Hollywood Boulevard was completely shut down.
Giant klieg lights swept across the Los Angeles night sky, illuminating the iconic facade of the Chinese Theatre. The red carpet was a chaotic sea of flashing cameras, screaming fans, and reporters shouting over each other.
Donovan stepped out of the black limousine, adjusting the cuffs of his custom-tailored miniature tuxedo. He was eleven years old, but he walked into the barrage of camera flashes with the calm, effortless confidence of a seasoned movie star.
Evelyn stepped out right behind him, looking absolutely stunning in a dark emerald evening gown. As the director of *The Sandlot*, tonight was her night just as much as his.
"Smile, Donnie," Evelyn whispered, resting a hand on his shoulder as they walked toward the press line. "And remember, keep the answers short."
"I know, Mom. Just smile and wave," Donovan grinned, waving at a group of teenagers holding up a poster with his face on it.
His human soul knew exactly how to play this game. He understood the PR machine, the angles, and exactly what the entertainment reporters wanted to hear. He gave them the perfect mix of childish innocence and polite professionalism.
They stopped in front of a major entertainment news crew. The interviewer, a woman with bright blonde hair and a microphone, leaned down with a massive smile.
"Donovan! Evelyn! You both look fantastic," the reporter beamed. "Donovan, this is your first big leading role. Are you nervous about how the critics will react to a simple movie about kids playing baseball?"
Before Donovan could answer, a tall, older man with a thin mustache and a tweed jacket stepped up next to the reporter. It was Arthur Sterling, one of the most notoriously harsh film critics in Los Angeles.
"It is a valid question," Arthur said, his tone dripping with snooty condescension. "In an era of massive action blockbusters, do we really think audiences want to pay good money to watch a group of unknown children running around in the dirt for two hours? It feels a bit... small, doesn't it?"
Evelyn's smile tightened, her protective motherly instincts instantly flaring up. But Donovan gently patted her hand.
Donovan looked up at the tall critic. He didn't use any divine aura to intimidate him. He just used his devastatingly sharp human wit, wrapping it in the sweetest, most innocent eleven-year-old smile he could muster.
"Well, Mr. Sterling," Donovan said, his voice carrying perfectly into the microphone. "Action movies are great. But explosions only last for a second. Everyone in this theater, no matter how old or how grumpy they are, used to be a kid. They all remember their first summer with their best friends. We didn't make a 'small' movie about baseball. We made a movie about nostalgia. And people will always pay to feel young again."
The blonde reporter let out an impressed laugh. Arthur Sterling blinked, completely caught off guard. He opened his mouth to argue, but he had absolutely no comeback for a kid who had just eloquently summarized the entire psychological appeal of the film.
"Beautifully said, Donovan!" the reporter cheered, signaling the cameraman to cut.
Evelyn let out a breath she had been holding, steering Donovan down the rest of the carpet. "Remind me to never get into an argument with you," she whispered, looking incredibly proud.
Two hours later, the credits rolled inside the packed theater.
The response was deafening. The crowd didn't just clap; they gave it a standing ovation. People were wiping tears from their eyes from the emotional climax with the stepdad, and laughing out loud remembering the jokes. Donovan's performance as the clumsy, nerdy Scotty Smalls was universally praised. The movie was a certified, undeniable smash hit.
The after-party was held in the grand ballroom of a luxury hotel owned by Blackwood Enterprises. There was live jazz music, towers of expensive food, and studio executives everywhere.
Donovan was drinking a glass of sparkling apple cider when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Enjoying the spotlight, kid?" Richard asked, looking down at his son with a predatory, victorious smile.
"It's not bad, Dad," Donovan smiled back. "Is everything ready?"
"Follow me."
Richard led Donovan away from the loud music, slipping past the velvet ropes and into a private, soundproofed VIP office in the back of the hotel. The room was quiet, smelling of expensive leather and polished wood.
Richard walked over to the heavy mahogany desk and picked up a thick, leather-bound folder. He tossed it onto the center of the desk with a heavy *thud*.
"Carolco Pictures folded," Richard said, his eyes gleaming with corporate triumph. "Cannon Films took the cash buyout. And the other bankrupt studios didn't even put up a fight. Their lawyers were practically begging us to take the dead weight off their hands."
Donovan stepped up to the desk and opened the folder.
Inside were the finalized, signed contracts. The intellectual property transfer agreements.
He flipped through the pages. The names leaped out at him, practically glowing with future billions. *Peter Parker. Bruce Banner. Tony Stark. The X-Men. The Fantastic Four.* They didn't just buy a few characters. By hitting the studios while they were desperate for cash, Blackwood Enterprises had bought the exclusive, perpetual cinematic and television rights to almost the entire catalog.
"They sold them for pennies, Donnie," Richard laughed, pouring himself a glass of scotch from a crystal decanter. "The executives think comic book movies are a dead genre after that terrible *Superman IV* movie a few years ago. They think we just bought a pile of worthless paper."
Donovan stared at the Marvel logo printed at the top of the contract. His human soul practically vibrated with excitement. He knew what the world was going to look like. He knew about the CGI revolution, the massive intertwined storylines, and the multi-billion dollar box offices.
It was still going to be the Marvel Cinematic Universe. But this time, instead of another mega-corporation, Blackwood Enterprises would be the ones pulling the strings through Warner Brothers. And it was going to start a decade early.
"They have no idea what they just gave us," Donovan whispered, closing the heavy folder.
He looked up at his father, his innocent kid persona completely gone, replaced by the sharp, calculating eyes of a visionary.
"This is a perfect first step, Dad," Donovan said seriously. "But we aren't done."
Richard raised an eyebrow, pausing with his glass of scotch. "Not done? We just bought the film rights to their biggest hitters for a fraction of their worth."
"Exactly," Donovan nodded. "But Marvel Comics as a publishing company is still bleeding out. In a few years, they are going to file for bankruptcy. When they do, I want us to buy the entire company. Every comic, every character, everything. We put Marvel and DC together under the Warner Brothers umbrella, and we will literally own modern mythology."
Richard stared at his eleven-year-old son. He took a slow sip of his drink, processing the sheer scale of the monopoly Donovan was suggesting. A deep, rumbling laugh escaped the billionaire's chest.
"You want the whole pie, don't you, Donnie?" Richard smirked, raising his glass in a toast. "Alright. I'll have the lawyers keep a close eye on Marvel's stock. When they hit rock bottom, we buy the rest."
Donovan smiled, tapping the leather folder. "Good. Now, let's go celebrate. I have to go to school on Monday."