Back home, there was only one topic that mattered: the "ending" of the Arrancar Arc - and the collective catharsis of cursing Alex for cutting it off at the worst possible moment. It was like the entire planet had silently agreed not to discuss anything else until that wound was stitched shut.
But while the general audience burned through rage and theories, people inside the industry were stunned by a different kind of headline - one that didn't feel real at first because it rearranged invisible hierarchies.
Georgia, long positioned as Aurora Entertainment's heir apparent and flagship bet for the future, had crossed an ocean to work… as Alex's new assistant.
Assistant.
The word sounded wrong in everyone's mouth, like a mistranslation. Because love her or hate her, Georgia wasn't "nobody." Her filmography still wasn't strong enough to silence critics, sure - her most famous role so far carried the stain of a character that got dragged endlessly, adored by some and mocked by many - but Aurora had still treated her like a long-term investment. A shelf name. A face destined, eventually, for the top slot.
And now she was going to be "the schedule person," the discreet shadow behind Alex, the kind of job that never makes the photo.
At first, most people just froze. It was the kind of shock that makes your brain look for a default explanation - like seeing someone filthy rich taking the subway and assuming there has to be a prank somewhere.
"Why would she go be an assistant?" spread through the circles with a mix of disbelief and fascination. "Is that humiliation… or strategy?"
Emily, when she heard, reacted in a way that didn't fit polite words. Because in her head, there had already been a plan - a simple, brutally human plan: keep Melissa close, pull the girl into her orbit, shape loyalties, make sure Alex's circle had a center.
And then, out of nowhere, the universe dropped a new piece onto the board.
Another young woman. Another absurdly perfect face. Another presence capable of stealing oxygen from a room.
Emily pulled out her phone, opened a photo of Georgia, stared at those flawless features, and felt her jaw tighten on instinct, like her body reacted before her mind.
These girls…
All of them walking the same road. All of them moving in the same direction. All of them - somehow - placing themselves between her and the idea she'd never admit out loud, but had already become addicted to: being the one.
Still, amid the shock, there were also people who shrugged. People who'd seen too much to believe in "eternal empires."
"Not that strange," some said, coldly, doing the math. "Aurora doesn't rule like it used to."
And they weren't wrong.
Years ago, Aurora had been a near-untouchable force - hit after hit, projects that turned into cultural events, casts that became legend overnight. There'd been a stretch when the Aurora name felt like a guarantee.
But time is merciless with brands. Recently, the shine had dulled. One solid show here, one lukewarm gamble there. Nothing with that weight of "we own the decade."
So if their young star saw a chance to stand close to the man rewriting the game and decided to cross the world for it… maybe it was less absurd than it sounded. Maybe it was survival instinct in its purest form.
Across the Atlantic, reality was less gossip and more logistics.
Under Alex's watchful eye, Reagan - the streaming platform's boss - closed a cooperation deal with the country's theater chains to coordinate Death Note's release. It was the kind of meeting where smiles were weapons and every handshake carried invisible numbers.
When it finally ended, Alex had that full-head feeling, like he'd spent all day breathing air conditioning and decisions.
That was when Black came in with the update, delivering it like a package.
"Boss… Georgia's here."
Alex raised an eyebrow.
"So - lawsuit?" he asked, more curious than worried.
In his memory, that was how it worked: fading companies tried to hold people by force. Contracts. Threats. Courtrooms. Exhaustion. He'd heard too many stories about artists going to war just to breathe outside the cage.
And honestly? He'd effectively pulled Aurora's future top woman out from under them. It almost felt obligatory that a legal storm would come chasing him.
Alex was already, mentally, searching for a famous attorney - one of those sharks who charges just to pick up the phone.
But Georgia answered before Black could.
"Sabrina said there's no need," she said, voice polite, almost careful. "She… told me to work well under you."
Alex blinked. Once. Then again.
"What?"
It came out with the raw honesty of someone who genuinely didn't understand. Sabrina… letting this go? No fight? No spectacle?
Black stepped forward, supplying the missing piece.
"Boss, don't forget Mark still has to lead Bleach, season three."
It was like a light switched on.
Alex understood instantly. Sabrina wasn't being "nice." Sabrina was protecting a bigger asset. She knew what would happen if things turned into war between her company and Alex. She knew what a man with an ego and a grudge could do with a single gesture.
All it would take was him deciding -
No, not even deciding. Just wanting.
Wanting Mark gone.
And nobody doubted Alex had the nerve. In the industry, he already had the reputation of someone who didn't forget a slight. The kind of person who smiled… and wrote it down.
For Mark, the lead role in Bleach wasn't just a character. It was identity. It was his face to the world. It was the kind of role that sticks and turns into a permanent stamp on a career.
Compared to that, Georgia was… replaceable. At least in the cold eyes of the market.
So Sabrina swallowed her pride and loosened her grip before her hand got torn off.
Georgia, meanwhile, was there in front of him - real, present - and despite her posture, you could see a small tension in the way she held her bag, like she didn't know what to do with her hands.
"S-so… what do I do now?" she asked, anxiety slipping through the cracks no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
Alex didn't complicate it.
"Start with the schedule. Tomorrow I'm on a talk show here, and in the afternoon we've got…"
As he spoke, he handed her a printed sheet filled with times, names, blocks of obligations. Georgia took it like a map to survival, nodding quickly, memorizing.
Then, like she couldn't hold her curiosity back, she asked something that sounded simple - but carried the mindset of someone still measuring the world with her home-country ruler.
"Boss… is it true your new film won't release back there? Aren't you losing… a lot of money?"
Alex laughed - openly, almost amused.
"Maybe about eight billion in box office," he said as if it were pocket change. "But it's fine. Making money at home isn't proof of anything. Real proof is making their money."
The way he said their had a quiet bite to it. Not hatred. Challenge. That vanity some people get when they win on hostile ground.
The number alone was a punch. Before certain domestic box-office monsters happened, directors didn't even dare dream that high. It sounded like delusion… if it wasn't coming from the same man who'd made the entire world talk about Bleach.
Alex thought, for a second, about how other directors built legends with patriotic appeal - with speeches that hooked into collective pride. Him? No. He liked to believe he was doing it the hard way: charisma, strategy, effort.
The truth, he knew, was more ironic.
He had talent. He had grind. But he also had advantages no one could see - a kind of fate-backed cheat code that placed certain doors in his path.
In the end, he swallowed the vanity and let the thought die.
The next day, the scene changed.
NBC headquarters.
A live talk show studio: warm lights, tuned-in audience, that rehearsed entertainment energy that looks spontaneous only if you've never seen the machinery behind it. The host, Jimmy, was a veteran - one of those guys who'd interviewed enough stars to stop being impressed, or at least to fake it convincingly.
Alex sat down on the couch like there was no difference between this and his living room. The kind of confidence that turns poisonous-sweet on camera.
Jimmy opened with the smile of a man selling his own product.
"Alex, why did you want to come on our show? Is it because you like my style?"
Alex spread his hands as if apologizing for what he was about to say… while apologizing for nothing.
"Honestly? No," he replied. "It's just that I played Sosuke Aizen - a role that's way too handsome - and I couldn't waste an opportunity to show off. So I picked a high-rating program and came to brag properly."
The audience laughed. Jimmy blinked for half a second like his brain needed a reboot.
He remembered another famous guest from the same country - an NBA giant who'd been shy, polite, restrained. Alex was the opposite. Alex was chaos with charm.
Jimmy recovered fast, professional instincts snapping in.
"Okay… I actually love Bleach. I even subscribed to the platform just to watch it. Everyone's excited for your new film. Are you confident?"
Alex made a thoughtful face… and answered like he was talking about a school project.
"I think since it's my first film, I shouldn't aim too high," he said seriously. "So I'm setting a small goal. Like… eight hundred million dollars at the box office."
Silence.
Real silence - the best kind of silence TV can buy: the kind where the host doesn't have a prepared line and the audience doesn't know whether to laugh, choke, or clap.
Because everyone understood what that meant.
For a long time, the global top-100 "gatekeeper" had been sitting around that range. Alex was saying, straight to their faces, that he wanted to debut by crashing the planet's elite.
Jimmy wore the expression of a man who'd just heard something so insane his body entered "polite shutdown."
"Right… it's being said that platforms in your country bought Bleach's rights, and that the licensing fees you received are already over six hundred million dollars. That would put you at number one on the celebrity rich list. How does it feel… making that much money?"
Even for an audience raised on aggressive capitalism, the number sounded indecent. Just rights? Just licensing? Like the world ran on different rules over there.
Alex didn't lose the smile.
"Honestly, it's not even that much," he said with a calm that felt insulting. "I don't evade taxes. After I pay everything, there's not much left. And to be honest… I've never touched money. I'm not interested in money."
As he spoke, he made an exaggerated motion with his hands, like he was pulling an invisible accordion.
Jimmy gave the world a perfect meme-face. That "what am I doing here" stare destined to be captioned in a thousand situations.
He cleared his throat, trying to regain control, but it was already too late. Alex was enjoying himself - and when someone's having fun live, the whole show becomes hostage.
"Okay… a lot of Bleach fans are curious about your love life," Jimmy said, sliding into gossip with the practiced ease of a man who knows it sells. "You were photographed recently with a few actresses. What do you say about that?"
Alex tilted his head like the question was innocent.
"We're just friends," he replied. "We went out for a walk, and at night we studied the script together. Isn't that normal?"
He paused for the tiniest beat - just long enough for the audience to inhale.
"Besides… I have face blindness. I can't tell pretty from ugly. I don't even know if they're pretty."
Jimmy went silent for a second. The crowd erupted. And on the internet, millions laughed with them - the kind of laugh that bursts out without permission.
Even people watching live at home had that same feeling: this couldn't be real.
You could search the entire local entertainment scene, even the weirdest corners, and still struggle to find someone so shamelessly unfiltered - and worse, so comfortable being that way.
The next day, clips of the interview were already translated and scattered across every major platform back home. And something nobody expected happened: part of the audience's fury - the hot rage over Bleach's cliffhanger - mutated into laughter.
People who swore they never wanted to hear Alex's name again hit play… and started laughing until they wheezed.
Because that was what he did.
He annoyed. He provoked. He hurt you at the exact moment it mattered.
And when the world came at him with stones, he answered with a grin and a line so absurd it turned hatred into a meme.
The problem was: behind the laughter, the hunger stayed.
And in the middle of the jokes - between one scream-laugh and the next - the same plea kept slipping through, stubborn and desperate and almost humiliating:
Come back already.
And film season three.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
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