The Comeback Script

“I’ve told you already, nobody wants to read your script. Playing possum isn’t going to change that.”

“Now get the hell out of here.”

“What is wrong with you? Why are you still loitering around?”

A sharp, piercing pain stabbed through Linus Jay’s brain, blurring his vision. It took a long moment for him to steady himself on his feet, his gaze dazed as he scanned the bustling lobby around him.

The surroundings were disturbingly familiar. The massive screens overhead played dazzling trailers for upcoming television series, a scene Linus knew all too well from his countless visits to network studios. Yet, this was not any television station he had ever set foot in before.

Anyone who had been struck by a speeding luxury car on Sunset Boulevard one second and found themselves standing in a strange building the next would be just as unsteady as Linus was now.

“Do I need to repeat myself? Take your trash and go. No one is interested!” Seeing Linus motionless, the man before him deepened his scowl, practically shoving Linus backward with force.

In that moment, Linus heard the most ridiculous sentence of his life—his script was unwanted.

As a top-tier Gold Medal screenwriter in the industry, Linus Jay had penned over a dozen blockbuster hits. Even just attaching his name to a project was enough to guarantee a profit for the production team. Aside from his first two years in the industry, he hadn’t heard words like these in a very long time.

As Linus contemplated his bizarre situation, another stranger approached and patted his shoulder with a mix of pity and mockery. “Just think about the ratings for *The Snows of May*. Sigh… Linus, you really should consider a career change.”

The look in the man’s eyes was a cocktail of sympathy and derision. Even the passersby glanced at Linus with a similar gaze of pity.

*The Snows of May.*

The title acted as a trigger, unlocking a flood of memories that didn’t belong to him.

…

Linus Jay had indeed transmigrated. He was now inhabiting the body of a young screenwriter with the exact same name.

However, unlike the entertainment industry he left behind, this world placed screenwriters on a pedestal. Before a television series was even greenlit, the audience cared more about the writing team than the cast.

Excellent screenwriters not only commanded salaries comparable to A-list actors but also participated in profit sharing and often had first pick of the cast. Driven by these massive incentives, hordes of young people flocked to the profession. The cutoff scores for screenwriting majors were significantly higher than other majors in the same universities, and media outlets frequently hyped stories of “New Screenwriters Becoming Overnight Sensations.”

Everyone wanted instant fame, linking their name to the next big hit.

The original owner of this body was one such dreamer.

But unlike Linus Jay’s past success, this Linus’s career had been a train wreck. Despite graduating from a prestigious program, he had spent four years running errands as an assistant before finally getting his first credited work under the guidance of a senior alumnus—*The Snows of May*.

Linus frowned as the title echoed in his mind. He always believed titles should be direct, hinting at the plot without being pretentious. Snow in May? It sounded illogical. If it were up to him, he would have rejected such a title immediately.

Yet, *The Snows of May* was the flagship project of the year for Azure Sky TV (ASB). They had poured millions into hiring the hottest rising stars and assembled a team of writers, intending to wage war against their rival, Grand River Network (GRN), during the summer season.

The production budget alone was astronomical. Linus clicked his tongue as he recalled the figures; in his previous life, only a handful of his projects had surpassed that budget.

From the lineup alone, one could see the immense pressure ASB was under.

ASB had bet the farm, but *The Snows of May* had bombed spectacularly. Not only did it fail to compete with GRN, but it also failed to meet ASB’s historically lowest ratings benchmark.

ASB’s previous record low was a 0.302 rating. *The Snows of May*, after the first few episodes, plummeted and stayed below 0.2.

It was unprecedented for the network. The executives were dumbfounded.

The poor ratings even caused ASB’s stock price to tumble. Competitors mockingly dubbed the show *“The Hemorrhage of May.”*

And, following the classic tropes of fiction, the screenwriter pinned with the blame was the owner of this body—the original Linus.

…

As Linus sorted through the memories, he felt a wave of indignation for the original owner.

*The Snows of May* was clearly a heavily promoted project. What did it have to do with a third-rate screenwriter? Even if the show flopped miserably, the original Linus shouldn’t have been the one holding the bag.

Linus had only been a cog in the machine, writing one or two episodes, barely involved in the overarching structure. His senior, Shawn Chase, carried far more weight; Shawn’s name was listed first in the credits.

But now, the pot had been firmly strapped to Linus’s back.

When the ratings came out, the cast and the marketing blogs all painted Linus as the primary sinner behind the disaster. Overnight, a nobody became the “lead writer” of a mega-production failure.

Linus had tried to explain, but his DMs and comment sections were flooded with vitriol. He was an introvert by nature, and with Shawn and the other writers threatening him, he didn’t dare defend himself.

The industry insiders likely knew the truth, but the public needed a villain. ASB needed a sacrifice. Shawn and the others were established figures with deep connections, while Linus was a nobody. He was the perfect scapegoat.

Shawn was safe. Linus, however, was ruined. No crew would take him back, and no studio would give him the time of day.

The entertainment industry was superstitious. A flop was one thing, but a flop of this magnitude was seen as a curse. A writer whose first credited work was this toxic wouldn’t be hired even as a mascot.

Linus sighed silently.

In his past life, he hadn’t faced such petty disasters. His only struggle was compromising with investors over casting. Now, however, there was no fear of changing careers—he would remain a screenwriter.

Even though the situation was dire, after reviewing the popular shows of this world, Linus felt a surge of confidence. This was a writer’s world.

Here, traditional television hadn’t been decimated by the internet. Streaming was growing, but quality dramas still reigned supreme on network TV. It was the golden age for screenwriters.

…

“Sorry, we aren’t hiring juniors.”

“Mr. Jay? Apologies, the roster is full.”

“Your… talents are a bit too distinguished for our small production.”

Linus started with confidence, but after receiving dozens of rejection emails, he realized the situation was grimmer than he thought.

*The Snows of May* was the pariah of the year. The leads were hiding in shame, barely promoting the show, fighting to see whose name appeared second in the billing to avoid taking the blame for the ratings.

Linus’s social media was a graveyard of insults from angry fans, accusing him of being a spy sent to sabotage their idols.

Linus: “…”

He had analyzed the show carefully. The director was a veteran, the writers experienced. The failure boiled down to a lack of cohesion—a disjointed mess where everyone wrote their own parts without a central vision.

ASB, known for romances, tried to pivot to serious drama to beat GRN but couldn’t let go of their idol drama roots. They cast young, popular actors who couldn’t handle the serious material, and the writers failed to blend the genres. The result was a chimera—a show with no rhythm, no logic.

From Linus’s perspective, Shawn Chase was the real culprit. As the head writer, it was his job to unify the narrative.

Yet Shawn had emerged from the wreckage relatively unscathed. He had even landed a new gig.

Then, one morning, Linus turned on the TV to see Shawn Chase on a talk show, tears streaming down his face.

“…I was the one who brought my junior into the project, leading to these irreversible losses…”

“As his senior, I failed to guide him properly. I should have intervened sooner regarding his stubborn creative choices.”

Shawn’s red-eyed apology shot to the top of the trending topics instantly. The comments were filled with sympathy: “Don’t cry, Shawn, it’s not your fault!” “The one who should apologize is the one hiding!”

Among young screenwriters, Shawn Chase was known for his good looks, attracting as many fans for his face as his scripts. His tears were a PR masterstroke.

On that same day, Linus received enough hate mail to last him two lifetimes.

Linus stared at the screen.

“…”

Excuse me? How was I the one who caused this?

In this world, when a TV series flops, the screenwriters are indeed expected to shoulder a significant portion of the blame.

However, in the public’s perception, Linus Jay was the one supposedly in control of the narrative for *The Snows of May*. Yet here was Shawn Chase, stepping forward to bear the burden that supposedly belonged to Linus.

#WorldsBestMentor

#PrayersForShawn

#ManOfHonor

Hashtags related to Shawn Chase climbed the trending charts, securing the top three spots within hours. Shawn’s red-eyed, sincere, and guilt-ridden appearance had moved the hearts of many drama fans. Unlike Linus Jay, who had no notable works to his name, Shawn had a hit under his belt: *Midsummer Romance*, which had cracked the top ten in ratings for Azure Sky TV years ago.

The fans weren’t blind; they simply couldn’t believe that a writer capable of *Midsummer Romance* could produce the disaster that was *The Snows of May*.

“Shawn is the real victim here,