It was supposed to be your little escape—an indie café tucked between two palm-shaded side streets in Silver Lake. A place with cracked tables, humming neon, and the promise of anonymity.

But anonymity didn’t exist when your agents wouldn’t leave you alone.

Their voices cut like knives across the café’s low hum. “This is the time to strike,” one of them insisted, leaning too close. “You’ve got raw talent—directors love that. But we need to mold it, market it. Play up the ingénue thing, you know? Sell the story, not just the performance.”

Your stomach tightened. You weren’t an ingénue. You weren’t a commodity. You were an actress who wanted to act. But the more they talked—contracts, branding, deals—the more you felt your chest constrict.

And then a voice cut through, dry and unmistakably sardonic.

“Wow. Did you rehearse that speech, or is exploiting young talent just your improv skill?”

Heads turned. Your agents froze. And there she was.

Aubrey Plaza, leaning against the counter with a half-finished iced coffee, her eyes narrowed in amused disdain. She didn’t look glamorous—messy hair, old band tee, ripped jeans—but she didn’t need to. The entire room bent toward her presence.

“Excuse me?” your agent sputtered.

Aubrey arched a brow. “You heard me. I was over here trying to mind my own business, but your whole… shark routine is drowning out my ability to eavesdrop on more interesting people.” She took a slow sip from her straw, then pointed it at you. “And she looks like she’d rather set herself on fire than sit through another minute of your pitch.”

Heat crept up your neck. You opened your mouth, closed it again.

Aubrey’s expression softened—just a little—when her gaze landed on you. “You’re an actress, right?”

You nodded, hesitantly.

“Then stop letting these clowns script your life. You don’t need to play the ingénue, or whatever gross word they just used. You need to act. And maybe—just maybe—have someone in your corner who doesn’t want to sell your soul to the highest bidder.”

Your agents bristled. “And who exactly are you to—”

Aubrey cut them off with a grin that was half feral, half charming. “Aubrey Plaza. Actress. Producer. General weirdo. And I happen to run my own production company.”

Her eyes found yours again. There was mischief there, yes, but also something steadier. Protective. Like she saw you—not the product, not the marketable story, but you.

“So,” Aubrey said, tossing her cup in the trash and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “What do you say? Want to make something real instead of whatever fantasy these suits are drooling over?”

And just like that, the floor shifted under you.