Seven days. That was all it took. One week since Death Note hit theaters, and the number had already crossed a line most people spend an entire career chasing without ever touching: over $220 million in total box office.
If that kind of performance had happened back home, it would've turned into a legend overnight - the sort of result that doesn't just win, it humiliates. A clean, effortless stomp that makes a whole pile of lazy releases look like they're from another era. The problem was simple, and cruel: back home, this film would never get approved. No negotiations. No loopholes. The rejection stamp would've been slapped on before the first poster even went up.
And there was a second annoyance - smaller, but sharp enough to scratch the ego in just the right place.
The opening-week crown wasn't his.
Batman vs Superman had cleared $270 million in its first week. Two franchise pillars thrown onto the screen at once, and audiences responded the way people do when they're buying a ticket just to be part of an event. Pure pull. No finesse required.
After Alex finished hearing the report, his assistant - Nadia, forever a little too charged for a world that already lived on the edge of combustion - leaned forward with bright eyes, like she'd discovered a shortcut no one else dared to take.
"Boss… what if we give it a tiny push?" she said, excitement spilling over. "Buy a bit of box office. It's not that far behind."
Alex didn't answer with words. He just crooked his finger, beckoning her closer - and when she leaned in, he flicked her forehead. Not hard, but humiliating enough to reset her brain.
"Are you out of your mind?" His voice hovered between laughter and insult. "Buying box office for a first-week title? That's a sickness."
He could understand it if there was something bigger on the line - breaking a historic record, shaping the narrative, pressuring distributors, securing headlines. But spending money for a seven-day ribbon? That was how you turned yourself into a joke.
And still… buying tickets, reserving screenings, filling seats with your own wallet - at least it was your money going into your own film. A lesser sin.
The thing that truly destroyed reputations was something else. The dirty trick of stealing box office, diverting sales, cooking numbers - then blaming "the system" while acting like you were entitled to it. Alex had heard enough stories, enough scandals, enough careers stained because someone got greedy and stupid. That kind of victory was cheap, but it came with interest.
"We could spend a little," Nadia tried again, quieter now, like she was proposing a crime with manners. "Not even openly…"
Alex stared at her for a long, heavy second.
Silence answered for him.
Time did the rest - and it did it with a grin.
As the days passed, Death Note didn't just hold its audience. It grew. The film became bar talk, late-night debate, a social feed infection - recommended in DMs like a secret too good to become mainstream… and then, the moment it did become mainstream, it was already too late to stop it.
Meanwhile, Batman vs Superman started to lose momentum. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But you could feel it - like a giant taking a step that didn't land clean. It still moved forward, but the ground trembled differently.
And the internet… the internet never forgives a comparison.
People who'd watched both began repeating the same line, with variations of creative cruelty: if you plan to see both, watch Death Note first and Batman vs Superman after. Otherwise it'll feel like someone violated your brain with a crowbar.
Too much? Maybe. But the sensation was real.
It was like a music festival. One performer goes onstage, tears the roof off, turns the night into an impossible peak. Then the next act steps out… and they're mediocre. Not necessarily bad. Just not what came before. And because of that, every flaw becomes a spotlight. Every pause becomes awkward. It isn't that the second act is incapable - it's that they walked in after the fire.
Two weeks after release, the numbers were big enough to feel like a pride match. Batman vs Superman sat at $540 million. Death Note followed close behind at $510 million, breathing down its neck like a threat that didn't need to shout.
And that was when Alex's home crowd - people who couldn't even see the film in their own theaters - went insane like the win belonged to them personally.
Messages exploded everywhere. Celebrating, cursing, demanding, worshipping, mocking - every emotion bundled into the same chaotic package only modern fandom can produce.
They called Alex every nickname under the sun with that special mix of hate and pride only a cheering section can generate. They said he'd broken records in fifteen days, that he was marching straight toward the five-billion line like it was destiny. They said when he'd complained about losing tens of millions by not releasing at home, he'd been "modest" - that in reality he'd lost far more. They begged him to come back and "shock" the industry. And in the middle of it all, someone always dragged the conversation to the one thing that actually mattered:
"Cool, cool… but where's Season 3 of Bleach? Hand it over."
Alex read it with an expression that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite irritation either. It was the face of someone who understood the world had turned into an animal - and all you could do was decide whether you were going to hold the leash or pretend it wasn't yours.
When the third week arrived, he finally stopped the promo tour. It wasn't a lack of will. It was a lack of body. He'd been running on machine mode for too long, burning through himself like fuel was infinite, and the conclusion was simple: not even the most expensive diet in the world could support that pace.
But he didn't leave.
He couldn't.
Another beast was waiting.
JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Stardust Crusaders. And the cruelest part of this project wasn't the action, or the style, or the road-trip structure where a new enemy popped up almost every episode.
It was the casting.
Jotaro was a problem. But he wasn't the only one.
There was Polnareff. There were entire sequences of antagonists who appeared like obstacles on the road. And to make it feel right, a lot of faces needed to come from outside. You couldn't fill the screen with local actors mispronouncing foreign names with soap-opera energy and expect anyone to buy it as a global world. It would collapse on the first line.
The news that Alex was organizing auditions spread fast through the entertainment scene. The timing couldn't have been better: the Death Note heat hadn't cooled, the box office fight was still alive, and anyone with half a brain could see the obvious truth.
Batman vs Superman had the advantage of Alex's home market - massive screens, massive reach, a giant slice of cake Death Note couldn't even taste. As a foreigner, Alex had lost the most automatic support there was: his own people showing up by default.
And still… even with that disadvantage, he was nearly tied.
That alone was terrifying.
When someone terrifies an industry, the industry shows up. Not out of love. Out of instinct.
Suddenly, the line of famous names wanting a shot at his next phenomenon grew too large to look casual. Hollywood stars. Magazine covers. Expensive agents and polished smiles. Everyone sniffing the same scent: opportunity.
And as the parade of résumés marched on, Alex realized the hardest part wasn't finding bodies.
It was finding soul.
In the streaming platform's headquarters where he'd set up a base - a sleek, glass-heavy building that smelled like expensive coffee and corporate chill - Alex slapped his palm against his forehead, staring at a pile of audition tapes and actor sheets that had started to feel like luxury trash.
"This isn't it."
Muscle? That was easy here. You could walk down a hallway and bump shoulders with someone who looked like they were born holding a dumbbell. But the flavor - the strange, magnetic, almost supernatural rhythm that made JoJo feel like JoJo - that didn't come in the body.
Other roles were manageable. Antagonists were moldable. One per episode. One at a time. Alex could take each actor, coach them, correct them, force the tone into place until that theatrical, delirious edge finally clicked.
But Jotaro wasn't a one-off.
Jotaro was dozens of episodes. Dozens of scenes. A constant presence. Alex couldn't be an emotional babysitter for a lead for months, correcting microbeats every second of every day. The actor had to feel the character. Had to understand the silence, the contempt, the confidence that bordered on insult. Had to wear it like skin.
That was when Nadia burst in like a spark hitting dry air - her energy filling the room before her body did.
"Boss! Boss! A Hollywood star showed up!" she blurted. "A real star!"
Alex lifted an eyebrow, exhausted even of being impressed. In the past couple of days, "star" had become a cheap word.
But when the door opened…
He froze for half a second.
Henry.
The same Henry who was, right now, on the opposite end of the box office war - the face of Superman in Batman vs Superman, the direct competition to Alex's film.
It was like the brightest soldier in the enemy's army had crossed the battlefield and knocked on your door asking for work.
Henry stepped in calmly, the posture of someone used to a room shrinking when he arrived. A restrained smile. No exaggeration.
"Mr. Alex," he said. "May I audition?"
Alex recovered quickly. Curiosity hit first, and then the sharper edge slid in right after.
"Sure." He gestured to the chair. "Jotaro?"
Henry hesitated, like the name weighed more than it should. He'd read the script - that much was obvious. He'd come prepared. But he'd also come aware of his limits.
"…Actually, I wanted to try Polnareff."
Alex almost laughed.
Almost.
Polnareff was great - charismatic, funny, capable of real drama when the moment demanded it. But the man standing in front of him - tall, built, commanding the room without even asking - was too perfect a fit to ignore.
"You're trying Jotaro first," Alex said, standing up. He grabbed a page of the scene and tossed it onto the table. "With me. Now."
And for a moment, the room became a stage.
Alex slipped into the other role with indecent ease. Too relaxed. Eyes loaded with mockery. A smile that felt like an insult.
After nearly an hour of tweaks - breaths, pauses, rhythm, intensity - Alex pointed at Henry like he was claiming territory.
"You're up, Jotaro."
Henry clenched his jaw. His voice came out lower, rougher.
"Bastard… DIO!"
Alex tilted his head, the crooked grin sharpening into a blade.
"Oh? You're approaching me?" he drawled, irony dripping. "Instead of running away, you're coming straight at me… DIO?"
Henry took a step forward, holding the intensity like a cable stretched to its limit.
"If I don't get close…" he said, anger threatening to become something bigger, "…how am I supposed to smash you flat?"
"Cut."
The word snapped like a whip.
Alex raised his hand, stopping the scene before it died on its own. He inhaled, frustration already rising like hot smoke.
"No. That's not it. I told you." His patience was on the surface; beneath it, something pulsed. "Jotaro isn't just 'angry.' He's…" Alex searched for the exact shape of the truth, nearly biting down on the words. "…He's presence. The kind of guy who doesn't need to prove anything because the world already knows."
Henry rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flicker of self-consciousness in someone used to winning cameras.
"Sir… I can't find that feeling," he admitted. "It feels like I'm pretending."
Alex stared at him for a beat. The honesty was irritating, but it was also something he couldn't disrespect.
"…Fine." He exhaled, letting the scene drop like dead weight. "Then do Polnareff."
Ten minutes later, it was different. Henry found the character like he'd found clothes that finally fit. The humor came naturally, the arrogance stayed light, and the charm made the dialogue walk on its own.
By the time the door closed and Polnareff's contract was already moving forward, Alex sank into his chair, crossed his legs on the desk, and stared at the ceiling like he could pull an answer out of the paint.
"Damn it… what now?"
Nadia - silent for once - bit her lip. She looked at Alex carefully, like she was touching a dangerous topic with bare hands.
"Boss…" Her voice came smaller. "You understand this character more than anyone who's walked in here. You talk about him like he's… like he belongs to you." She swallowed, then forced the words out. "So why don't you try it yourself?"
Alex lowered his gaze slowly. His eyebrow rose again - this time not with sarcasm, but with something else.
An idea.
Absurd. Heavy. Sharp enough to cut.
And it had just taken shape.
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