Johnny exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “There are three stages here, Leo. Burlesque, live jazz, and the fire-eater out back. Pick one.”
When the last guest stumbled into the neon rain, Johnny returned to Leo. The talent scout sat alone, stunned.
A heavy silence fell. From the main floor, the muffled thump of a synth-bass vibrated through the leather seats. Johnny looked out at the crowd—the wide-eyed tourists, the trust-fund kids pretending to be dangerous, the women who mistook his ennui for depth.
“I want to save my network,” Leo admitted. “And face it, Johnny. You’re thirty-four. The knee hurts when it rains. The last magazine profile called you ‘the ghost of cool.’ Ghosts fade unless someone films them.”
Johnny Dark smiled, tucked the phone away, and started walking. The neon bled behind him. For the first time in years, the entertainment wasn’t a performance.
He walked onto the main floor of The Hollow . The DJ saw his face and cut the music. The fire-eater paused mid-exhalation. Two hundred faces turned toward the man in the snakeskin jacket.
“Johnny,” Leo said as Johnny slid into the opposite booth. “I’m not here for a loan. I’m here for a show.”
“No,” Johnny said. He reached out and deleted the pilot file himself. “One episode. A short. Call it The Night Johnny Dark Turned Off the Lights .”