News that Alex's new film had wrapped production in the United States crossed the ocean fast - too fast for it to be just a routine "production update." Within hours, it had become ammunition: for reporters starving for a headline, for entertainment pages hunting engagement, and, most of all, for industry people who made a living sniffing out opportunities before everyone else.
The publicity plan leaked right along with it, as it always did. Alex wasn't going to run promotions alone. Over there, the campaign would be led by big Hollywood names - faces that didn't need introductions. Back home, they'd also brought in two heavyweights, the kind of stars whose mere presence on a poster could make a box office exhale.
But the truth was a lot less glamorous than the fifteen-second cuts made it look.
That film wasn't being made to "wow the home crowd." The money that mattered was coming from abroad - from dollar tickets, from English-language word of mouth. And as legendary as those two domestic giants were, overseas… overseas nobody had the faintest idea who they were.
Even so, the second they landed, they did what the industry did best: turned conviction into headlines.
One of them, a veteran with the aura of a living myth, faced the wall of microphones like he was standing before a judge and said - solemnly, as if swearing on his own career, "In suspense, I won't claim it's something humanity has never seen… but at least in the last twenty years, nothing's come out that you can honestly put side by side with what Alex directed."
The other, an A-list star in his own right, went even further - not with technique, but with sheer surrender. He laughed, shook his head like he was still trying to process it, and fired back, "After finishing this movie, I felt like an idiot. I have no idea how Alex's brain is built to come up with a script this brutally smart."
Their words burst like fireworks - bright, loud, impossible to ignore.
And then they fell.
Because no matter how much they painted Alex's first film as an untouchable masterpiece… the public's attention, in that moment, was somewhere else. Not out of disrespect. Out of urgency.
The finale of Bleach: Arrancar Arc was dropping in two days.
Two.
It was the kind of countdown that left no room in your head for anything else. Fans were living like they were holding their breath between one heartbeat and the next. Every feed, every timeline, every group chat was the same thing: theories, memes, frozen frames, trailer breakdowns, people swearing they'd spotted a detail that changed everything. The machine was already running at redline.
But while the outside world talked about Bleach like it was the end of everything, the inside world talked about Alex like he was the beginning of a new era.
Because the industry had heard something else.
Alex was hiring an assistant.
And when that spread through the corridors - quietly, like a secret everyone couldn't wait to repeat - some people didn't scratch their heads… they scratched at their ambition. Especially actresses. Especially the ones who already understood how the game worked: sometimes you didn't need a role. You needed to be close to the one who chose the roles.
That was it.
Alex could be far away, in another country, buried in post-production, absent from every party, nowhere near any local studio… and his name still made people move, plan, gamble.
He wasn't on the stage.
But his legend still ruled the backrooms.
…
Back home, on a set that somehow always felt like it had wind on purpose, production for Paths in the Wind kept rolling. It was a project backed by Aurora Entertainment, stacked with a strong cast and the kind of ambition that aimed to become a phenomenon. The female lead was the company's crown jewel - screen presence so effortless the camera fell in love on its own - and Mark was there too, steady and experienced, in a role he'd personally chosen.
The male lead, interestingly, was someone else.
Not because Aurora didn't want Mark in the center. Quite the opposite. But after reading the script, Mark had been blunt: the second male role suited him better. More room for nuance, sharper edges, quieter poison. And after the impact of bringing Bleach's hero to life, the actor cast as the lead didn't even dare "compete" for status. It wasn't ego. It was survival instinct.
During a break, the set became a tide of tired people - coffee cups in hand, crew trading low jokes, makeup doing battlefield touch-ups.
Mark, stretched out in a lounge chair like he'd been designed for it, had his phone inches from his face, binging Bleach. And every time his own on-screen self appeared, every ounce of star posture vanished for half a second… replaced by a satisfaction that was almost indecent.
It was involuntary.
That kind of pride you try to hide - only it leaks out through your eyes.
"My God… I look unreal."
That was the exact vibe - half relaxed, half ridiculous - when a voice slipped into his ear, quiet and careful, like it was trespassing.
"Mark…"
He tore his eyes from the screen, turned, and stood up on reflex.
"Geórgia? What are you doing here? Visiting the set?"
She bit her lip, that hesitation of someone who's already decided - but still wants the universe to give one last sign that says don't do it.
"I… I need a favor."
Mark blinked, confused, his mind still half stuck in the scene he'd been watching.
"A favor like what?"
She inhaled, gathered courage like someone clasping their hands in the dark, and finally blurted it out - fast, before she could talk herself out of it.
"Can you… get me a shortcut? A way… in."
Mark froze.
The word "shortcut" had collected too many meanings in the internet age. For two seconds, he just stared, trying to decide if he'd heard her right or if exhaustion was playing tricks on him.
"What kind of… shortcut, Geórgia?"
She stepped closer, as if the walls had ears, and spoke with her hand near her mouth, almost a whisper.
"You haven't heard? Alex is hiring an assistant."
The silence that followed was so absurd Mark almost thought she was joking. But her eyes held no humor at all.
"Assistant?" he repeated, like saying it out loud might change what it meant. "You're an actress. Why would you want to be an assistant?"
Her answer carried weight she tried to disguise, but it bled through in the way she held her pride together by force.
"Because here… I'm not going anywhere."
She pouted, but it wasn't bratty. It was old frustration.
She'd been tied to Aurora Entertainment for a while now. And outside one role that had gotten some attention early on… nothing. No character that left a mark. No chance that truly belonged to her.
Meanwhile, another girl - also from the same place Geórgia came from - had joined Alex's company and turned into a rocket. It didn't matter that the roles weren't the kind fandoms instantly adored. She'd shown up as Momo Hinamori in Bleach. She'd appeared in another project as a character type that wasn't exactly built to attract stans. And still, she was landing work after work, so fast it made your teeth itch watching from the outside.
And the worst part wasn't the other girl's success.
The worst part was the difference in horizon.
Because if Alex so much as touched a new project, that girl had a strong chance of being there. Today, tomorrow, after tomorrow. Like it was natural. Like the path had already been drawn.
There was a saying everyone repeats with a laugh, but it hurts when you're the one living it:
You don't mind when your friend is suffering. You mind when he starts passing you in a brand-new luxury car.
Geórgia was there.
She looked at Mark, firm now, like someone who'd decided to put everything on one roll of the dice.
"I just want a chance. Even if I start by carrying a schedule and holding a phone. I can take it."
Mark kept his face neutral, but inside something shifted - an uneasy mix of pity, warning, and the nagging sense that Aurora was starting to lose its grip on its own talent.
He knew Sabrina had plans for Geórgia. He knew the goal was to shape her into the company's next major star. And yet here she was, asking for a way out through a side door.
Mark rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable, like he'd been dropped into a fight that wasn't his.
"Look…" he started, already regretting it mid-word. "I… I can give you Alex's number. But you talk to him. Directly."
It was the safest way not to become a target on both sides.
Geórgia's eyes widened like he'd opened a portal.
"You swear?"
"I swear. Just… handle it with him."
He said it like a man signing a contract with chaos.
…
On the other side of the world, Alex was buried in post-production for Death Note. Giant screen. Layers of effects. Precision tweaks. Hours where the studio light became the only sun.
When his phone buzzed and he saw an unfamiliar number, he answered more out of habit than curiosity.
The voice on the other end came nervous, too fast.
And when she explained why she was calling, Alex went quiet for a few seconds - that specific silence of someone deciding whether to laugh or sigh.
"Kid…" he said, and the corner of his eye twitched on its own. "Have you lost your mind?"
An actress wanting to be an assistant.
It wasn't common. It wasn't logical. And, most of all, it wasn't practical. He knew the type: they came in as "assistant," but the second a new show was announced, they started angling for a role, asking for scenes, trying to elbow their way into the center.
"Alex… please. Give me a chance."
He leaned back, stared at the project timeline like it could answer for him. He'd already chosen someone. He already had a routine. A system.
But there was no law saying a boss could only have one assistant.
And honestly? If she had the nerve to cross the world for it, maybe it was worth seeing her up close.
"I already had this filled," he said, dragging the sentence out. "But… fine. If you really want to try, come to New York."
Before she could explode into gratitude, he added, flatly, "Come. We'll do a test. We'll talk."
And he hung up.
For a few seconds, he stared at his phone like it was a chess piece that had just moved on its own.
Two talents from the same place, now orbiting the same center.
His director's instincts were already sketching possibilities - not new events, not decisions yet - just that automatic sense that could see casting chemistry before a scene even existed.
Maybe someday it'd even be funny to put the two of them in roles that played with it. Sisters, rivals, a cracked mirror… something like that.
But that was later.
For now, it was New York.
…
Back on set, the second she hung up, Geórgia practically grabbed Mark with her eyes.
"Mark… please. Don't tell Sabrina I'm going to the States."
It came out like a plea and a confession at the same time.
She still didn't know if Alex would actually take her. If she crossed the world and came back with nothing… and Sabrina found out… the punishment would be simple and brutal: disappearing from the map.
Mark pulled a face that was half why did I get involved and half I understand.
"Okay. I won't."
He said it like a man accepting a bomb just so it wouldn't explode inside the house.
Geórgia thanked him with a look and hurried off, like staying one more minute would bring bad luck.
That was when the female lead - too curious to pretend she hadn't noticed - wandered over with the smile of someone who treated gossip like a sport.
"So?" she asked, amused. "Are you two dating?"
Mark let out a humorless laugh.
"Do I look like the kind of guy who'd go after a girl seven, eight years younger?"
She narrowed her eyes, irony lighting up.
"Some people go after someone seventeen, eighteen years younger."
Mark froze for half a second.
He blinked, unsure whether she was pointing at an old story… or at a modern "king" the industry loved to talk about in low voices.
He chose not to ask.
…
More than ten hours later, outside the entrance of a top-tier VFX studio in New York, Geórgia showed up with luggage that didn't match her light frame - and the kind of nerves no makeup could hide.
The man waiting there, Alex's assistant up until now, saw her from a distance and understood the future before anyone said a word.
That's it. It's over.
It was the kind of certainty you felt in your stomach.
Still, he kept his professionalism, walked up, and offered an automatic smile.
"You're here to see Alex, right? Just a minute."
He'd already been warned: the assistant role was changing. But Alex, at least, hadn't been cruel. He could stay on as a driver, same pay. A decent consolation… though it didn't erase the sting of watching, in real time, someone take your spot before they'd even stepped into the room.
He knocked.
"Alex… she's here."
Alex's voice came from inside, lazy, like the whole world was an agenda he could flip through at his own pace.
"Alright. Let her in."
The man took a breath, swallowed the complaint that always rose in his throat - because Alex had this habit of calling him by a nickname that was never his real name - and simply stepped aside.
Geórgia crossed the threshold like she was stepping over an invisible line.
And inside, the legend who no longer needed the stage lifted his eyes to look at her - up close - another person willing to chase him as if he were the last train out of the station.
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