With James leading the way, we returned to Harvey Street. The small production company he mentioned was located in the center of Harvey Street, sitting atop a small hill. Behind it was a modest slope, and from a distance, you could clearly see the iconic "HOLLYWOOD" sign perched on the hillside. The area was surrounded by lush greenery, with flocks of wild pigeons circling and playing in the trees—it was quite a pleasant spot.

  When we arrived at the company’s front gate, an elderly Black man, frail and shrunken, opened the door for us. James led the way, and the rest of us followed as we entered the courtyard and made our way to the second-floor office.

  The company was small—just two rows of simple shooting sheds, a rundown three-story office building, and a tiny parking garage.

  We waited at the door for a while before a disheveled, groggy-looking man opened it for us. He was nearly two meters tall, packed with solid muscle, and about the same age as James. If James hadn’t told me beforehand that this guy owned a production company, I would’ve mistaken him for a highway bandit.

  "Let me introduce you. This is my boss, André Corleone. And this is Schiller Watts," James said, gesturing toward me.

  I smiled and shook Watts' hand, only to grimace as he crushed my fingers in his iron grip.

  James burst into laughter and pointed at Watts. "This guy is all brawn, no brains. In Hollywood, plenty of people from the underworld know him, but business management? Not his strong suit."

  Watts shot James a glare. "What do you want?"

  James gestured toward me and said, "It’s not me who wants something. Our director here is interested in buying your company."

  Watts glanced at me with blatant disdain. "Him? A little punk? You’ve gotta be joking."

  James’ expression darkened as he spoke sternly, "Are you selling or not?"

  Watts smacked his lips. "Selling, of course. Why wouldn’t I? Twenty grand, and it’s all yours."

  "Bah! Watts! You and I are close, yet you’re still trying to rip me off?" James scoffed. "Look at this tiny dump of yours. It’s not even in a prime location—you think you’re on Hollywood Boulevard? No one but us would ever buy this company. Our director wasn’t even impressed at first glance. If I hadn’t sweet-talked him, he wouldn’t have even come. Be real with me—name a fair price!"

  Watts lazily plopped into a chair, looked at James, then at me, and held up one finger. "Fifteen grand. That’s the lowest I can go!"

  Hearing this, I turned on my heel and walked away.

  James dramatically grabbed me and said to Watts, "Are you out of your mind? Now’s not the time for games! Our boss was only willing to pay eight grand, and I had to talk him up to nine. It’s up to you, but don’t say I didn’t try to help!"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Seeing that I was seriously leaving, Watts winced in pain and called after me, "Nine grand is way too low! I spent tens of thousands on this property and building!"

  I glanced at James and muttered something under my breath. James then said, "My boss is willing to go up to ten grand. Watts, do you even realize what’s happening in the industry right now? Film companies are folding left and right, the market’s in a slump, and real estate prices are dropping. To be frank, if we wanted a place like yours, we could find another one easily."

  Watts fell silent, deep in thought, before finally slapping his thigh in frustration. "Fine! Give me ten grand, and it’s yours."

  James rummaged through Watts’ tiny office and found an old, beat-up typewriter. He quickly typed up a contract, outlining the terms of the transfer. We each signed our names, and Watts took the ten grand, shaking his head the whole time.

  That night, Watts and his people moved all their belongings out of the company, leaving behind only the empty sheds. The few of us spent the night crashing in the office, and by the crack of dawn, we were already hard at work.

  Berg led a team to clean up, James started moving in his equipment, and Gans handled purchasing office supplies and daily necessities. As for me, I made a solo trip downtown to a decoration shop to order our company’s official emblem.

  The guys trusted me completely with this—after all, the company’s image was at stake.

  I had already envisioned the emblem: a black signboard featuring a fierce, coiled red dragon, its fangs bared as it faced forward. Below it, in bold white letters, were the words "DreamWorks." Simple, powerful, and imposing.

  MGM had its lazy lion. Paramount had its towering mountain. My DreamWorks had to outshine them all. That’s why I chose an original, unadulterated Chinese dragon—one that would dominate Hollywood, making every American bow their heads in its presence. I wanted audiences worldwide, regardless of location or age, to walk into a theater, see it, and remember it.

  The shop owner quoted me a thousand dollars, which made me do a double take. But after checking the specs—20 meters wide, 10 meters tall—I figured the price was reasonable and agreed.

  They promised delivery in a week. After paying, I flagged down a cab and headed back to the company.

  When I arrived, the place had completely transformed. The once-chaotic courtyard was now spotless. Piles of garbage had been cleared out, brand-new chairs and office furniture had been moved in, and even the shabby old office building had been repainted a bold, fiery red—courtesy of Gans.

  "Looks good, huh?" Gans grinned at me.

  I glanced at him, his face covered in paint, and sighed. "How much did all this cost?"

  Gans shot me a look. "Why are you suddenly so stingy? If we don’t make the company presentable, we won’t be able to grow. This money had to be spent."

  "D*mn it! I get it, but listen up—I only have seventy grand left!"

  "Actually, sixty-eight. We spent nearly two thousand on this stuff."

  I nearly fainted on the spot. D*mn it! Money was vanishing like water. Just yesterday, I had eighty-one grand. One day later, I was down to sixty-eight! D*mn it! D*mn it all!

  The office was now fully furnished with desks, typewriters, a phone, sofas, and chairs. What annoyed me the most was that these guys had even set up two beds in the office, making it look like they were planning to live there!

  After I chewed them out, they begrudgingly moved the beds to the third floor. There were five rooms up there—one for each of us, with the spare room doubling as a makeshift kitchen.

  By nightfall, we were all exhausted. Berg took a few punches and kicks from us before being forced into the kitchen to cook dinner, while the rest of us lounged in the main hall, waiting to eat.

  "Boss, what’s the plan for tomorrow?" James asked.

  Gans glanced at me and grinned. "André, I think we’re officially a company now. Why don’t we hold a meeting tonight to assign everyone’s roles? That way, it’ll be easier to introduce ourselves when dealing with others."

  James nodded in agreement.

  There were only four of us, and yet they were this enthusiastic? D*mn, I had to admire their dedication.

  I shot them an exasperated look. "Fine, do whatever you want."

  "No, no, no—you’re the boss. You have to decide," Gans said, shaking his head. James winked at me.

  Just as they were grinning mischievously, the fat guy finally brought out dinner.