A soft "thwack" that wasn't loud but successfully caught the attention of the only adult in the living room.

John Lawrence put down his Wall Street Journal, looked up from above his gold-rimmed glasses, and gazed at his son.

Allen Lawrence.

An eleven-year-old boy with soft, glossy light brown hair and clear blue eyes, perfectly combining the best features of both East and West, making him strikingly handsome at first glance.

At this moment, he stood by the table with a serious expression.

John found it somewhat amusing.

"Allen, my little guy, what is this? Your summer homework? It looks like quite a project."

He reached out and picked up the stack of papers.

It felt heavy in his hands.

At the top of the papers, a title was written in childish yet neat handwriting.

pirates of the caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl.

Below it was another line of smaller text: Screenwriter, Allen Lawrence.

John could no longer hold back; a smile spread across his face.

"Oh? A story about pirates? My son is a little writer now?"

He casually flipped through the pages.

The handwriting was indeed Allen's.

This was no three-minute doodle; judging by its thickness, it was at least a hundred thousand words.

A look of increased surprise appeared on John's face.

He knew his son was very intelligent, but putting in the effort to write such a thick "story" still caught him off guard.

"Yes, Dad."

Allen pulled out the opposite sofa, sat down, and held his body perfectly straight.

His gaze was not like that of an eleven-year-old, being excessively calm.

"This isn't just a simple story; it's a script. A script that can be made into a movie and will be very, very profitable."

John paused for a moment.

Then, he let out the heartiest laugh of the day.

"Hahahaha! A profitable script? Allen, you really are... you're just too adorable!"

He took off his glasses and wiped away the tears of laughter.

"Alright, my little Spielberg, tell me, how will this script make money?"

He completely treated this as a game between father and son.

Allen had anticipated his father's reaction.

How could an adult, a shareholder with immense influence in Hollywood, take something written by an eleven-year-old seriously?

But he didn't get discouraged.

"The first step is to plant a seed of doubt in his heart."

"Dad, don't laugh yet. Think carefully, how long has it been since a successful pirate movie appeared on the market?"

John's laughter gradually subsided.

He watched his son with interest, playing along with his game.

"Hmm... let me think, it does seem like a long time. What was the last big-budget pirate movie? Was it Cutthroat Island? That movie... it lost a lot of money."

John shrugged.

"So, no one in Hollywood dares to touch this genre anymore, right? Everyone thinks pirate movies are cursed, that every one made loses money."

Allen's voice was clear and calm.

John nodded.

"You could say that. It's a genre that has been market-tested and failed."

"No."

Allen shook his head.

"It's not that the genre failed; it's that the way those past movies were made failed."

"Oh?"

John's curiosity was fully piqued.

He wanted to see what kind of tricks his "little genius" son could come up with.

"Past movies either portrayed pirates as too evil or too romantic, both of which alienated audiences. But my story is different."

Allen picked up the script and flipped to a page.

"My protagonist is Captain Jack Sparrow. He's not a Hero in the traditional sense; he's a bit effeminate, walks with a swagger, talks a mile a minute, and is always the first to run away when things get critical."

John's brows furrowed.

"That sounds... not like a protagonist, more like a Joker."

"Exactly!"

"He is a Joker! But he's also very loyal, has his own moral bottom line, and is incredibly lucky. He can turn danger into safety in the most improbable ways during the most perilous moments. Audiences won't worship him, but they will definitely fall in love with him!"

Listening to his son's description, a vague, interesting image actually appeared in John's mind.

But he still thought it was too fanciful.

"Alright, even if this character is interesting. But the success of a movie doesn't just rely on one character."

"Of course."

Allen continued, "So I added supernatural elements. Cursed gold coins, undead pirates who turn into skeletons under the moonlight, immortal crew members. This is no longer just a simple seafaring adventure; it's a fantasy epic!"

"Undead pirates?"

John's expression became a bit strange.

"Yes. Imagine, Dad. On the high seas, a dilapidated ghost ship chasing the protagonist under the moonlight. The pirates on board, human one second, turn into living skeletons the next, impervious to swords and bullets. Isn't that cool?"

Allen's voice carried a hint of allure.

John had to admit, just hearing the description was very evocative.

But his gaze at Allen was still full of indulgence and doting.

In his eyes, this was just a child's wild imagination.

"Cool, very cool."

John smiled and nodded, closing the script.

He carefully placed the thick stack of papers on the table, as if it were a precious work of art.

"Allen, this story you wrote is truly wonderful. Dad is proud of you."

He stood up, walked over to Allen, and ruffled his soft hair.

"You're very talented, really. When you grow up, you might actually become a great screenwriter."

He simply looked up calmly.

"Dad, I'm not telling you a story. I want you to show this script to the people at Disney."

John's movements stopped.

He looked at his son's clear and serious eyes, silent for two seconds.

Then, he burst into laughter again.

"Hahahahahahaha!"

"To... to Disney? Allen, you... you're going to make me die of laughter!"

"My little darling, do you know how many scripts from adults and professional screenwriters Disney's script library receives every day? Hundreds! Thousands!"

"You want them to read a pirate story written by an eleven-year-old? They'll think I've gone mad."

If it were him, he wouldn't believe it either.

"Dad, I know it sounds absurd."

His tone remained calm.

"But you just need to help me hand it in, anonymously if you like. Just say it's a script acquired from outside. Let them evaluate it, and if they think it's no good, I promise I'll never bring it up again."

John's smile slowly faded.

He looked at his son's persistent expression, feeling a little pained and a little helpless.

He crouched down.

"Listen, Allen. Dad sees your talent. To reward your effort, this weekend, I'll take you to Toys R Us, you can pick anything you want, buying a whole cart is no problem. Or, how about we go buy the latest PS2 console?"

For an eleven-year-old, what could be more appealing than toys and video games?

Allen shook his head.

"I don't want toys, and I don't want a game console."

His voice was soft, but firm.

"I just want them to see my script."

The air fell silent.

The smile completely vanished from John's face, replaced by a complex expression mixed with helplessness and doting.

He knew that reasoning with a stubborn child was futile.

"Alright, alright."

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I promise you, I'll find an opportunity to... well, to let the relevant people 'take a look' at it."

John emphasized the phrase "take a look."

Allen immediately heard the perfunctoriness in his words.

His father had no intention of actually sending the script for evaluation; at most, he would give it to some assistant, let him casually flip through a couple of pages, and then make up an excuse to dismiss him.

"Sure enough, it's still not enough..."

Allen sighed inwardly.

It seemed that relying solely on words wouldn't work to get through his father.

He had to present more direct evidence.

"Thank you, Dad."

Allen showed a childish smile, as if his earlier persistence had vanished.

Seeing his son finally "return to normal," John also breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's more like it! Come on, let's go buy you a gift right now! To celebrate the birth of our little genius's first script!"

John stood up and walked cheerfully towards the coatroom by the door, ready to get his car keys.

In the living room, only Allen remained.

He looked at the thick stack of scripts on the table, and in his light brown eyes, a deep, unage-appropriate glimmer shone.

"It seems I'll have to use the backup plan."