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SH - Chapter 60: New Lead Role
🕑 Added 2025-11-15 16:20:54 +0000 UTCThe next day, Larry arrived at Owen’s apartment around eight.
He was wearing a crisp white shirt, a gray tie, and dark dress pants. His shoes were shining, unusual for him.
He usually had that worn-out office-worker look, the kind of man who spent more time in cafés with Wi-Fi than in his own office. But ever since he’d signed Owen, something had changed. He no longer had deep eye bags or that expression of someone counting down the days until the end of the month.
His luck had turned around, and although he tried to hide it, he treated Owen like his personal good-luck charm.
Larry was an independent agent, unaffiliated with any major agency. In the past, he had worked at a mid-level agency respected within the circuit, but still far below giants like CAA, WME, or UTA.
He’d had good years there, even promising clients, until a string of bad breaks and some abrupt departures pushed him out. Since then, he had survived with a small personal roster, bringing in just enough to stay afloat.
He currently represented six clients in total, including Owen. For an independent agent, that number was low; typically, someone in his position handled 15 to 25 active clients, though big-agency representatives often oversaw fewer, but all high-profile.
In his case, only one, Owen, was truly valuable.
His highest income in recent months had been the commission from Owen’s role in The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes: $13,000 earned from his 10% cut of the $130,000 contract. That payment, a couple of months earlier, allowed him to catch up on some debts, pay overdue rent, and stop checking his bank account with anxiety every few days.
It wasn’t a lot of money on a grand scale, but it brought him stability and dignity. And more importantly, Owen’s success was benefiting him indirectly. Paranormal Activity, that $20,000 miracle of a film that had already passed $10 million at the box office in barely ten days, had revived his name within the industry. Old contacts who used to ignore his emails were now replying within hours.
He had even received an offer to partner with a mid-sized agency: they offered him an office, administrative support, assistants, and a proper structure in exchange for a small cut of his commissions. It was a tempting proposal; it didn’t come with the pressure or high-stakes environment of CAA or WME, and it would give him the professional setting and backup network he hadn’t had in years.
And now they were about to close another deal: a leading role at A24, in a three-million-dollar film written by Owen himself. A production where Larry hadn’t lifted a finger, he hadn’t secured the audition, made any calls, or negotiated the initial contact, yet it would still bring him a commission larger than the previous one.
For that reason alone, Larry was determined to make this the best negotiation of his life.
He couldn’t afford to be passive this time. He felt he needed to make up for the fact that Owen had achieved everything on his own merit. This was his moment to shine as a negotiator, to show Owen that having him by his side wasn’t just a gesture of loyalty or friendship, but a real advantage.
And, of course, the better the deal he secured, the more money there would be for both of them.
Over the next hour, they sat down to review the contract draft and go over the key points. Larry spoke with the confidence of someone who had many negotiations under his belt.
“Look, A24 values you a lot. Paranormal Activity is turning into a monumental profit for them. They invested five hundred thousand dollars in marketing and distribution, and they’re already seeing six million in clean returns on their side in just ten days… For a company their size, it’s a gift from heaven,” Larry said as he flipped the page. “That works in your favor. They’ll want to make sure they have you in their talent catalog, so they won’t be stingy. The negotiation margin is going to be wider.”
Owen nodded, sipping his coffee.
“Actually,” he said casually, “it already hit thirteen million. Yesterday, Monday, it grossed eight hundred and ten thousand, according to the reports A24 sent me and some of the box-office tracking sites.”
The film ended Sunday with a total gross of $12.2M. If we add yesterday’s Monday numbers on top of that:
12,200,000 + 810,000 = 13,010,000.
Larry whistled, impressed. It still seemed insane to him that a movie that cost $20k to make could earn more than eight hundred thousand dollars in a single day. And that was on a weekday. On weekends, it easily surpassed a million dollars per day.
And Larry knew, because Owen had mentioned it without much reservation, that the deal with A24 included 20% of the backend post-theatrical.
So:
810,000 / 2 = 405,000 dollars. From that amount, 20% went to Owen—roughly $81,000.
It was absurd, considering he was making that per day without lifting a finger and that it wasn’t even the ceiling. A quick calculation: 80k × 2 = 160k. In two days, Owen made more money than he’d earned playing Sejanus in The Hunger Games, and for that role he had worked 20 days, with 8-hour shooting schedules, long makeup sessions, and the pressure of a hundred-million-dollar set.
'He’s already a millionaire…' Larry thought, watching Owen with a mixture of disbelief and respect.
There he was: sitting calmly, drinking coffee in a modest apartment that cost maybe $1,500 to $2,000 in rent, as if none of this mattered at all.
“So?” Owen asked, raising an eyebrow at his agent’s prolonged silence.
“Oh, yes, right,” Larry said, snapping out of his trance and switching back to his professional tone. “You’re not just the lead actor. You’re also the screenwriter. You understand the character better than anyone, and that’s always a selling point. You don’t have to say it, I’ll say it for you. Something like: nobody can play this role the way its author can. It sounds good, and it increases your leverage.”
Owen nodded, suppressing a grimace. In reality, he wasn’t the original screenwriter. He had only rewritten the story from his previous world, a film that didn’t exist in this reality.
He didn’t feel guilty, that would’ve been absurd. But he couldn’t avoid a bit of internal irony. He didn’t understand the protagonist more than any other actor would, though having the original version engraved in his memory certainly gave him a different, more instinctive understanding.
“Remember I told you yesterday that you were competing against Jacob Elordi and Lucas Hedges?” Larry asked.
“Yes, of course. It caused an argument at my house,” Owen said with a faint smile.
Larry chuckled softly. “Well, I didn’t find that out just from gossip. It’s useful information,” he said, handing Owen two sheets of paper.
Owen took them and saw that each contained a detailed summary of Elordi’s and Hedges’ careers.
Elordi belonged to the Gersh Agency, represented by a well-positioned agent within that mid-to-upper-tier firm.
Hedges, on the other hand, was listed under CAA, a top-tier agency in the industry.
Larry explained that, considering their profiles and career trajectories, and given that The Spectacular Now had a budget of three million dollars, their salaries as leads would likely fall in the 10–12% range of the total budget.
Both had solid reputations and proven market value: Elordi as a young star with strong commercial appeal, widely recognized as a sellable face for the youth audience with high media presence, and Hedges as a prestige actor, with Oscar and Golden Globe nominations, respected for his talent and critical acclaim.
In conclusion, according to Larry, both could have negotiated salaries between $250,000 and $350,000.
Hedges likely a bit less, since his recent films hadn’t performed strongly at the box office nor made a critical splash, making him more flexible in his demands.
That, therefore, was the realistic range.
For Larry, Owen should aim for around $200,000. Because although A24 chose him for their good relationship and because he was the screenwriter, they also likely chose him because, from a practical standpoint, he was a talented and cheaper option compared to the others.
No matter how much success Owen was having, his résumé was still short, and A24, like any studio, knew how to balance artistic value with cost.
Owen agreed completely with everything Larry said. Two hundred thousand dollars would be more than welcome, even if it would be a bit less after the agent’s percentage.
With everything discussed, they chatted a bit more about various entertainment-industry topics, and a few minutes later, they headed out toward A24’s offices in Los Angeles.
Owen already knew the building well; it wasn’t his first time there.
In addition to Cristian Méndez, creative producer and the person in charge of the film, this time he was greeted directly by David Fenkel, one of A24’s three founders.
The reception was warm, almost familial. Everyone treated him with that mix of respect and enthusiasm that Hollywood reserves for very few.
And it made sense.
A24 was thrilled with Owen, though not exactly because of his acting talent, the studio had already worked with actors of enormous prestige: Robert Pattinson, Adam Sandler, Oscar Isaac, Florence Pugh, among others.
The difference lay elsewhere: none of them had ever delivered such a high profit margin to A24 as Owen Ashford.
Paranormal Activity had accidentally become their most unexpected jewel.
A tiny film, made for the price of a used car, that had already surpassed $13 million at the box office and kept growing day after day with no signs of slowing down.
A24 had invested only half a million in marketing and distribution, and within days that amount had multiplied more than tenfold.
If the film continued this trajectory, it could become the studio’s second or third highest-grossing release, only behind Lady Bird (76M) and Everything Everywhere All at Once (140M).
Internal projections already mentioned a final run between $50 and $60 million, but no one dared set a real ceiling. Halloween was approaching, and with the natural boost in audiences during that season, plus the international release, it was impossible to know how far it could go.
What was clear was something else entirely: the ratio between investment and return had no precedent in A24’s history.
A24 had produced successful films before, but none this profitable.
Lady Bird and Everything Everywhere were artistic and commercial triumphs, yes, but also medium-to-high-risk projects with large crews, recognized stars, and extensive campaigns.
Owen’s film, meanwhile, was an improbable phenomenon, a case that redefined the meaning of low budget.
Even if it didn’t finish as the number one film in absolute box office, Paranormal Activity would become the most profitable movie in the studio’s entire history.
As they walked down the hallway toward the room where the negotiation would take place, Owen couldn’t help but notice the looks from the people at reception. Very different from the first time he came here, when no one recognized him.
It wasn’t arrogance or vanity, just the strange feeling of being watched, of understanding that his name was gaining more and more relevance.
The hallway ended at a frosted-glass door with the A24 logo etched in the center.
“By the way,” David said, “I watched the short film you uploaded yesterday. Incredible. How do you do it? One hit after another,” he added, genuinely impressed.
On its first day it had already passed 500k views and was breaking records for social-media mentions, mostly positive. And the funny thing was that Owen didn’t even appear on screen, he was only credited as writer and producer.
Owen smiled, shrugging slightly, not entirely sure how to respond.
“And your sister has great talent in front of the camera,” David continued, still smiling. “If she keeps working under your guidance, she’ll become a fantastic actress. Talent seems to run in the family, huh?”
“Yeah, she’s good,” Owen replied. “And she wants to get better. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled when she finds out the founder of A24 complimented her performance.”
Whether because of her acting or simply because she appeared in something he made, Sarah had already caught A24’s attention. And that was very good for her newly begun career.
David let out a soft laugh and gave Owen a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ll walk out of here with a great deal today. And Owen, I hope we continue working together beyond this film.”
They shook hands, and David walked away down the hallway.
Cristian opened the door, motioning for Owen and Larry to enter first. Then he stepped in after them and closed it gently.
Inside, a woman, A24’s business executive, and a man, the studio’s in-house attorney, were waiting. They both stood and greeted them formally.
Owen and Larry took their seats across from them, with Cristian off to the side.
The negotiation began. For forty-five minutes they went point by point: salary, bonuses, shooting schedule, start dates, locations, and additional clauses.
Everything was discussed calmly, between number corrections, diplomatic laughs, and the constant sound of papers being shifted across the table.
Finally, when every detail was finalized, all parties signed where they needed to.
Owen and Larry stood up, shook hands with A24’s representatives, and said their goodbyes. Cristian accompanied them out of the building, chatting a bit more along the way.
Outside, under the soft afternoon light, they walked in silence toward the parking lot. Each of them had arrived in their own car.
“Well…” Larry said at last, still processing everything, “That went better than I expected.” A wide smile formed on his face.
“Yeah,” Owen replied with a nod. “Two hundred twenty-five thousand is not bad at all.”
“Nicely negotiated,” Owen added, acknowledging the effort.
Larry nodded, grateful for the recognition. They had closed the deal at $225,000, quite a bit more than they expected going in.
Initially, Larry thought they could aim for a maximum of $200,000, but the meeting had gone better than anticipated. He had slightly underestimated how much value A24 saw in Owen, and he already thought it was high.
The contract stipulated that 10% would go to Larry, about $22,500, while Owen would keep $202,500 net.
Payment would be weekly: four weeks of filming, four equal deposits of $50,625 each for Owen.
Suddenly, without warning, Larry blurted out a “Thank you!” and hugged him tightly.
Owen froze for a second, surprised. He wasn’t someone easy to catch off guard, but that gesture took him completely by surprise.
“Yeah, yeah… you’re welcome,” Owen said with an awkward smile, giving him a couple of pats on the back.
Larry pulled away immediately, a bit embarrassed but with bright eyes. “Sorry, I got emotional…” he said with a nervous laugh. “It’s just, those twenty thousand dollars will help me a lot. My daughter’s birthday is coming up, and I’ll finally be able to get her a proper gift.”
He paused, then added, “And I’ll also set some aside for her college fund.”
Owen smiled as he listened. He knew exactly how much that meant to him.
He knew the story: Larry’s daughter was fourteen, lived with her mother, Larry’s ex-wife, and although he tried to stay in touch, the lack of money and constant work had kept him at a distance. Even so, he had never stopped sending her a portion of whatever he earned.
Seeing him now, emotional, talking about gifts and college, gave Owen a quiet sense of satisfaction.
“I’m glad to hear that, Larry,” Owen finally said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You deserve it. You did a great job today.”
Larry nodded, grateful.
They exchanged a few more words, and then went their separate ways. Owen got into his car, started the engine, and headed home.
Comments
Blank Noll
So when do we get Interstellar? Cause that black hole with modern rendering would blow the 2013 one out the water
IsekaiMeInDcPlease
❤️Thank you for this moment.❤️
