Chapter 13: No Turning Back

Nate walked out of Vincent Roth's office with the script in hand and a feeling in his chest he hadn't had in years—pure, undiluted ambition.

This was it.

A leading role. A neo-noir crime thriller. A film that could cement him as one of Hollywood's next big stars.

The old Nate—the struggling, overlooked actor who could barely book an audition—would never have believed this moment was real.

But he wasn't that Nate anymore.

He was Nate Whitaker.

And this was just the beginning.

Back at his apartment, he tossed the script onto the table and dialed Claire.

She picked up immediately. "Tell me you didn't blow the meeting."

Nate grinned. "I got the part."

A beat of silence. Then—"Jesus, Nate. That's huge."

"I know."

"Did you read the contract?"

"Not yet."

"Don't sign anything until I look at it. Vincent Roth is a kingmaker, but Hollywood doesn't give out opportunities without strings attached."

Nate smirked. "I can handle strings."

Claire sighed. "Just be careful. And read the damn script before you agree to anything."

That night, Nate poured himself a whiskey, settled onto the couch, and flipped open the script.

The story was brutal—a gritty crime drama about a young hitman forced to navigate the underbelly of Los Angeles after a botched job puts a target on his back.

Dark. Violent. Intense.

And his character, Elijah Cross, was electric.

The kind of role that could redefine a career.

By the time he turned the last page, he was sold.

This wasn't just another movie.

This was his breakout.

The next morning, Nate met with Vincent again, this time with Claire by his side.

"Alright," Vincent said, sliding the contract forward. "Let's make this official."

Claire skimmed the papers, frowning. "The usual clauses, but… there's an exclusivity agreement."

Nate raised a brow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning once you sign, you're locked into Roth Studios for the next three films."

Vincent leaned forward. "That's not a bad thing, Nate. Stick with me, and I'll make you a household name."

It was a deal with the devil.

But if it meant securing his future in Hollywood—

Nate didn't hesitate.

He grabbed the pen.

And signed.

No turning back now.

The ink dried on the contract, sealing Nate's fate.

Three films. One studio. No turning back.

Claire leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "Well, you're officially in bed with Vincent Roth now."

Vincent smirked. "Trust me, that's a good bed to be in."

Nate met his gaze, unwavering. "I just want results."

Vincent chuckled, standing up. "Then you're going to love what comes next."

He slid a schedule across the desk.

"Rehearsals start next week. You'll have two months of training before we begin shooting. Fight choreography, firearms work, method acting sessions—this role is going to push you."

Nate's pulse quickened. Exactly what he wanted.

"I'll be ready."

The next few weeks were brutal.

From sunrise to sunset, Nate lived and breathed his role.

Mornings were spent in a private gym with an ex-military trainer, learning how to move, fight, and handle weapons like a real hitman.

Afternoons were filled with method acting drills, breaking down every layer of Elijah Cross—the paranoia, the ruthlessness, the buried humanity beneath the bloodshed.

Nights were spent alone in his apartment, running lines until his voice was hoarse.

And as the days passed, something terrifying happened.

He stopped feeling like Nate Whitaker.

And started feeling like Elijah Cross.

"You're getting obsessed," Serena murmured, swirling her wine glass as they sat in her penthouse late one evening.

Nate exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "That's the job."

Serena studied him, her expression unreadable. "You're different."

"Good different or bad different?"

"That's the question, isn't it?"

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Don't worry. I'm still me."

Serena leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

"I hope so, Nate. Because once this movie comes out, the world won't see you anymore. They'll see Elijah Cross."

"And that's exactly what I want," Nate replied.

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then, she smiled.

"Then let's make you a legend."

Two months later, Nate stepped onto the soundstage of his first leading role.

The weight of it hit him all at once.

The massive set, the towering cameras, the dozens of crew members waiting for him to bring the story to life.

Vincent clapped him on the shoulder. "You ready, kid?"

Nate took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders.

He wasn't Nate Whitaker anymore.

He was Elijah Cross.

The red recording light blinked on.

The director called out—

"Action!"

The moment the director shouted "Action!", something inside Nate clicked.

The weight of the set, the expectations, the pressure—it all disappeared.

He wasn't standing in a Hollywood studio anymore.

He was in the world of Elijah Cross.

The scene was raw.

Elijah had just carried out a hit. Blood on his hands. Eyes hollow. A police siren wailing in the distance.

He walked into a dimly lit motel room, breathing heavy, staring at himself in the mirror.

The script called for fear. A moment of hesitation. A hint of regret.

But Nate didn't play it that way.

Instead of looking afraid, he let out a slow breath, tilted his head—and smiled.

A broken, knowing smile.

The kind that said, I was made for this.

From behind the monitor, the director froze.

The entire set fell silent.

Then—

"Cut!"

A beat.

Then applause.

Vincent grinned. "Now that is a leading man."

Nate barely heard him.

Because for the first time since his reincarnation—he felt alive.

Over the next few weeks, Nate owned the set.

He delivered every scene with precision. He worked with the stunt team like he'd been doing action films for years.

His chemistry with the supporting cast—especially his co-star, Eva Sinclair—was electric.

Eva was a rising star, known for her intense performances. On-screen, their connection was undeniable.

And off-screen?

Let's just say the tension wasn't just acting.

One night after shooting a particularly heated scene, she pulled him aside.

"You're good, Whitaker," she murmured, eyes gleaming.

Nate smirked. "You just figuring that out?"

Eva chuckled. "No. But Hollywood is."

And she was right.

Because by the time filming wrapped—

Nate Whitaker was no longer just another actor.

He was a name.

A name everyone in the industry was starting to talk about.

And the real game was only just beginning.