…..

  After signing the tracts, the ter proceedings were a smooth ride fal.

  The only major tasks left were finalizing the release date and structuring their promotional strategy around it.

  Admittedly, releasing an indie film directly into theaters was a rare move. Most indepe films typically went through festival circuits, earning awards and reition before catg the attention of distributors.

  Awards could serve as a crucial marketing tool, giving films credibility and something tangible to promote.

  However, [Following] had her - ival appearances, no prestigious honors.

  Luckily, Regal proposed something to the promotioo pensate for it in airely different way - ohat proved just as, if not more, effective.

  With there help he crafted a taglihat immediately caught the industry's attention:

  "The Legendary Stephen Hawking makes his grand eback as a Presenter - this time, alongside the brilliant mind behind [Harry Potter]."And just like that, the film had its hook.

  ….

  [Juh, 2010]

  ....

  Soon, weeks passed, and the film [Following] was scheduled to hit theaters in two days.

  The trailer, a brief one minute and twenty-three seds, had already made its way to MeTube.

  It didn't give away much.

  Instead, it teased just enough - a character's internal monologue revealing how a single day turned his life upside down.

  The protagonist, Bill, pyed by Andrew, spoke of his peculiar hobby of following strangers, leaving the audience curious and intrigued about the film's title and its deeper meaning.

  Promotions were modest, strained by the film's limited budget - every move had to t.

  And today, the stakes were high.

  Critics, journalists, bloggers, and influencers had been io a special media sing.

  These were the people whose opinions could either breathe life into the film's release or snuff it out before it had a ce.

  Today it was decided to duct a special sing for the critid media.

  Regal, along with a small team introduced by Deonte, identifies key critics, journalists, bloggers, and also influencers who align with the film's genre and target audience.

  They made sure to highlight the most iing aspect:

  [Following] - Presented By Stephen Hawking Sr.

  For an indie project with nnizable faainstream bag, this was huge - and decisions like this could shift the tides entirely, sparking some valuable initial i and garnering reviews before the official release.

  heless, it be sidered a risky move.

  In today's world of instaions and trending hashtags, word of mouth spreads fast - too fast.

  If the response was ive, the fallout could bury the film before it even hit theaters.

  But what choice did they have? Without a hook, an indie film couldn't afford to dream of drawing attention.

  Luckily, Stephen Hawking's name was already doing some heavy lifting.

  People were curious, if not pelled, to give the movie a ce.

  Even this sing might not have happe all if not for that name - and most probably critics wouldn't have spared it a gnce.

  ….

  As the clock hit the scheduled time, the private theater buzzed quietly as the attendees settled into their seats.

  Stephen Sr. stepped onto the small stage at the front, his preserag attention without effort.

  "Thank you all for joining us on such short notice." He said. "I value your time, so let's not waste it. Please, enjoy the film."

  The lights dimmed.

  The projector flickered to life.

  A still hush bhe room as the film began.

  ….

  The film opens on a striking close-up of a young man.

  His gaunt face is framed by unruly hair, and his hollow eyes seem to bore through the detective sitting opposite him.

  His shirt, wrinkled and stained, hangs loosely on his frame, and his fiwitch as if uo settle.

  The detective leans forward, his voice steady but probing.

  "You're ected to a series of crimes - burgry, murder. Start talking."

  The young man flinches. His voice falters, teeteriween desperation and dread in denials. "I didn't... I wouldn't…"

  ….

  Moving forward, for mihe interrogation loops in a frustrating cycle - questio with fragile denials.

  "Fine. Sit here and think about how deep you are in." - the detective sighs and leaves the man.

  Alone in the haunting silehe frame lingers on the young man, now identified as Bill. "It started as curiosity…" His voice breaks the quiet, soft but chilling. "Then it became a habit. And then... it became me."

  The camera zoomed in on his eyes - bnk, unseeing, yet holding a weight that ules.

  The people watg the movie shifted in their seats, the oppressive quiet of the theater amplifying the tension. Then, seamlessly, the se morphs into a fshback.

  Bill sits hunched over a er table in a bustling café, a battered notebook open before him.

  The room pans through the room in a few series of rapid cuts - couples chat animatedly, ughter spills from groups of friends, baristas shout orders over the hum of espresso maes.

  Yet Bill is apart, still, isoted, uhered.

  His pen taps against the table in a mindless rhythm as his gaze flits betweerangers around him. Eace lingers a moment too long, his eyes log oails the casual observer would miss - the flick of a wrist, a shared ghe fleeting twitch of a smile.

  His voiceover resumes, breaking the veneer of normalcy. "I was a writer, or at least, that's what I told myself. But writing... it was just an excuse to watch."

  The camera zooms out, showing Bill's er of the café as a world within itself, an invisible barrier separating him from the people he so ily observes.

  He shifts in his seat, his notebook scrawled with erratic, half-fihoughts.Around him, the world moves, but he remains motionless, a solitary observer.

  A shared realization spreads through the theater - his loneliness isn't just visible. It's palpable, invasive, and unavoidable.

  The café dissolves into a mohe shift jarri deliberate, pulling the audience deeper into Bill's world.

  Bill follows strahrough streets thick with noise and alleys cloaked in shadows. The voyeuristic shots are uling, the camera positioned from his perspective, mirr self-imposed rules.

  oo close. he same person twice.

  "It started small." He narrates, the timbre of his voice darkening. "A detail here. A quirk there. I was colleg pieces of their lives to fill the gaps in mine."

  The montage grows more erratic, footsteps eg in narrow alleys, strangers' faces turning briefly toward the lens, unwitting partits in Bill's esg obsession.

  His journal appears again, now filled with cramped handwriting and sketches. His entries are meticulous, almost ical - habits, routines, retionships.

  The audieransfixed, sees the shift - what began as a peculiar habit has bee something darker, an obsession ing toward a precipice.

  The voiceover tinues, now tinged with regret. "At first, they were just subjects. Names didn't matter. Their lives didn't matter. They were stories, and I was just an observer."

  The final fsh cuts to Bill's trembling hands, the notebook clutched tightly as he scribbles frantically.

  His face is illuminated by the dim light of a desk mp, his hollow eyes fixed on the pages as if possessed. The s lingers on his journal, lines upon lines of intimate details, strangers reduced to ink and paper, until the words blur into chaos.

  "But the liween and being." His whisper breaks the se like a sharp intake of breath. "It was thihan I ever imagined."

  The s cuts to bck, plunging the theater into silence. For a heartbeat, the audies suspended, breaths held, minds rag.

  Theone shifts abruptly.

  The se erupts with vibrant noise, a bustling marketpce alive with chatter, king s, and vendors shouting over one ahe camera tracks Bill as he weaves through the crowd, his eyes fixed on a sharply dressed man ahead.

  A man, Cobb, walks with deliberate fidence, his tailored suit and charismatic demeanor a stark trast to Bill's hunched, aresence.

  Bill lingers at a distance, captivated. The audience doesn't need dialogue to sense his fasation - Cobb is unlike anyone Bill has ever observed.

  That day marks the breach of Bill's cardinal rule - he same person twice.

  The se is ced with dread as Bill follows Cobb again.

  Cobb walks with the same deliberate stride, but there's a shift, his movements feel too smooth, too aware.

  Without warning, when he reaches the turn, Cobb halts. He turns, his sharp eyes log onto Bill's.

  The theater collectively jolts.

  Cobb's lips curl into a smirk, a mixture of amusement and something more dangerous.

  ….

  The moment lingers, thick with tense lines between them, before cutting to the se - they sit across from each other in a quiet café.

  Cobb's charisma is magic, his ughter disarming as Bill stammers through his expnation for following him.

  Surprisingly, Cobb isn't angry.

  "You are… writing?" Cobb repeats, his grin widening with disbelief. "That's the mest excuse I have ever heard."

  The audience chuckles uneasily, sharing Bill's disfort, but Cobb's light-hearted demeanor suddenly shifts.

  With a casual charm that feels rehearsed, Cobb leans bad introduces himself. Freence Philosopher - he says with a shrug.

  "I break into people's homes to observe their lives. Better than a library, don't you think?"

  Bill stares, stunned. Cobb's audacity is both uling and magic, a bination that leaves the audience equally transfixed.

  "You want stories, don't you?" Cobb leans in, his voice low but entig. "e with me. I will give you the story of a lifetime."

  Lonely and desperate for purpose, Bill hesitates only briefly before nodding - the decision feels iable, a crossing of another invisible line.

  ….

  The s cuts to their first burgry.

  The apartment is modestly furnished, and oves as if it were a gallery - the camera follows him, emphasizing his deliberate, almost artistic as.

  Cobb beed Bill forward with a flick of his hand. "It's your first time, so let me show you a few things."

  Bill hesitated, awkward in his inexperience, but followed as instructed.

  Under Cobb's watchful eye, Bill began rifling through drawers and rearranging furniture. Each act felt strange, his hands betraying his nervousness as he moved.

  Following Cobb's dire, he pced lingerie i and an incriminating photo in the desk drawer.

  "Why this?" Bill asked, his voice tight as he worked.

  "Ripples." Cobb replied with a smirk. "Every detail is a strike, not random but precise, desigo ule, to disturb."

  The camera focuses on Bill's growing unease as Cobb expins his philosophy. "We don't steal things. We steal peace. We are artists of chaos."

  The camera lingers on Bill's face, his unease growing with each word. His grip on his notebook tightens, his knuckles whitening as he rationalizes the se unfolding before him.

  This is research, he tells himself. Just research.

  But the audience sees the cracks f. Eace, each subtle flinch, betrays his internal flict, a struggle between his fasation with Cobb and the gnawing realization of the darkness he is stepping into.

  The se ends with Bill trailing Cobb out of the apartment, the door closing softly behind them. The silehat follows is heavy, suffog, leaving the audience braced for what's to e .

  .

  ….

  [To be tinued…]

  ★─────??★??─────★

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