VIP inner circle.
Janet sipped water, scanning the crowd. "Is that Nadiya Karim? Director of [Dust City]?"
Sophie nodded. "Yep. First woman to do a billion-dollar box office with an original IP. No pressure."
Darren leaned toward Regal. "If she wins, I want to be mad, but I will still applaud so hard I dislocate something."
Regal smiled. "Let's not plan injuries just yet."
….
Brad Carter sat at his assigned table, shoulders stiff, jaw locked tight.
He looked calm to anyone watching, but if someone had leaned close, they'd have noticed his lips moving. Just barely. A soft murmur leaking through clenched teeth.
John, his assistant seated beside him, was the only one close enough to catch it. And even he wasn't entirely sure how to react.
"Regal Seraphsail… Regal Seraphsail… Regal… Seraphsail… Seraphsail…"
The words were low, mechanical, like a name being run through a broken record player.
John glanced at him, cautious. He had worked with Brad long enough to know when something was off. But this? This wasn't anger. This was... searching.
Brad's eyes were slightly unfocused, like he was seeing something in his head that hadn't been there until now.
It wasn't an obsession thankfully. It wasn't even jealousy. It felt like he was trying to remember a name he should have known a long time ago - something he had buried, not intentionally, but simply because, until now, it hadn't mattered.
Then Brad's eyes flicked open, sharper than before. He murmured under his breath. "…Ryder. Seraphsail. Ryder…"
He went still for a beat.
Then a quiet question, barely audible. "How is he connected to that bastard?"
"..!??" John stiffened slightly but stayed silent.
"His son? Nephew?" Brad muttered.
Then he let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Not loud enough to turn heads, but enough to send a shiver up John's spine. "Hah… No wonder he felt familiar." Brad said. "Same eyes. Same annoying presence." He leaned back slightly. "They are cut from the same damn cloth."
John side-eyed his boss, noticed the glint of saliva at the corner of Brad's mouth, a faint tremor in his hand.
He had no clue what Brad was talking about. And maybe he didn't want to.
But one thing was clear: Brad Carter was thinking again.
And that never meant anything good.
….
.
[To be continued…]
★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★
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