The first time Sean Dixon tried to sign his name into wet cement on a backlot in Burbank, California, he ruined a day’s work and an entire crew’s patience in three seconds flat.
“Whoa, hold up there, little man.”
The foreman’s voice cracked through the warm Los Angeles air just as Sean pressed the tip of a plastic straw into the slick gray slab. The kid’s name—SEAN D—was already carved in a jagged, looping line, like every Hollywood star on the Walk of Fame he’d ever posed in front of.
Sean straightened his designer hoodie and turned, already grinning.
“Oh, come here, let me—”
The foreman reached for his arm. Sean pulled it back like he was dodging a paparazzi flash.
“So what do you want me to sign?” the boy asked instead. “Your hard hat? Shirt? Maybe your lunch box?”
“Sign?” the man repeated, bewildered.
“Yeah. Where do you want my autograph?” Sean spread his hands as if this were obvious. The gold chain around his neck flashed in the California sun, a tiny camera charm glittering at the end. “Look, I get it, I’m kind of a big deal. Might as well make your day.”
“I don’t want your autograph,” the foreman said, pointing at the cement. “I want you not to walk on the wet slab we just finished.”
Sean blinked. “Ah, yeah. Obviously.” He rocked back onto his heels, smearing another footprint across the smooth surface. “I definitely knew that.”
The man closed his eyes for a second, as if bargaining with the heavens.
“What about an autograph for your kids?” Sean pressed. “Come on, I bet they love me. They’re gonna regret not getting one when they had the chance, bro. It’ll be worth, like, a million bucks one day.”
On the other side of the studio gate, a group of actual kids pressed up against the metal bars, phones out, faces bright.
“There he is! It’s him! Sean!”
“Sean, we love you!”
A golf cart whirred up behind him like some irritated mechanical insect.
“Sean, that’s a nice watch,” the woman driving it said as he hopped in beside her. She eyed the oversized face glinting on his wrist. “Does it even work?”
“I don’t know,” Sean shrugged. “I just wear it for looks. I use my phone to tell the time like a normal person.”
“It was a rhetorical question,” she said tightly. “You’re late again. You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Sean leaned back, folding his hands behind his head as the cart zipped past soundstages and palm trees. “Stars are never late. The show doesn’t start until I walk up in this place.”
“Sean,” she said, jaw tightening, “the show doesn’t start until you walk in because you’re the lead. You need to be here on time because your attendance affects everybody. Camera, sound, wardrobe, extras—”
“Maybe I’d be on time if you didn’t have me come in so early,” he cut in. “You should really let me be in charge of the schedule. It’d be way more efficient if I ran it.”
“Please,” she sighed, “just get into wardrobe.”
Whatever,” he muttered, hopping out as they rolled to a stop. “Can’t you see I’m talking here?”
Inside the fluorescent-lit wardrobe room, racks of shirts, jackets, and costumes lined the walls like a rainbow exploded.
“What the heck is that?” Sean demanded the moment the costumer held up a bright yellow button-down.
“This is the shirt written in for your first scene today,” she said, tired but polite. “The one in the script?”
“Absolutely not.” Sean recoiled. “Yellow isn’t even my color. I specifically requested blues—like this blue,” he tugged on his hoodie, “greens, and sometimes burgundy. Classy burgundy. Not that crusty, dusty, raggedy, banana-looking thing.”
He snapped his fingers at the wardrobe assistant. “Matt, take it. Dispose of it. Do something.”
“The shirt’s specifically mentioned in the script,” the costumer repeated, a little more firmly.
“Well, then y’all better update that script,” Sean said. “Because I’m not wearing that sparkly school-bus disaster. I gotta look good in every single scene. The audience looks when I look good. Burn it if you have to.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just… find him another shirt,” she told Matt. “I’ll talk to the writer.”
Sean was already halfway out the door.
“I’m going to crafty. I’m already irritated.”
The craft services table sat under a pop-up tent between soundstages, piled with fruit, sandwiches, and snacks. He grabbed a paper plate, looked down, and froze.
“What is this?” he said loudly. “I specifically said no skin on my fruit.”
The sliced apple wedges still wore their red jackets. The orange segments were bright and whole.
“I’m not eating this,” he announced, for the benefit of anyone within twenty feet. “What’s next? You’re gonna leave the crust on my PB&J like I’m in kindergarten?”
A sound guy waiting to grab a banana glanced at him, then glanced away.
“Hey!” one of the PAs called suddenly, eyes widening. “We need some help over here!”
Sean barely looked up. It wasn’t his problem. Nothing was his problem, except his lines and his eyeliner and his face on the poster.
Until his problems started to multiply.
“Action,” the director called.
The set—a dimly lit restaurant interior on Stage 7—glowed under careful lighting. A fake city skyline of downtown Los Angeles sparkled through the “window.” A string of fairy lights looped overhead like it was prom night.
On cue, Sean leaned across the table toward the actress playing his date.
“Wow, Jay,” she said, batting her lashes. “You really know how to treat a girl.”
He smirked.
“I still can’t believe my boyfriend canceled on me,” she sighed. “He said someone took all the air out of his tires and—”
“Who would do that?” Sean cut in smoothly. “Yeah, well, that’s a loss for him and a big win for me.”
The director stepped out from behind the monitor.
“Cut,” he said. “Sean, that’s not the line.”
“Oh, I know,” Sean said. “But I like this one better. Jay would never say what’s in the script. This is way more me— I mean, him.”
“How about,” the director said carefully, “we say it the way it is in the script first, then maybe we can try some improvising if we have time?”
Sean pretended to think it over. “Hmm. Let me think about that real quick… no.”
He leaned back in the chair.
“Actually,” he continued, “now that we’re talking changes, I’ve got a few suggestions about the ending, too. The breakup monologue? Way too soft. Jay should walk off into the sunset, sunglasses on, explosion behind him—”
“Unfortunately,” the director interrupted, “this isn’t called The Sean Dixon Show.”
“It should be,” Sean said without missing a beat. “We’re talking billions, man. Matter of fact, I should be in charge of this whole operation. Studio, scripts, wardrobe. I bet this place would run a hundred times smoother if I took control.”
“Sean,” the director said, glancing toward the producer watching from the corner, “maybe—”
“Where’s Darman?” Sean demanded. “I need to speak to him.”
“I’m sure he’s very busy,” the producer said quickly. “If we can just—”
“If he’s too busy to talk to me,” Sean announced, standing up, “then I’ll be in my trailer. And I’m not coming out until he’s ready.”
“You don’t even have a trailer,” someone muttered.
“That’s another problem,” Sean said, pointing toward the empty parking space where, in his imagination, a luxury motorhome would gleam. “I need one. And a robe with matching slippers. Write that down.”
He stalked off the set, leaving the scene half-finished and an entire crew blinking at each other over a still-rolling camera.
Across the lot, in a bright, toy-strewn office with a “YIPPIE! KIDS” logo taped on the door, Darman sat cross-legged on the floor with his laptop, animatics for a new preschool show playing silently on the screen.
“That was so cute,” his animator said, watching a cartoon puppy bounce across a digital park. “I really think this series is going to be huge with the kids.”
“Me too,” Darman said. “Now parents who watch our videos with younger siblings will finally have something just for them. Bright colors, positive lessons—”
“Hey, D, you got a second?” the producer from Sean’s set asked, poking his head in the doorway.
“I actually have to review the next script for Ella and Myla’s World,” Darman replied. “But we can—”
“It’s about Sean,” the producer said.
Darman closed his laptop.
“Ah,” he said. “Come on.”
They walked across the hallway into a quieter office overlooking the studio parking lot. The sun was angling down behind the palm trees, turning the smoggy sky into streaks of pink and orange—the kind of West Coast sunset you only really see in California and on aspirational postcards.
“We’re having more and more problems with him,” the producer said. “He’s becoming… how do I say this… high maintenance. He’s arguing with the director, refusing wardrobe, demanding schedule changes. He was late again today. And he just stormed off set.”
“No surprise there,” another team member said, closing the door behind them. “All he thinks about is himself. He even said he could run the studio by himself. Without the team.”
Darman’s eyes lit up.
“Maybe he’s onto something,” he said.
The room fell silent.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” the producer said.
“He really needs to learn that there’s no ‘I’ in team,” Darman mused. “We could tell him that a hundred times, but he won’t hear it. So let’s show him.”
“How?” the animator asked. “You want a big inspirational speech? A special episode?”
“Put him in charge,” Darman said. “Let him run the studio for a day.”
“You want an eleven-year-old to run a production studio in Los Angeles?” the producer asked. “Everything will fall apart. It will be chaos.”
“It will,” Darman agreed. “Which is exactly why it will be the lesson he needs. Controlled chaos. With safety rails. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Out in the parking lot, Sean strutted past a row of cars, still grumbling about how nobody appreciated genius. He had no idea that the universe—or at least his boss—had just granted his biggest wish.
By nine o’clock the next morning, the studio group chat was buzzing.
SUBJECT: Studio Update – Important
FROM: HR
TO: All Staff
Effective today, Sean Dixon will be shadowing as “Studio Boss” for morale and educational purposes. Please cooperate with requests within reason. Safety protocols remain in effect.
“What?” one grip said, scrolling on his phone as he loaded gear into a van. “Oh, this has to be a prank.”
“HR confirmed it,” a makeup artist replied. “I asked. They were very calm about it. Which is more disturbing, honestly.”
Sean arrived five minutes later, a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose despite being indoors.
“Keep up the good work,” he said to a bewildered camera operator, clapping him on the shoulder as if he’d been doing it for years. “Impress me today and I might just give you a raise. Just kidding. But, like, maybe.”
He walked into the main office like he owned it.
“You,” he said, pointing at an assistant. “My office. Five o’clock. We need to talk about that thing you did.”
“What?” she blinked. “What thing?”
“You know what you did,” he said mysteriously, then disappeared down the hall.
In the lobby, a security guard stepped in front of a group of excited fans pressed against the glass doors.
“Sorry,” he said. “No visitors on set today.”
Sean turned the corner and saw the crowd—kids in graphic tees, parents clutching phones, a gaggle of teenagers with homemade signs.
“Is that Sean?” one girl squeaked. “Oh my gosh, it’s actually him.”
Sean grinned and marched over.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“They’re fans,” the guard said. “They wanted a tour. I told them we can’t let them in. It would interfere with filming.”
“Have you not heard?” Sean said grandly. “I’m the one in charge now. So you better listen to me. Open the doors.”
“You can’t just—” the guard started.
“Company email,” one of the producers said under his breath, pulling up the message on his phone. “They said to cooperate. Within reason.”
“Welcome, welcome!” Sean said as the doors clicked open. “Come on in! Make yourselves at home. This is my studio.”
“Wow,” a little boy whispered as he stepped into the lobby, eyes huge. “Cool!”
“You’re just letting them wander around?” the guard asked, aghast.
“If you can’t do your job,” Sean told him, “I’ll do it for you. Go… stand over there. Or something.”
The fans scattered like a handful of marbles, streaming down hallways toward sets, fake convenience stores, and costume racks.
“What could possibly go wrong?” Sean said to himself, satisfied.
By eleven, the first thing went wrong.
“What games,” one of the janitors muttered, carrying a wet floor sign toward a freshly mopped stretch of tile, “do they think we’re playing around here?”
He set the sign up, turned to wring out his mop, and when he turned back, the sign was gone.
Down the hall, a group of kids chased each other, one of them using the yellow triangle as a pretend shield.
A second later, a PA skidded on the slick floor and pinwheeled, managing to grab a doorframe before he went down completely.
Sean rounded the corner just in time to catch the tail end of the near miss.
“Someone could have really hurt themselves,” he said, hands on his hips. “Is that what you want? People getting injured on my watch?”
“We had a wet floor sign up,” the janitor said. “Someone must have moved it. We’re just doing our jobs.”
“I don’t want to hear excuses,” Sean said. “You know what? I’m tired of people disrespecting me around here. I need to make a statement.”
“What does that mean?” the second janitor asked.
“You’re fired,” Sean announced. “Both of you.”
The mops froze mid-swipe.
“Fired?” the first janitor repeated. “Are you serious? We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yeah, you did,” Sean said. “You upset the boss. Pack your mop and go.”
They stared at him.
“What are you still doing here?” he demanded. “I wasn’t joking. Out. Chop chop.”
They set their mops down slowly and walked away, uniforms still damp.
Sean dusted his hands, satisfied. For the first time, it occurred to him that power felt… heavy. He shook off the thought.
“Mr. Dixon?” a voice piped up.
Sean turned to see a nervous assistant holding a clipboard and a tablet.
“Hope you’re having a good day,” she said. “I’m going to be assisting you with the schedule and helping you with whatever you need.”
“Good,” he said. “Nice to have my own assistant. What’s on the agenda?”
“Well, we have a very busy day ahead,” she said, scrolling. “We’re shooting six scripts: two in the convenience store, one in the classroom set, one in the restaurant, a kids’ show in Stage 3, and the dinosaur episode at four. And—”
“Hey, Sean!” someone called, jogging up with a large metal lamp. “We need to light the convenience store. Where should I put this?”
Sean blinked. “Isn’t that the director’s job?”
“The director called out sick,” the gaffer said. “We were told to ask you. Where do you want the key light?”
Sean scanned the set. Shelves, fake candy bars, a counter. “Right there,” he said, pointing to a narrow strip of floor near the door.
“Are you sure?” the gaffer asked. “That’s in the main walking path. It might be a tripping—”
“Right. There.” Sean repeated. “You’re the boss,” the gaffer said, shrugging.
“I am the boss,” Sean said. “Make sure everyone knows that.”
The assistant looked back at her tablet. “For lunch, we—”
“Oh yeah, what do we have?” Sean asked, already bored with lighting.
“Since most of our actors and crew are vegetarian or vegan, we ordered salad bowls from that place on Sunset. Chop Shop?”
“Did you just say salads are ‘yummy’?” Sean asked, horrified. “That’s almost as bad as fruit skin. Cancel it.”
“But we already placed the order,” she said. “It’ll be here in thirty minutes.”
“Cancel it,” he repeated. “Order burgers. Wings. Baked potatoes with sour cream and bacon. And cheesecake. Big ones. Make sure you write it down.”
“Should I at least get plain potatoes for the non-meat eaters?” she asked. “Some of them—”
“I already fired the cleaning crew today,” he said flatly. “Don’t make me fire you too.”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.
“And get me some sparkling water,” he added. “Room temp. With a straw. Not plastic. My followers care about that stuff.”
She scurried off.
Ten minutes later, wardrobe dragged him back to the costume racks.
“Sean, I’m glad you’re here,” the supervisor said. “We need you to pick out Colin’s outfit for the classroom scene. The teacher character. We narrowed it down to these two.”
She held up a gray button-down and a navy sweater vest.
Sean stared.
“They’re both boring,” he said. His gaze wandered, then landed on something at the end of the rack—a full-body dinosaur costume, green scales and an absurdly cheerful face.
“That one,” he said, pointing.
The wardrobe supervisor blinked. “The… dinosaur suit?”
“Yeah. This one, fam.” He pulled it off the hanger and held it up like a trophy. “For sure. Have him wear this.”
“He’s supposed to be playing a math teacher,” she said. “In public school. In the U.S. It’s set in Ohio.”
“Now he’ll be a dinosaur teacher teaching math and prehistoric facts,” Sean said. “Big brain moment. Show the kids you can be smart and stylish.”
She stared at him. “Are you… insulting my intelligence?”
“Look,” he said. “Don’t forget who makes final decisions here. If I want Colin in a dinosaur costume, he’s wearing a dinosaur costume. Do we understand each other?”
She exhaled slowly. “Yes… sir.”
“Good,” he said. “What’s next?”
“We have a problem,” the assistant said, peeking in. “You should come see.”
“Probably some minor thing,” Sean said, following her toward Stage 2.
It was not minor.
The convenience store set looked like a tornado had gone through a candy aisle. Kids—those same fans he’d welcomed in—were running behind the counter, their hands in the fake slushies. Two boys had the claw machine open, stuffing plush toys into their backpacks.
“This is amazing!” one of them yelled. “We’re in a real Hollywood studio!”
“This isn’t Universal,” one of the crew members shouted, trying to herd them toward the door. “You can’t just—”
“Everybody calm down,” Sean said, clapping his hands. “I invited them. They’re my guests.”
“They’re causing a major distraction,” the assistant whispered. “We’re supposed to be shooting in here today. We’re already behind.”
“It’ll be fine,” Sean said, scanning the wreckage. “We just gotta clean this place up.”
“Call the cleaning crew,” the assistant said.
“Good idea,” Sean said. “Where are they?”
“You fired them,” she reminded him. “Remember?”
“Oh,” he said weakly.
The day slid further downhill.
On the classroom set, Colin tugged uncomfortably at the dinosaur costume head.
“I can’t see anything in this,” he said. “The eye holes are—”
“You look great,” Sean said. “Kids will love it. Okay, everybody in places! Where’s the director?”
“Still sick,” the assistant said. “We haven’t found a replacement yet.”
Sean grabbed the script from her hands.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll direct. I act, I run the studio, I might as well complete the trilogy.”
“You’ve never directed,” she whispered.
“How hard can it be?” he said.
“Sean,” the wardrobe supervisor said, stepping in, “we have to talk about the dinosaur—”
“No time,” he said. “We’re rolling. Where’s the camera? What’s this button do?”
“Don’t touch that,” the camera operator said, gently moving his hand away. “Here, this is the record button.”
“Cool,” Sean said. “Does red mean on or off?”
“On,” the operator sighed.
“Great,” Sean said. “And… action!”
Colin, blindly feeling his way to the front of the classroom in his dinosaur suit, tripped over a backpack and stumbled, knocking into a desk.
“Good morning, class,” he said, trying to sound authoritative through foam and felt.
A student snickered. Another stifled a laugh.
“Cut,” Sean said. “Yeah, you’re right. Your acting could be better.”
“I’m not a dinosaur,” Colin said, straightening his costume. “I’m supposed to be a teacher.”
“Yeah, well, now you’re a dinosaur teacher,” Sean said. “Try it again. Maybe use a deeper voice.”
“Sean?” the assistant said. “We have another problem.”
“What now?” he groaned.
“Vince just tripped over the light in the convenience store,” she said. “The one you placed? He twisted his ankle. He can’t shoot his scene.”
A cold, unfamiliar feeling slid down Sean’s spine.
“Is he okay?” he asked.
“He’s in the break room with ice,” she said. “But he can’t act today. We need someone to replace him.”
Sean glanced down at the script, at the name “VINCE – BULLY #1,” highlighted in yellow.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it. I’m the best actor we’ve got, anyway.”
An hour later, he stood in the middle of the convenience store set, wearing Vince’s jacket, trying to remember lines he’d never rehearsed, while also thinking about sight lines, camera angles, and a craft services table full of cooling food.
“This place is a disaster,” the assistant said as she squeezed past him carrying a stack of scripts. “We’re supposed to be filming a restaurant scene in fifteen minutes. Another crew’s waiting.”
“Have them clean up when they get here,” Sean said.
“They’re the actors, not the cleaning crew,” she reminded him. “We don’t have a cleaning crew. You fired them, remember?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
The smell of warm cheese drifted in from the hallway.
“The food just arrived,” someone called. “Burgers and potatoes and cheesecake.”
“Finally,” Sean said. “I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”
“We don’t have time,” the assistant said. “We’re already hours behind. We still have to fix the store, shoot the dinosaur scene, finish the date scene, and the kids’ show crew has been sitting around for forty-five minutes.”
Sean ignored her and walked toward the break room.
A mountain of takeout containers covered the table. Burgers, fries, foil-wrapped baked potatoes loaded with bacon and sour cream, cheesecake slices glistening under plastic lids.
“Let’s dig in,” Sean said, grabbing a burger.
“Wait,” the costumer said, picking up a potato and peeling the lid back. “Where are the salads? I can’t eat any of this. You know I’m vegan.”
“I’m vegetarian,” the makeup artist added. “I can’t eat bacon.”
“I’m lactose intolerant,” the sound guy said. “Cheese is not my friend.”
“You guys actually wanted salad?” Sean said, genuinely puzzled. “Come on, this is way better.”
“Even the potatoes have bacon bits and sour cream,” the assistant said quietly. “That’s what you ordered.”
“This has to be the worst day I’ve ever had on set,” one of the actors muttered.
“Tell me about it,” the camera operator said. “We’re usually done with three scenes by now. We’ve barely finished one shot.”
Sean sat down slowly, burger in hand, appetite fading.
“Hey,” the gaffer said, handing him a bottle of water. “Thanks for… uh… running everything today.”
Sarcasm hung between his words.
Sean twisted the cap off, then set it back down again.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
He slid out of his chair and walked down the hallway alone, the sound of frustrated voices fading behind him.
In the quiet of an unused set—a living room built for some family episode, all fake couches and fake photos—he sank down onto a prop sofa and put his head in his hands.
He had wanted control. Power. Recognition. He had wanted everyone to know he was the star, the guy on the poster, the one people lined up to see at Disneyland and on YouTube.
Now he had all the control he wanted, and everything was falling apart.
“Hey,” a familiar voice said.
Sean looked up.
The director he’d been arguing with the day before stood in the doorway, a coffee in one hand, a script in the other. Behind him, the producer and Darman leaned against the wall, watching quietly.
“How’s it going, new boss?” the director asked.
“Terrible,” Sean admitted. “Everything’s a mess. We’re behind schedule, people are hungry, the fans are running around, Vince is hurt, the dinosaur suit smells weird, and no one’s happy. I thought it would be easy. I thought I’d be good at this. But… I’m not.”
He swallowed, throat tight.
“It takes a team to make things run smoothly,” the director said. “Not just one person calling all the shots.”
“As we like to say around here,” the producer added, “there’s no ‘I’ in team.”
Sean let out a strangled laugh. “Everybody keeps saying that.”
“Yeah,” Darman said, stepping into the room. “And we figured the only way you’d really hear it is if you lived it.”
Sean sat up straighter. “Is this all some kind of… lesson?”
“Let’s just say,” Darman said, “we trusted you with a lot today. And we also trusted our team to take care of each other while you figured some things out.”
“When you let the fans in,” the producer said, “we had extra security trailing them. When you fired the cleaning crew, we paid them for the whole day anyway and had them cover another stage. When Vince got hurt, we had a medic on standby. We don’t play around with safety.”
“And we told catering to hold the salad order until we saw what you’d do,” the assistant said, appearing with a tray of actual salad bowls behind him. “We’ve got the vegan and vegetarian options right here. I just… let you learn.”
Sean looked from face to face, a flush creeping up his neck.
“You all knew,” he said. “You knew I’d mess it up.”
“We knew you’d learn something,” Darman said. “And we hoped you’d be willing to listen when you did.”
Sean ran a hand over his face. “Can I just go back to acting?” he asked quietly. “I’ll show up on time. I’ll stick to the script. I’ll even wear the… the raggedy yellow sparkly banana shirt. I just want things to go back to how they were. When I only had to think about my own job.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that,” Darman said, smiling.
He snapped his fingers. The door opened wider. The janitors walked in, holding their mops. The security guard followed with a half-smile. The costumer carried the yellow shirt. Behind them, the salad place delivery guy wheeled in actual salads.
“Wait,” Sean said. “You’re all… back?”
“The crew never really left,” Darman said. “We just stepped back far enough for you to see how much they actually do.”
Sean stood, the weight of the morning pressing on him from all sides.
He looked at the janitors first.
“I’m sorry I fired you,” he blurted. “You didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t your fault the sign got moved. You were just doing your jobs. I was being selfish. And rude.”
The older janitor lifted his chin. “It takes a big person to admit when they’re wrong,” he said. “Especially when they’re small.”
Sean huffed out a laugh. “I’m not that short.”
The man grinned. “We’ll see.”
Sean turned to the costumer.
“And I’m sorry I called the shirt crusty,” he said. “It’s… actually kind of cool. The sparkles are on purpose, right?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Right.”
“I’ll wear it,” he said. “Whatever the script says. I’ll wear it.”
“And we’ll talk about wardrobe in advance like a team,” she said. “Not as a list of demands.”
Sean nodded, then looked at the assistant.
“And I’m sorry about the food order,” he said. “I didn’t think about what everyone else needed. I only thought about what I wanted. It won’t happen again. We can put the burgers in the break room for later. And I’ll try a salad. Maybe. No promises.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “It’s not about the salad. It’s about considering other people.”
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” the director said. “It’s cheesy, but it’s true.”
“Teamwork makes the extreme work,” Sean corrected automatically, then shook his head. “No. Wait. I… actually don’t know how it goes.”
Darman laughed. “We say teamwork makes the dream work,” he said. “But hey, ‘extreme’ works too. Making internet shows in America in 2025 is pretty extreme sometimes.”
“Can I please not be studio boss tomorrow?” Sean asked. “Or ever again? I think I’m more useful where you had me before. On the screen. Not in the office.”
“I think that can be arranged,” the producer said.
“On one condition,” Darman added. “Next time you’re tempted to talk about how ‘you’ make the show, remember today. Remember who held the camera, who laid the cables, who woke up at five a.m. to prep breakfast. Remember the team.”
“I will,” Sean said. “I promise.”
Someone bumped his arm. It was the gaffer, holding a broom.
“Want to help me reset that light?” he asked. “We’ve still got work to do.”
Sean took the broom without hesitation.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s fix it. Together.”
As he swept up the last of the spilled candy from the convenience store floor, the studio lights humming overhead, fans peeking in from behind the glass windows, he understood something he never had when he was just a kid on a screen.
His name might be the one on the thumbnail. His face might be the one shining across tablets and TVs in houses all over the United States. But the magic that kept those kids clicking ‘play’ again and again wasn’t his alone.
It belonged to everyone behind him.
And for the first time since he’d stepped onto a set in North Hollywood, he was okay sharing the spotlight.
