2020 was supposed to be the year of reckoning.
The year people finally stood up and pointed fingers at monsters who wore expensive tuxedos and fake smiles. It was the year hashtags became weapons, and the #MeToo movement roared louder than studio execs ever imagined. But for Zack Throne, it was déjà vu—yet another horror film playing out in real life. And he had front-row seats. Again.
He'd seen this all before. Fifteen years in Hollywood had peeled back the glitter and shown him the rot underneath. The casting couches, the cover-ups, the money that changed hands like silence was just another commodity. And no matter how many exposés made headlines, Zack knew—some ghosts just didn't die. They hid better.
Zack wasn't a director or a big-shot producer. He wasn't even the guy writing the Oscar speeches. He was a production manager. Set manager, sometimes. Just another name buried in the credit scroll after the popcorn ran out.
But he'd seen things. Heard things. Cleaned up messes that were never supposed to exist. He was the guy they trusted with NDAs and the quiet understanding that some things just don't leave the lot.
And yet, once upon a time, movies had been magic for him.
Zack had been an orphan. No family. No legacy. Just a bed at a state-run boys' home and a small TV that barely worked. When the nights were cold, and the shouting from the older kids echoed through the halls, Zack would crawl under his blanket, turn on that TV, and watch anything he could. Action, comedy, sci-fi—it didn't matter. The stars shone bright on the screen, and for a moment, he felt warm.
Back then, Hollywood was a dream. A place where the impossible became real.
But when he finally clawed his way into the industry, young and hungry at 25, he realized dreams had a dark side. And Hollywood? It was a factory built on shadows and silence.
Now he was 40.
Single. Not by choice, but because fate had its own sick sense of humor. He once had someone—someone he could've built a future with—but love, it turns out, doesn't survive secrets and sleepless nights. That's a story for another time.
Tonight, Zack was drunk.
He sat alone at a half-lit bar in North Hollywood, watching the news on mute as another studio exec's face flashed across the screen. Accusations. Lawsuits. Denials. The usual. Around him, patrons pretended not to notice. Or maybe they just didn't care anymore. Scandal fatigue, they called it.
Zack threw back another shot of bourbon and let it burn. It was cheaper than therapy.
By the time he stepped out into the night, the streets were mostly empty. The air had that late-winter chill, and the city lights painted long shadows on the sidewalk. As he walked, he muttered under his breath—half curse, half prayer.
"Why do you let them suffer, huh?" he hissed at the sky, voice raw. "The innocent ones. The kids. The ones who just wanted to act… to live."
No one answered. God rarely did. Not in Hollywood.
He reached his apartment building—a modest, aging structure tucked between two glass condos that screamed money and arrogance. His place was small, but it was his. Two rooms, one window, and enough silence to choke a man. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and tossed his keys into the bowl by habit.
Empty. Always empty.
He didn't mind the solitude most days. But tonight, it weighed heavy. Like a ghost sitting on his chest. Zack sat down on the couch and stared into the dark for a while. No music. No TV. Just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic.
He remembered a time when he used to come home to laughter. The smell of garlic on the stove. Her humming in the kitchen while he flopped on the couch, exhausted from a 14-hour shoot. She used to call him "Zee," like he was some cool rebel in a noir film. She made life feel less... hollow.
But she left. Or maybe he let her go, drowning too deep in the industry to grab the hand reaching for him. He couldn't even remember the last thing he said to her. Maybe that was the worst part.
He crouched forward, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his unkempt hair. He let out a shaky breath.
"You wanted change, remember?" he whispered to himself. "You thought you'd come here and fix things. Be different."
But what could one man do? A pawn in a game played by titans. Zack could barely get coffee orders right for half the spoiled actors on set—how was he supposed to fight a system built on silence?
Still, the guilt gnawed at him.
Because even if he hadn't caused the damage… he'd seen it. Heard it. Looked away too many times because "it wasn't his place." Because he needed the paycheck. Because calling it out meant never working again.
But was silence any less evil?
He didn't know anymore.
Maybe the only thing worse than being a villain… was being the man who stood by and watched.
His eyes stung, but he didn't cry. Zack Throne hadn't cried since he was fifteen. That night in the foster home, when his best friend aged out and left without saying goodbye. Tears hadn't saved him then. They wouldn't now.
He lay down slowly, the couch creaking beneath him. The room still smelled faintly of dust and old takeout. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, fading into the night.
Zack stared at the ceiling, eyes half-closed. The flickering streetlight outside painted crooked patterns on the wall. His body ached—maybe from the alcohol, maybe from the weight of years. He didn't know when exactly he drifted off.
But just before sleep took him, a single thought echoed in the fog of his mind:
Maybe I can't save Hollywood. Maybe I can't fix anything.
But I can still choose not to be a part of the rot.
And with that small, flickering promise, Zack Throne let himself rest—for now.