Simon pulled the Butterfly Effect script from his backpack and handed it to Jonathan Friedman.
But Jonathan Friedman didn't flip it open. He just glanced at the cover, pressed it down on the desk, and continued smiling at him.
Since that was the case, Simon gathered his thoughts and began to explain: "This is a soft sci-fi suspense thriller. From a young age, people around Evan would often notice the kid doing some really strange, even eerie things for no apparent reason. But afterward, Evan always claimed he had no memory of what happened. The doctors classified his condition as intermittent amnesia and recommended he keep a diary as part of his therapy."
Simon paused there, noticing a flicker of curiosity in Jonathan Friedman's expression, and continued.
The basic plot of Butterfly Effect revolved around a young man with the ability to travel back in time by reading his diaries, trying again and again to fix past regrets and change his life.
But each time the protagonist attempted to alter the past and returned to his twenty-year-old self, he'd find that everything around him hadn't unfolded as he'd imagined—in fact, it often got worse.
The standout feature of Butterfly Effect was its intricately interlocking plot that left people stunned with admiration, like a meticulously woven web where every detail echoed somewhere else.
That's why the film was a classic in the hearts of many suspense thriller fans.
In the original timeline, Butterfly Effect was produced by New Line Cinema, and Simon had heard it went through multiple endings during editing. But he'd chosen the darkest, most impactful one: after repeated attempts that all fell short, the protagonist despairingly returns to his mother's womb and strangles himself with the umbilical cord.
And the story ends abruptly there.
After Simon's summary, Jonathan Friedman, who'd had no expectations, fell silent.
Robert Zemeckis's Back to the Future had only come out last year and claimed the 1985 box office crown.
So Simon's script, with its similar time-travel elements, caught Jonathan Friedman completely off guard. He even thought the concept alone might outshine Back to the Future.
At the very least, such a fresh and innovative script idea was enough to convince him to recommend Simon to WMA's literary agent department.
Hollywood was full of copycats too—it just didn't feel as blatant because of the typically long production cycles, avoiding the pile-on of similar films hitting theaters months after a hit.
With Back to the Future as last year's champ, Simon's concept—paired with a solid script—would definitely spark intense interest from Hollywood studios.
Plus, a thriller with such a unique premise was exactly the type of project Jonathan Friedman had been hunting for lately.
The key now was: how good was the actual script in his hands?
After all, Hollywood never lacked ideas—what it needed were polished stories that could turn those ideas into great films.
Many Hollywood movies spent years in script development, mainly because bridging an initial concept to a workable screenplay involved endless tweaks and refinements.
Mulling it over quickly, Jonathan Friedman glanced down at the script cover and subconsciously asked a question similar to Kathryn's from yesterday: "Simon, mind explaining what 'butterfly effect' means first?"
Simon nodded and once again outlined MIT professor Edward Lorenz's theory.
After listening, Jonathan Friedman posed an unexpected question: "So, did you go to MIT?"
"No," Simon shook his head, but quickly added, "I got into Stanford last year with a full scholarship, but some things came up and I dropped out early."
At that, Jonathan Friedman's expression shifted noticeably.
Though not part of the Ivy League, Stanford—this West Coast powerhouse—actually surpassed most Ivies in overall strength and held a prominent spot in world university rankings.
Getting into Stanford on a full ride, even if he'd dropped out, was enough to bump Jonathan Friedman's opinion of him up several notches.
Simon knew this was basically an interview.
Westerners didn't value modesty—in interviews, the more impressive you came across, the better your chances.
So he had no hesitation using whatever credentials he could.
After speaking, Simon noticed Jonathan Friedman glance at his watch with a hesitant look and chimed in timely: "Mr. Friedman, the first ten pages are my story outline. Maybe you could skim that—it's more detailed than what I just said."
Jonathan Friedman nodded, no longer wavering, and flipped open the script.
But the first page caught him off guard again: a Writers Guild of America copyright registration certificate.
He shook his head with a slight smile and turned the page, but his initial view of Simon had completely shifted. This young man across from him clearly wasn't one of those hot-headed kids who barreled into Hollywood thinking they'd make it big overnight.
Then, seeing the neat, print-like handwritten English—even on a photocopy—he wasn't too surprised anymore. Of course, it inevitably raised his estimation of Simon even further.
Hollywood saw more copyright lawsuits than movies produced; sticking the WGA registration right on the title page was Simon's precautionary move. He wasn't naive enough to think a giant like WMA wouldn't swipe someone's script.
Simon couldn't afford that kind of setback right now, so better to nip any potential disputes in the bud.
In fact, as Jonathan Friedman thought, though he'd inherited those twelve others' memories, Simon was no wide-eyed fool assuming he'd conquer Hollywood on arrival.
From the moment he'd decided to head to L.A. and take his shot, he'd started planning meticulously.
Despite his decent looks, he had no plans to act. His first goal was to become a director, but with zero credentials or connections, that wasn't happening short-term.
Starting as a screenwriter, with its lower barrier, was a solid choice.
From what Simon recalled, the two major writers' guilds on the coasts registered over sixty thousand scripts a year—a huge number. But Hollywood churned out over six hundred theatrical films, TV movies, and direct-to-video indies combined annually.
A one percent success rate seemed pretty high to Simon.
Plus, among those tens of thousands of scripts, most were mediocre. But as a time-traveler, Simon could pull out proven gems that had survived the test of time.
And in selecting his first scripts, he'd weighed factors carefully.
As a Hollywood newbie, to maximize chances of a studio bite, it had to be low-budget first—handing over something like Titanic now would get tossed in the trash ninety-nine percent of the time. Second, the story needed to be fresh and eye-catching. Finally, the concept should tap into hot elements from recent blockbusters.
Butterfly Effect nailed all three: low cost, novel idea, time-travel riffing on last year's champ Back to the Future.
In the office, as Jonathan Friedman read on, the room fell quiet for a bit.
A knock interrupted, and Jonathan Friedman realized he'd unconsciously started into the main script. The standard Hollywood format was impeccable, and the elegant handwriting not only fit seamlessly but made for a more pleasant read.
Annoyed at the disruption from his immersion, Jonathan Friedman looked up to see his assistant Owen Wright at the door, gesturing.
Checking his schedule, he told the assistant: "If Courtney doesn't have anything else, have her wait a bit. Same for the next ones—I'll be running late today."
Owen Wright glanced surprised at Simon's back, nodded, and was about to leave when Jonathan Friedman stopped him: "Oh, and bring in two coffees."
Once the door closed again, Jonathan Friedman smiled at Simon without explaining and turned back to the script.
Simon didn't mind, casually checking his digital watch.
It was 4:13 now.
Meaning Jonathan Friedman had originally allotted him just ten minutes—if he hadn't impressed, he'd probably be out the door already.
Simon felt no resentment; he'd likely do the same in his shoes.
Politeness was one thing, but work followed rules. As an unknown Hollywood rookie, he was only worth ten minutes.
Owen Wright soon returned with two coffees. Simon took his cup, thanked him, and continued waiting patiently as Jonathan Friedman read.