#04 Helen Solomon

Hearing that, Ben pushed open the office door and stepped inside.

The space was modest—clean and functional, with only the most essential office furniture. No artwork, no flashy branding. Just a desk, a few filing cabinets, and a quiet sense of order.

Behind the desk sat a woman sorting through a stack of documents. She looked slightly older than Amanda, likely in her mid-twenties. Her features were striking, with a refined elegance that carried a subtle, almost delicate air—there was even a trace of something East Asian in her bone structure.

She wore a sharply tailored suit, and though the style was neutral and professional, it couldn't conceal her poised figure. Her presence carried a sleek confidence—stylish, sharp, and unmistakably in charge. The glasses perched on her nose gave her an intellectual edge, and the quiet intensity in her eyes suggested she was far more than a pretty face.

Even seated, it was obvious she was tall—at least five foot six or maybe a little more. In Hollywood, where beauty was everywhere, she still stood out.

Ben couldn't help but register the thought: this woman isn't just here to look good—she runs the room.

She looked up from her documents, meeting his gaze with calm precision.

"I'm Helen Solomon," she said evenly. "Owner of Star Talent Brokerage Company."

"You can show me your profile."

Ben stepped forward, handing over his personal information. He hesitated for a beat, then asked, "This company's recently opened, right?"

He'd already guessed as much—just from the signage outside and the quiet hallways on the way up.

Helen gave his profile a cursory glance. "You're not wrong. We're brand new."

Ben nodded. He didn't press. It wasn't like he had options lined up.

She flipped another page. "You worked part-time on film sets during college?"

"That's right," Ben replied. "Sometimes I did background work too. Extras, crowd scenes. Whatever came up."

"So, you know a fair number of crew and extras?"

Ben scratched the back of his neck, giving a half-smile. "A few, yeah. Not as many these days. Things went... sideways after what happened on the Forrest Gump crew."

He didn't elaborate. If she was asking, she likely already knew.

"In fact," he added, "if it hadn't been for that, I probably wouldn't have trouble landing crew gigs. Even without an agent."

Helen finally set the papers down and looked directly at him.

"You're a USC Film School graduate?"

"Yes. Just graduated last year."

Helen nodded. "It's a good program."

Then, with the faintest lift of her brow, she added, "Show me your experimental short film. If it's promising, I might be able to pitch it to a small distribution company. Nothing major—but possibly a limited VHS run."

Ben blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected her to bring it up—not after what happened. Amanda must've called ahead.

Still, he kept his expression even. "No problem. I can have it on your desk by tomorrow."

She nodded, seemingly satisfied.

They didn't go over any formal contract. Instead, Helen simply asked him to keep his phone on at all times. If an opportunity came up with a production, they'd call.

As Ben exited the building, he had only one thought in his mind, 'That went better than I expected'

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Back home, Ben pulled an all-nighter, re-editing the short film frame by frame.

Early the next morning, he shipped the final cut to Star Talent Brokerage via FedEx.

Recipient: Helen Solomon.

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The office had gone quiet. The sun had dipped behind the skyline, casting a warm amber glow through the half-drawn blinds. Helen had taken off her blazer, resting it on the back of her chair. Amanda leaned against the edge of the desk, holding a freshly opened FedEx package in her hands.

She raised an eyebrow and said casually, "Are you really thinking of taking on Ben?"

Helen glanced up from her screen. "He's desperate. Passionate. Wants to make it big. Ambitious."

Amanda crossed her arms. "Yes, but he's also kind of a nuisance. Keeps talking about that experimental short film like it's his ticket to the Oscars. He promised he wouldn't bring it up here—and yet, today we get this." She held up the padded envelope. "Early morning FedEx delivery. Labeled for you."

Helen smiled faintly. "Ah. It arrived. Didn't expect he'd send it this fast."

Amanda tilted her head, a bit incredulous. "Wait—you asked him to send it?"

"I did," Helen said. "I wanted to see it for myself. Whatever got him into trouble on the Forrest Gump set must've been bold. I need to know what made him think it was worth risking everything."

Amanda sighed, then peeled open the envelope. "Alright. Let's take a look. I'll load it up."

She glanced at Helen with a wry smile. "You know, your curiosity's gonna kill you someday, you cat."

Helen smirked, resting her chin on her knuckles. "Maybe. But at least I'll die knowing I didn't pass up something interesting."

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A few minutes later, the lights in the office dimmed. Amanda and Helen sat side by side on the worn leather couch, watching the short film play out on Helen's projector screen. A half-empty bag of popcorn rested between them, and Amanda absentmindedly picked at a box of chocolate-covered almonds she'd swiped from Helen's desk stash.

Amanda and Helen sat side by side on the worn leather couch, watching the short film play out on Helen's projector screen.

It opened with a stark black frame. Then a flicker of movement.

A soldier. Face half-covered in mud and sweat. Breathing shallowly. The setting: a claustrophobic, dimly lit trench that seemed to cave in more with each passing second.

The flickering light from the screen danced across their faces as the film began—Ben's one-man show unfolding, raw and unpolished, but magnetic in its tension.

The entire film was a single actor—Ben himself—alone, disoriented, and trapped underground, trying to claw his way out of an unseen labyrinth. Flashbacks intertwined with his descent into isolation. Childhood memories, distorted radio chatter, hallucinated visions of comrades long gone.

It wasn't just a war film—it was a meditation on identity, memory, survival, and the crumbling psyche of a man lost inside both a battlefield and himself.

The camera work was tight, inventive. The sound design—entirely done in post—was haunting. Echoes, creaks, whispers. It felt like being buried alive.

When the 45-minute piece ended, the room stayed silent for a few moments.

Helen leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She exhaled slowly, then smiled. "Hmmm."

Amanda looked over at her. "Did no one ever actually watch this?"

Helen shook her head. "Apparently not. Or if they did, they didn't know what to do with it."

Amanda blinked. "He's got talent, right?"

Helen nodded. "Yes. He might be a gem."

Amanda sat back, still processing. "So… what now?"

"We give him some work. Minor stuff. Crew assignments," Helen said. "But tell him not to mention the film. Not unless asked."

Amanda smirked. "Smart. Keep the eccentric genius act under wraps."

Helen gave a thoughtful look to the blank screen. "Besides… if he gets funding, he could actually turn that into a full art feature. He's got a vision."

Amanda stood and stretched. "Not now though. No one's gonna invest in a guy with a reputation for going rogue on set."

"Not yet," Helen agreed. "But he's better than anyone else we've scouted so far."

They turned off the projector. The office fell quiet again—only the hum of the city outside remained.