The iron gates of the property are still vibrating from the failed jump. The paparazzo sits cuffed on the curb, muttering about “just needing the shot,” while I’m scribbling in my notebook.

Hollywood is not an industry; it’s a laundromat with better lighting. Every year, they drag out the same ideas, tumble them in a dryer of CGI, and send them back into the world with a new title and a higher ticket price.

The call came in just after dark. Burglary alarm, Mulholland Drive. I knew what that meant before I even flipped the lights on—another fortress up in the hills, tucked behind iron gates and winding driveways that swallowed response time whole.