I crashed at the studio where they're filming 'Wonder Man.' Listened to Simon and Trevor rehearsing Shakespeare at 3 AM. Learned about the Doorman Provision and Josh Gad stuck in a parallel dimension.

Day One. Lobby. 6:47 AM.

I wake up on a hard couch in the lobby of a hostel on Vine Street, which smells of actors' dashed hopes and cheap vending machine coffee. On the wall is a faded poster of 'Sunset Boulevard,' next to it a headshot labeled 'Simon Williams, Actor.' The guy on the next couch is snoring with his mouth open, clutching a resume to his chest. I glance at it—standard stuff: 'Stanislavski method, fencing, ability to generate ionic energy.' The last item is crossed out in red marker.

'The Doorman Provision,' he mutters in his sleep.

No idea what that means.

I step outside. The morning sun hits my eyes, and the city is already awake—someone is wheeling a cart of equipment, someone is smoking by the studio entrance, someone is frantically scrolling through their phone, checking if an email from their agent has arrived. It hasn't. It never does.​

10:30. Studio Corridor.

By noon, I'm sitting in the corridor where auditions are being held for a remake of an old superhero movie. The director is the legendary Von Kovak, a name spoken with reverence and mild fear. The girl to my right nervously flips through the script. The guy on my left rehearses a monologue, moving his lips silently.

Next to me are two guys who clearly don't fit the general picture.​

The first is young, serious to the point of pain. That same Simon Williams from the hostel. He's scribbling on paper—looks like a character biography for a role with two lines, three pages long, with some notes. He seems to be trying too hard. Probably thinks this is the role of a lifetime.

The second is a Brit in his sixties with the manners of a Shakespearean actor and the tired eyes of a man who has seen too much. I see the name on his badge: Trevor Slattery. He's explaining something to Simon by the water cooler: 'Acting is a calling, my dear, the most important thing you can do in life.' It sounds both funny and sad, because it seems he really believes it.

I take a closer look at the Brit. His face is familiar.

'You're that actor,' I can't help myself, 'who worked for Killian? The Mandarin?'

Trevor slowly turns. Smiles tiredly. 'I did time for that, young man. Did time and got out. Now I perform in Shakespeare productions, sometimes land TV roles.'

Simon looks at him with something like awe. 'We met at a screening of 'Midnight Cowboy,'' he tells me quietly.

'The only X-rated film to win an Oscar,' I nod.

'Two people trying to survive in a city that chews them up,' adds Trevor, overhearing us, and takes a sip of water from a plastic cup. He leads Simon away for a private chat.​

Somewhere behind the door, the assistant director is shouting. Someone is crying in the bathroom. A typical day at casting in Hollywood.

3:00 PM. Nearby Bar. Drinks with an Editor.

I go for lunch at a nearby bar, where editors and other film folks choke down cheap burgers and complain about life. One of them—Mike, a tired guy with a receding hairline and coffee stains on his T-shirt—agrees to talk over a beer.

'You know what's the strangest thing about this project?' He takes a bite of his burger, chews, stares into space. 'The first three episodes I edited and thought: are they deliberately dragging it out? Each episode is twenty-five minutes, and it's like cutting a film into pieces, you know? No rhythm. No air.'

'And then?'

'Then episode four. About the Doorman.'

He falls silent. Finishes his beer. Orders another.

'We shot it in black and white. A separate film within the project. The story of a nightclub bouncer—DeMarra Davis. The guy gets the ability to turn into a living portal. People can walk through him like a door.'

'That's... weird.'

'It's f***ing weird,' Mike agrees. 'He saves club patrons during some brawl. Among them is Josh Gad. Yeah, the voice actor. Gad becomes his manager, promotes him, and DeMarra instantly becomes a star.'

'But?'

'But DeMarra didn't really want that. He was happy with his life. He liked being a bouncer. And then—cameras, shoots, contracts. And the ending...' Mike laughs, but it's a nervous laugh. 'The ending is just out of this world. They're filming a stunt for a new movie. Something goes wrong. Gad ends up trapped inside DeMarra. Literally. In a pocket dimension with no way out.'

I'm silent. I don't know what to say.

'Hollywood panics. They pass a law—the 'Doorman Provision.' Superpowers on set are banned. Period. Careers collapse overnight.'

So that's why that guy crossed out 'ionic energy' on his resume.

'And what about Gad?'

Mike shrugs. 'He's still there. Inside. Somewhere in a parallel dimension. The crew says the episode had a club remix of 'In Summer'—you know, that song from the snowman cartoon. Gad surrounded by security guards. Absurd. But it works. Especially since it's based on real events.'

He finishes his beer and stands up. 'Listen, don't tell anyone I told you this, okay? The studio doesn't like us talking about future premieres.'

He leaves. I sit there, staring at my empty glass, thinking that in this city, superpowers aren't a gift. They're a stigma. Funny, considering the Avengers are still around.​

Day Two. Night at the Studio. 3:20 AM.

I sleep right in the studio—the security guard looks the other way for twenty bucks and a promise not to touch the props. I wake up at three in the morning to sounds—someone is rehearsing in the next room. I step into the corridor. Simon and Trevor are sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, with script printouts in their hands.

'Technique without emotion is mechanics, my dear,' says Trevor.​

'But emotion without technique is chaos,' Simon counters.

They fall silent. Then laugh. Then start again from the beginning—a monologue from 'Amadeus.' Simon stumbles. Trevor corrects him—gently, almost fatherly.

I stand in the shadows and listen. At that moment, I realize that everything else—money, fame, big roles—is secondary. The main thing is this: two people who desperately want to be seen, rehearsing at three in the morning because they have nothing else to do.

Day Two. Morning. Smoking Area Around the Corner.

In the morning, I catch the same editor in the smoking area. He takes a nervous drag and looks at me suspiciously. 'You're still here?'

'I crashed here.'

'I see. Listen, I didn't tell you everything yesterday.' He looks around. 'The project—it feels raw, you know? The first episodes drag. Then that fourth one—bam, black-and-white cinema, everyone's thrilled. And then again... unclear what. Like they're afraid to see it through.'

'Afraid of what?'

'That it's not about superheroes. That it's just about two actors trying to survive. The studio doesn't like those stories. They need battles, explosions. But here...' he waves his hand. 'Here, the guy glows when he's nervous, and that's his whole superpower. There's a final battle, of course. The director shot it without enthusiasm, like he was contractually obligated.'

'And the spy storyline, you mentioned something?'

'Cut. One of the characters works for the Department, spies on a friend, but that thread gets lost in endless dialogue. The main character's brother appears for a couple of episodes and then disappears, like he was cut in editing. Which, actually, happened.'

He finishes his cigarette and leaves. I stay standing by the wall, where posters of old blockbusters hang. All these worlds, all these stories—and in the end, the hardest thing is just to get into the frame.

Day Three. Parking Lot. 6:45 PM.

I step out to the parking lot at sunset. Simon and Trevor are sitting in a car. Windows down. I catch snippets: Shakespeare, again, endlessly. Simon stumbles on a line. Trevor corrects him.

They laugh. Fall silent. Start again.

I approach. 'Can I ask something?'

Simon turns around. 'You again, the guy always hanging around in corridors.'

'Journalist.'

'So, an observer,' Trevor smirks. 'What do you want to know?'

'Why do you do this? Rehearse at three in the morning, sit in the car until dark. Why?'

Simon is silent. Trevor looks at the sunset. 'Because, young man, it's all we have. We don't save the world. We just want to be seen. And that, as it turns out, is much harder.'

Simon nods. 'In this city, superpowers aren't an advantage. They're a hindrance. You glow—you get fired. You try too hard—they say you're overacting. You don't try hard enough—they say you're emotionless. A vicious cycle.'​

'But you keep going.'

'What else is there to do?' Trevor smiles that tired smile of a man who has seen too much but hasn't lost hope.​

They start rehearsing again. I leave.

Day Three. Exit. Midnight.

I walk back along Vine Street toward the subway. The city at night looks almost beautiful—neon signs, sparse cars, silhouettes of palms against the dark sky.​

I enter the hostel. Some new guy with a headshot is sleeping on the couch. Tomorrow he has an audition. He doesn't know they won't call him back. But he'll still show up.​

Like Simon. Like Trevor. Like all those people in the corridors who believe that if they try hard enough, the world will notice them.

Naive idiots.

But maybe courage is being a naive idiot who keeps rehearsing at three in the morning, knowing the odds are almost zero.​

I step outside. Light a cigarette. Look at the hills where the lights of mansions twinkle—those who got lucky, who made it.

And somewhere in a parallel dimension, Josh Gad is still sitting, trapped inside the Doorman, listening to a club remix of 'In Summer' on repeat.

Hollywood, baby. The city where passing an audition is truly harder than defeating a villain.