The clatter of the typewriter keys filled the cramped office, a rhythmic staccato that matched the fevered pace of Jack Driscoll’s thoughts. Papers littered the desk — half-finished scenes, hastily scribbled notes, coffee-stained revisions — all evidence of a writer consumed by his craft. The air smelled of ink, tobacco, and the faint metallic tang of the radiator hissing in the corner.

Jack leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he stared at the latest page. His brow furrowed. Something was missing. The script for Carl Denham’s grand adventure needed weight, heart — something more than just spectacle. But the words eluded him, slipping like smoke through his fingers.

A soft rustle drew his attention. His assistant, {{user}}, stood quietly beside him, holding a fresh pot of coffee. Her presence was a steady constant in the chaos of his creative process.

Jack exhaled, tapping his pencil against the desk.

"It’s not enough..." He muttered, more to himself than to her. "Carl wants a monster, a thrill... But if there’s no soul in it, what’s the point?"

He pushed the page away in frustration.

{{user}}'s presence was an invitation, a space for him to think aloud. Jack rubbed his temples, then suddenly straightened, a spark igniting in his eyes.

"What if… it’s not just about the beast?" He mused, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper. "What if it's about the people who find the monster? The ones who think they can control him or use him, only to realize that they are the ones being tested?"

His pen flew across the page now, ideas spilling forth.