Gray always thought Hollywood was a peculiar beast. The year was 2024, and the industry that once gave him comfort and purpose now filled him with unease. Gray had been working in film production for over a decade. Starting as a humble set hand, he'd worked his way up to production manager—a position of respect, though not without its burdens.
For as long as he could remember, movies were his solace. Orphaned at a young age, Gray grew up in a series of foster homes where the silence was often suffocating. It was the flickering glow of films that became his escape, his guide, and his one constant companion. He was the kid who saved up every penny for VHS tapes, who spent hours in libraries reading about filmmaking techniques, and who idolized directors and actors the way others worshipped sports stars.
But the love he once held for the industry had become complicated. The glittering façade of Hollywood masked a dark underbelly he couldn't ignore. Drugs flowed like water at wrap parties. Gray had seen actors he admired ruin themselves with lines of cocaine and pills washed down with champagne. He once found a famous leading man slumped in a trailer, needle still hanging from his arm, while the crew outside scrambled to stick to a shooting schedule. Gray had quietly called paramedics that day, brushing off the incident to avoid scandal. That man had been nominated for an Oscar the following year.
Then there were the whispers about the casting couch—a term that had been around for decades but carried with it stories more sinister than just consensual quid pro quo. Gray remembered a young actress who had been promised a breakout role only to disappear from the set after an "audition" with the producer. She never acted again. Another time, he overheard a conversation about a powerful director with a penchant for underage girls. The stories weren't just rumors to Gray. He had seen enough to know they were real, yet he was powerless to intervene.
Some nights, Gray would sit in his modest Los Angeles apartment, drink in hand, and curse God. "Why make the world like this?" he would mutter to the ceiling. "Why give people dreams only to let monsters trample them?" It felt like a futile, old-man complaint, but he couldn't shake the bitterness.
His workdays were a delicate balance of logistics and damage control. One morning, a fresh-faced actress burst into tears during a rehearsal. When Gray gently asked what was wrong, she confessed that her agent had forced her to attend a party with a powerful studio executive the night before. Gray didn't pry, but the bruises on her wrists and the hollow look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. He felt sick. But what could he do? Report it? To whom? Everyone in power seemed complicit, or at least willfully ignorant. The machine kept grinding forward, no matter the cost.
Gray had also seen how the industry devoured child actors. One boy, just ten years old, had been the star of a major franchise. On set, he was lively and professional, but during breaks, Gray often found him sitting alone, staring blankly at his phone. Years later, the boy's face appeared in the tabloids, unrecognizable and gaunt, his once-bright eyes dulled by addiction. He had been chewed up and spat out by an industry that didn't care about his well-being, only his marketability.
There was a particularly haunting memory that Gray couldn't shake. During a shoot in the hills outside Los Angeles, a crew member had whispered about an underground party the night before. "Invite-only," the man had said, "but not for the faint of heart." Gray didn't attend, but the details that filtered back to him were chilling—men in suits, girls too young to be there, and a level of debauchery that felt almost ritualistic. He had laughed it off at the time, convincing himself it was just another urban legend. But deep down, he knew better.
Despite it all, Gray loved movies. They had saved him once, and he clung to the hope that they could still be a force for good. He admired the hardworking crew members who poured their hearts into their craft, the writers who dared to tell challenging stories, and the rare actors who remained grounded despite their fame. But he also knew the industry was rotting from the inside. The glamour was a mirage, masking a reality that was often cruel and exploitative. If Hollywood continued down this path, Gray was certain it was doomed.
That night, he sat at his desk, staring at the framed poster of his favorite film, Casablanca. He wondered what Bogart and Bergman would think of Hollywood today. "Probably wouldn't recognize it," he muttered to himself. He took a sip of whiskey, the amber liquid burning his throat. He felt tired—not just physically, but in his soul.
Gray thought about the young woman from the morning, about the child actor turned addict, and about the countless others whose dreams had been crushed by the very industry that claimed to celebrate them. He wanted to do something, to change things, but what could one man do? The system was too big, too powerful, and too entrenched. Even speaking out could cost him everything.
As he sat there, lost in thought, the whiskey took hold, and his eyelids grew heavy. He leaned back in his chair, and soon, sleep overtook him. His dreams were a chaotic mix of movie scenes, real memories, and imagined horrors. In one dream, he was on a film set, surrounded by shadowy figures in masks. They laughed as a spotlight illuminated a sobbing child. Gray tried to intervene, but his feet were stuck, rooted to the ground like the set pieces he managed every day.
When he woke the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. His head ached, and his heart felt heavier than ever. Another day in Hollywood awaited him, but the question lingered: how much longer could he keep going?