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Ever since Henry acquired the label "naive and loaded," he had noticeably beco more popular.
Even the high-and-mighty industry elites—those who usually looked down on everyone—now greeted him with a few extra smiles.
No matter how you dressed it up, filmmaking was a high-risk investnt.
Between creative accounting black holes and labyrinthine revenue structures, it was nearly impossible for outsiders to determine whether a film truly made money.
But when disasters like last year's Cutthroat Island happened—a $98 million budget with barely $10 million at the box office—it could bankrupt a studio outright.
That was why Hollywood's "Big Eight" studios were always shifting. Sotis they couldn't even maintain a full eight.
An investor capable of sharing risk was valuable.
An investor foolish enough to provide money without knowing how to reclaim it?
Even better.
Turning a blockbuster into a paper loss through accounting tricks was practically a traditional Hollywood art form.
Wall Street investors—frequent victims—knew that best.
And yet, newcors kept diving into the pit, ti and again proving just how deep Hollywood's hole could be.
Even insiders weren't immune. Many had seen promised backend profits vanish with a single phrase:
"The film lost money."
So how could soone like Henry—backed by Stark Pictures and Stark Industries, seemingly an insider but essentially an outsider—not be welcod?
If he wanted to, he could attend a party or banquet every night.
And if he wanted to go further—different encounters every night wouldn't be difficult either.
Of course, Henry wasn't foolish enough to accept everything.
But neither did he reject everything coldly.
If he suddenly turned into a shut-in nerd who went straight ho after work, he might very well receive a dismissal notice from Tony Stark the next day.
After all, his primary assignnt was to observe the West Coast—not to tinker with caras all day.
Stark Industries didn't need him for scraps of technical developnt.
Missiles were consumables.
Caras weren't.
---
Henry didn't deliberately curry favor with anyone.
He simply chose whom to engage with based on temperant.
Now that invitations were abundant, the power of choice had shifted to him.
Sure, many invitations still carried the subtext:
"It's an honor for you to be invited. Declining would be rude."
But in reality, declining carried little consequence.
Henry knew people viewed him as a fool.
He even leaned into the persona of a tech-obsessed bookworm.
But no one truly dared treat him as one.
Sony's lesson lood large.
Henry Brown had walked away untouched.
Whatever role Tony Stark played behind the scenes, it spoke volus.
As for the FBI failing to prove Henry's involvent in the Sony explosion—
From another perspective, if soone left such obvious evidence that they landed in prison, would they even be worth associating with?
Yes, "naive and rich" fueled his popularity.
But Sony's loss reminded everyone—
He was not easy to provoke.
Just like his boss.
Young.
Wealthy.
And sharp-edged.
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Henry accepted Hollywood's tentative olive branch.
That, in itself, was a signal.
The next step?
Find the young man's weakness.
Exploit his preferences.
Control him.
Hollywood's initiation ritual rarely deviated from that formula.
Sotis what destroyed a person wasn't venom or knives.
Sotis it was sweet words.
Seemingly sincere kindness.
Harder to execute.
Just as effective.
At least the invitations insulting his intelligence had decreased.
That made things simpler.
Still, navigating elite gatherings required caution.
If these events were like college parties—eat, drink, make eye contact, and slip into a room together—that would be easy.
Unfortunately, Henry's pre-reincarnation college life had been dull.
Post-reincarnation?
He never even attended university.
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As he entered what he privately called "Phase Two" of diplomatic maneuvering with Hollywood, a very unusual invitation arrived at his desk at Stark Pictures.
The envelope was crafted from high-quality 30-pound black linen paper.
The seal was traditional wax—except the wax was gold.
Not dyed gold.
Real gold flecks infused within.
The crest stamped into the wax ant nothing to Henry.
This was Arica.
Not Europe.
Coats of arms here were either inherited claims of dubious aristocratic lineage—or self-designed vanity projects.
Half of them had crowns, as if every European royal house had relocated to the United States.
The envelope bore the words:
"To be opened by Henry Brown."
The handwriting was precise Gothic script—like dieval church manuscripts.
Germany had used this typeface up until the end of World War II.
In 1980s Los Angeles, certain Black gangs wore Gothic-lettered shirts as identity markers. Later, hip-hop culture would revive it as fashion.
So—
Was this from so gang?
Out of caution, Henry retrieved surgical gloves from his drawer before breaking the seal.
Inside was not a thick stack of paper, but a single invitation card of equally fine material.
It carried a faint fragrance—not synthetic perfu, but the natural scent of crushed rose petals.
The embossed watermark patterns were machine-pressed.
The decorative laurel motifs, however, were hand-painted.
Symtrical at a glance.
Imperfect upon inspection.
The invitation listed a ti and place:
The day before Easter.
An old manor in the outskirts of Los Angeles.
But the most unusual detail was the signature.
Not a person.
Instead:
Mystikos Sect.
Henry couldn't imdiately recall any known organization by that na.
But instinctively—
He disliked it.
Upon closer focus, he identified the reason.
Beneath the floral fragrance—
Was the faint tallic scent of blood.
Subtle.
Almost imperceptible.
But unmistakable.
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