With each successful film he made, Andre became more and more in demand which meant the work got harder and the hours got longer. He loved making movies, but hated when his contract with a studio turned making a piece of art into a commercial cash grab that he was basically forced to direct. Like producers, he flipped through scripts looking for a gem he wanted to be a part of, still hoping to find something he could be proud of even though his next project was basically a joke on celluloid. Still, he was determined to make it a hit if only for the sake of his reputation, and that meant calling in one of the best music producers he knew of. Cillian Bristow had a long history of being a talented asshole with a temper and ego that rivaled his own, and while it made for a difficult work environment, Andre knew that the final product would have been something great. o long as they didn’t kill each other.

Walking into the room with coffee as an olive branch, Andre grumbled under his breath as having just gotten off of the phone had him already in a bad mood before the day even really started. “I make one of the scariest most talked about films of the decade, give a whole new generation of kids nightmares from the same bastard that haunted my dreams when I was younger, but I can’t go online without reading about how badly people wanna fuck the clown. Please tell me you didn’t spend all night waving your little stick around but have nothing to show for it. I’m sure you’re exes are fine with that but I need a score for this polished up turd I have to release with my name on it.”

The Las Vegas Philharmonic reached out to Holly about doing a concert that included famous selections from musical theater, so she agreed to sing three Lloyd Webber pieces. She previously worked with the Boston Pops and the New York Philharmonic, so she knew what she was getting herself into. Today’s agenda consisted of meeting with the conductor to do a run-through of the pieces, and Holly was looking forward to it. She loved meeting new people, especially ones who were very musically inclined.

Walking into where she was supposed to be, Holly approached the man with a smile on her face. “Hello, are you Cillian Bristow? I’m Holly Myers,” the tiny blonde said, offering him her hand to shake. “I’m here to rehearse the Lloyd Webber pieces.”

Valentine is exhausted. It’s 3am and he’s coming in from a late night at the bar. Unfortunately for him (but probably fortunately for the events that he’s unaware are about to occur), he didn’t manage to score anyone to bring home tonight. It’s just as well, because his mood is sour and he’s ready for bed.

Barely kicking off his sneakers once he gets into the door, Valentine stumbles his way to bed and flops face down. Not even two minutes later he’s almost drifting off into sleep. That is, until there’s a loud shrieking of what must be some kind of string instrument coming from the wall that’s right by his head.

“Fucking Cillian!” He growls into his pillow, trying his best to ignore it until he can no longer do so. Suddenly he lifts his fist and bangs roughly on the wall. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, CILLIAN!!”