"This is the place."
Two days later, Alex walked in with Megan into a discreet studio - one of those spots that look forgettable from the outside, but inside feel like a film lab: white lights, tall mirrors, spotless counters, rows of brushes and bottles lined up like surgical tools. The air tasted of hairspray, alcohol, and something sweet and industrial that clung to the back of the throat.
Megan pointed toward someone at the front desk and lowered her voice, like she was sharing an expensive secret.
"She's the best makeup artist in Hollywood. Normally, to book her you'd wait at least three months… but she loves your Bleach. She made an exception."
Before Alex could answer, someone practically hurried out of the hallway - a tall figure in bold clothes, hair immaculate, smile far too big for a normal hello.
"Hi, hi! Mr. Aizen!"
The stylist grabbed Alex's hand with both of theirs, as if holding onto a winning lottery ticket. Their eyes shone with that fan devotion that, once it passes a certain point, starts to feel like a friendly threat.
Alex blinked once.
In English, "he" and "she" don't sound remotely alike. If he hadn't heard Megan use "he" just seconds earlier, he would've sworn the person in front of him was a woman. The whole look was assembled with such precision it fooled the eye effortlessly. Fashion was a universe Alex had never truly tried to understand. Like when a luxury brand sells a burlap tote bag for the price of a used car… and people still buy it. The world came with a kind of madness that had a designer label.
And honestly? He wasn't used to men being this… enthusiastic about him.
"Nice to meet you," Alex said, threading the needle between polite and self-preserving. "I need two looks. The main style is…"
He launched into a description with near-obsessive focus - every detail he had in his head: Dio from Stardust Crusaders, and Jotaro. Not "more or less." Bone and flesh. Jawline, brow weight, the hardness of the gaze, the way the light was supposed to hit the face. Alex spoke like he wasn't requesting makeup, but demanding a flawless illusion. He was genuinely afraid of landing in that miserable territory of "almost there" and losing the impact.
At the end, he delivered the condition that mattered more than any technique.
"The audience cannot look at them and think it's the same person. Not even for a second."
The stylist's expression dipped, tiny and almost childish.
"So… we're not doing Aizen…"
Alex held back a laugh.
Makeup to play Aizen? What did he need - gel and the nerve to slick his hair back? That was it.
Still, he let it go. An argument would be a waste of energy - and in this room, energy translated into money by the minute.
The work began.
The studio sank into a specific kind of silence: heavy, professional. The Momo of bristles through powder. The click of palettes. The soft hiss of spray. Alex stayed still, but inside he was running like a machine. He remembered filming Phantom Blood: back then, makeup had been part of the process too, but the logic was different. Fans had needed a few seconds to recognize that Dio was him, and that had been a strange pleasure - a small victory. Enough transformation to impress, without erasing Alex completely.
He knew his own face helped and hurt at the same time. He wasn't the type the public immediately boxed as "Asian." There was something more universal about his features - still unmistakably his origin, but easy to fit into what the West called "cinematic." The problem was exactly that: when he stepped into a big character, the shadow of the other character came along for free.
Dio, in Alex's mind, had to scream predatory nobility. Deep-set eyes, sharp bones, thin lips - beauty with a blade hidden inside it. Jotaro, on the other hand, could carry more of Alex - harder, cleaner, direct, with the kind of presence that doesn't ask for space: it takes it.
But he was going to play both. And if the audience saw the same man behind both masks… the magic died on the spot.
That was why he wasn't asking for makeup.
He was asking for craftsmanship.
Two hours later, the stylist lifted a lipstick like it was evidence in a criminal case.
"Are you… sure about this shade?"
It was a deep purple - aggressive, almost offensive. The kind of purple even a top model would hesitate to wear. The kind of purple that, on a man, would become a headline before it became a character.
Alex met his own gaze in the mirror and didn't flinch.
"Absolutely. Do it."
Five minutes later, he truly looked.
Blond hair spiked up, almost electrified. The face carved harsher, meaner - the contour seemed to have sculpted someone who didn't know how to apologize. And the mouth… that dark purple mouth that turned a smile into a threat.
Georgia, sitting nearby, went quiet for too long. Megan did too.
It was… strange. Not "handsome" in the usual sense. Something worse - something that pulled your eyes, unsettled you, hypnotized you like a piece of art you don't understand but can't stop staring at.
Alex squeezed his own arm, judging the size.
"Still too skinny."
He'd put on more thickness compared to when he played Light Yagami, but it wasn't enough. Dio demanded more physical presence. More weight. More "superhero." Before shooting, at minimum, he had to get to that absurd level the camera loves.
He exhaled and sat back down, mind already bracing for the second impact.
"Let's do the second look."
For a moment, the urge sparked inside him: lift his index finger, press it to his temple, put on that theatrical grin and deliver the line - stupid and perfect, like it was born to become a meme.
Saikō ni haitte yatsu da!
He swallowed it before it could exist. Doing that in front of the girls would be… a kind of embarrassment even fame couldn't pay off.
The stylist cleared their throat, snapping back into "professional mode."
"Mr. Aizen… just so you know, we charge by time."
Alex raised both hands, laughing.
"OK, OK, OK…"
He liked saving money, sure. Maybe too much. But he wasn't cheap enough to demand miracles for free - especially not on a project where makeup wasn't a detail, it was part of the beating heart.
Two more hours passed.
When it was done, Alex saw another man in the mirror.
The face leaned more "Eastern," but without ever tipping into caricature. It was Jotaro without being an empty copy: the chill in the eyes, the firmness of the mouth line, the kind of presence you don't explain - you feel it. The transformation didn't scream "costume." It Momoed "truth," and that was the most dangerous kind.
Alex nodded, satisfied.
There it is. Now he understood why this place charged by the minute. Expensive, but real.
He stood up - still in the Jotaro look - and asked as if making casual conversation:
"If I wanted you as our series' makeup lead… how much would it cost?"
The answer came, and with it, pain.
Half an hour later, Alex got into the car wearing the face of someone who'd just swallowed a lemon out of pride. Megan glanced at him, fighting a grin.
"You're unbelievably stingy, you know that? I heard your value back home is already… ten digits."
Alex shut the door harder than necessary.
"Her rate is basically what Henry Cavill costs per day."
He said it like it was a personal insult. And it was. No matter how much he earned, the working man's soul that counted pennies never died. If he could spend less, he wanted to spend less. But on this production… there was no cutting corners. Makeup wasn't an accessory here. It was identity. It was language.
In a strange way, the Stardust Crusaders casting problem had been solved. Not the traditional way, but in a way that only made sense in a world where Alex existed - Alex becoming two people without letting the audience see the stitches.
And while that was settling into place, on the other side of the story, Death Note left theaters.
The end of those two things marked a shift. It felt like closing a heavy door and hearing the lock click: Alex was about to leave the United States, that expensive, beautiful stage where even shadows had a price.
In the end, Death Note closed at $870 million.
Batman v Superman? $873 million.
By the thinnest margin, the "historic upset" some people desperately wanted didn't happen - the delicious fantasy of one of his films toppling DC's "tyranny" on its own turf.
The most ridiculous - and irritating - part was that Alex had never said he needed to win.
That narrative had been shoved onto him by media outlets that loved a fight, even if they had to invent half the ring. And to be fair, he knew it too: that Batman-and-Superman movie was divisive by nature. If someone tried to compare him to The Dark Knight? Then yeah - he wouldn't have any confidence at all.
But audiences didn't think like that. Audiences wanted a simple story.
And in most people's heads, that "match that never existed" had a winner: Alex.
The reason was cruel and, at the same time, obvious - he hadn't even gotten a bite of the biggest slice of his home market. Death Note hadn't been released back there.
That's when the world went insane in a very specific way.
Suddenly, the entire internet started to… pity him.
People who usually showed up only to demand, complain, or beg for the next season turned into passionate defenders overnight. Posts spread, threads ignited, moral outrage became a sport: "it's unfair," "it's sabotage," "he deserved more," "let the movie in." Some even marched their opinions straight toward the regulators, as if public sentiment were an official stamp.
When Alex heard, his first reaction wasn't pride.
It was panic.
Are you out of your minds?
He'd joked before that he'd "lost billions" in box office without a domestic release. But inside, it didn't hurt. He'd never had real expectations of approval. From the beginning, he knew what he was stepping on.
He didn't care… and his fans were burning themselves out for him.
There was a saying that proved itself with terrifying accuracy: haters just want to see you fall. Fans, when they love too hard, sometimes want you dead from stress.
With no way out, Alex did what he always did when he sensed the crowd turning into a storm - he threw a new lightning bolt into the sky so everyone would look up instead of looking at him.
The news hit the feed like a grenade.
The third part of the JOJO series - JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Stardust Crusaders - was officially in pre-production. Ready. Locked in.
But this time, the comment section didn't turn into unanimous applause.
The same place that used to be pure cheering was now split down the middle - half celebrating, half cursing like they'd been betrayed.
"Why the hell isn't it Bleach season three?!"
"You disappear and come back like nothing happened?!"
"JoJo? That thing doesn't even have a billion views worldwide. Do you know what Bleach has? Two hundred billion!"
"Shut up - have you even watched JoJo? Watch it first, then talk!"
"Yeah! JoJo is amazing, you're just too lazy to learn!"
"F*** you! Why isn't it DEATH NOTE?!"
Alex read it with his phone in hand and a strange silence in his chest.
That was it. His era had already turned into something else.
And whether he liked it or not, he was standing right in the center of it.
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