The hum of traffic outside the brick‑faced building in Bushwick was a low, constant thrum, the kind of city soundtrack that made Brooklyn feel alive even at night. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered over a hallway lined with framed posters of indie films, theater productions, and a few vintage playbills. The scent of coffee and faint incense mingled with the faint metallic tang of anticipation.
Alex’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “And what does the director say?” backroom casting couch brooklyn 18 years ol full