"It was the hotel staff. The woman at reception, I think she recognized us both from campus and assumed it was fine to point me in the right direction."

Hearing Zack, Stan shook his head slowly. "That’s not good practice on their part."

"No, it really isn’t. I’ll be honest, I was just trying to see if I can get it, and i did. Usually they don’t give sensitive info so easily. Maybe it’s because we’re from thesame uni." He settled himself into the chair near the window with the comfortable ease of a man who had decided he was staying for a while. "Anyway. I saw you two together back at campus before departure and didn’t want to interrupt. But I’ve got a proposition and I figured it was better to make it in person."

He looked between Stan and Maya.

"I need people for my script. You two clearly need people for yours. I’m thinking we combine resources, I help you, you help me. We each come out of this with something finished."

Maya sat forward slightly. The producer’s instinct activated.

"What are the roles you’re missing?"

"I’ve got my leads sorted." Zack nodded at Stan in a way that communicated ’obviously you two are the leads’ without requiring him to say it directly.

Maya smiled. "That’s good, What i need are supporting characters. Villain group, mob roles, the people who make the threat feel real."

Zack nodded and held out his hand then Maya passed him a copy of the script. He read through it with the focused speed of someone who processed text quickly and was already casting in his head before he’d finished the first page. His expression moved through several stages, concentration, appreciation, something approaching genuine admiration.

"This is really good, Maya." He looked up. "Seriously. Multiple levels above what I was expecting."

"Thank you."

"The structure, the pacing, the character dynamic," He glanced at Stan with a look that said ’I see exactly what she’s doing here’ and was diplomatically wise enough not to elaborate. "I’ll take the head villain. That role was written for someone who enjoys it, and I enjoy it."

"It suits you," Stan said.

"I’m going to pretend that wasn’t an insult." Zack folded the pages. "I can pull together five or six people for the mob roles and my villain’s subordinates, people from my department who know how to take direction and won’t need extensive prep time. One night with the script should be enough."

Maya nodded, already thinking through the logistics. "Zoey’s doing cinematography?"

"Best in her cohort," Zack said without hesitation. "Lighting, composition, editing, all of it. If you want this to look like something professionally produced rather than a student project, she’s who you want behind the camera."

Zoey, who had been standing quietly near the door with the composed patience of someone who was used to being discussed in terms of her technical capability, gave a small nod of acknowledgment when Maya looked at her.

Stan looked at Zoey more carefully. She was calm, genuinely calm, not the brittle, performance-calm of someone holding themselves together under pressure. Whatever the previous night had cost her, she’d apparently made her peace with it quickly enough to show up at Starfall Isle the next morning with a professional camera bag and a working expression.

"Are you alright?" he asked directly.

Zoey met his eyes. "Yes. Genuinely." A brief pause. "I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. Zack wouldn’t have let me come if I wasn’t." She glanced at Zack with the particular warmth of someone who knew they were cared for and didn’t resent it. "And, thank you. For that night. What you did for me, saving me from the rapist."

"It’s okay," Stan said simply.

Maya’s brow had furrowed at the word rapist but She didn’t ask. She understood instinctively that she’d been given the minimum context necessary and that the rest wasn’t hers to pull at. She took a measured breath, set whatever reaction she was processing aside, and looked at Zack with the focused efficiency of a director transitioning into production mode.

"Here." She produced multiple copies of the script from the stack she’d prepared and distributed them. "Your mob actors, have them read this tonight. Their roles are all in the final third of the script but they need the full context to understand the tone. We’re not going for cartoon villainy. The threat needs to feel grounded."

"Understood." Zack took his copies with the gravity of someone accepting a commission.

"We film at sunrise tomorrow. The lighting on the northern cliff face in early morning is," Maya paused, choosing the word with the care of someone who thought about visual language professionally. "Irreplaceable. We won’t get that window twice."

"Sunrise," Zack repeated. "I’ll make sure everyone’s there."

He stood, tucked the scripts under his arm, and looked at Stan with the expression of a man wrapping up a productive meeting.

"After we get your scene done tomorrow, you two will help with mine?"

"We’ll be there," Stan said.

"What’s yours about?" Maya asked.

Zack smiled, the slightly self-deprecating smile of a man whose ambition slightly exceeded his current script. "I haven’t written it yet."

Maya stared at him.

"You’re telling me you came to the most iconic filming location in the Inksea region, negotiated your way into a collaborative project, committed to a sunrise shoot, and you haven’t written your own script yet?"

"I work better under pressure." Zack’s expression was entirely unrepentant. "I’ll have something by morning. It won’t be this," he held up Maya’s script, "but it’ll be something."

"That’s good..." Maya replied.

"I’ll write it tonight." He turned to Stan. "Any chance you’d help me brainstorm? You’ve got good instincts."

"Send me a message when you’ve got a structure," Stan said. "I’ll look at it."

Zack pointed at him, a single, satisfied gesture. "Perfect. That’s all I needed."

He headed for the door. Zoey followed, shouldering her camera bag with practiced ease.

At the threshold, Zack paused and looked back, at Stan, at Maya, then at the small, warm space of the shared room with its single overhead light and its stack of scripts on the bedside table.

His expression held something that fell somewhere between approval and the private satisfaction of a best friend watching someone’s life improve in ways they’d independently hoped for.

"Get some rest," he said. "Sunrise is early."