Netfi's headquarters was the kind of building designed to intimidate. Too much glass, too many straight lines, a sterile shine that reflected the sky like the outside world was just another high-definition screen. Even so, Alex stepped out of the cab with the calm of soone who believed he had everything under control.
He'd co to defuse two bombs in one day: lock the cast for Bleach: Arrancar Arc and, on top of that, tie up every loose end for The Death Note. No back-and-forth. No unnecessary drama. No endless dance of "we'll see," "maybe," "my schedule is complicated." Today was for signatures - end of story.
Except reality had a habit of slapping plans in the face.
He barely had his wallet out to pay the driver when a wave of voices swallowed him from all sides.
"Oh! Aizen!"
"Oh my God, I'm your fan!"
"Mr. Aizen, can you sign this for ?!"
Alex was still halfway through handing over the fare when he was suddenly surrounded. A bunch of huge guys with too much enthusiasm and zero sense of personal space, mangling Mandarin like they'd learned it from a shaky online tutorial. One shoved a permanent marker at him like a weapon. Another was already shaking out a T-shirt with a stylized face printed on it - sharp eyes, a smile that was way too calm, the expression of soone who could end the world and apologize politely afterward.
Aizen.
He almost laughed - half from nerves, half from disbelief.
His real na hadn't crossed the ocean. The character had. After Alex sold the international rights to Bleachs to Netfi, the West didn't start hunting for "Alex." They started chasing "Aizen," as if the creator were a technical footnote and the work itself a religion.
And, honestly? There was sothing deliciously ridiculous about it.
Especially when a few fans - far less shy than the atheads - slipped into the crowd with shining eyes and way too much confidence. Expensive perfu. Easy laughter. Hands brushing his arm like they needed proof he was real. Alex swallowed hard, feeling his ego react before his brain could scold it. There was a dirty kind of pleasure in being worshiped - even if the idol wasn't "him," but the mask he'd created.
For a few seconds, he understood exactly why people clawed their way into this industry. It wasn't just money. It was this irrational devotion, this collective delirium that turned a na into a symbol.
Only after he managed to break free - signing two, three autographs on instinct and tossing out a "thanks" nobody actually heard - did he finally make it inside the building, straighten his posture, and put his director's face back on: cold, precise, unforgiving.
…
Hours later, inside a Netfi audition room, the atmosphere was completely different. Clean silence. Calculated air-conditioning. The kind of place where even ti felt lawyer-approved.
Alex sat with a folder open in front of him. Across the table was a middle-aged man in a flawless suit, the kind of face that had survived red carpets, invasive interviews, paparazzi, and sleepless nights on set.
Mark.
Even for people who didn't follow films closely, he was hard to miss. He carried leading-man gravity - the aura of soone who walked into a scene and the world automatically adjusted around him.
Alex slid the contract across the table as if he were offering sothing casual.
"I'm really happy we can work together, Mark," he said, polite, with a blade of calculation under the surface. "Does this fee… work for you?"
Mark's eyes dropped to the number.
The corner of his face twitched for an instant. A micro-spasm, almost invisible, but Alex caught it. Caught it and filed it away.
Because the number was low. Not insulting - but low enough to bruise the pride of soone used to being treated like a luxury asset. And still, Mark didn't argue. Didn't perform. Didn't threaten to walk. He just breathed, swallowed his disbelief, and signed.
"…It works."
Alex took the signed page with the calm of soone ticking off a checklist, but he understood exactly why. It wasn't generosity. It was addiction.
Anyone who read The Death Note and didn't feel that itch in their brain was either dead inside or lying. It was the kind of story that latched on, that made you stare at the ceiling at night replaying scenes, trying to predict the next move like a chess match where the board was the world.
After big, safe projects, Mark hadn't felt sothing like this in a long ti.
Alex then pulled a second folder from beneath the table with the casual ease of soone opening a nu.
Another contract.
And the smile that appeared on his face wasn't polite anymore. It was thin, dangerous - almost like Aizen himself glancing over his shoulder.
"Since you're here…" Alex said, like he was comnting on the weather. "Would you be interested in a role among the Espada? One of the Ten. The kind of character who walks in and changes the tone of the entire arc."
The silence that fell had weight. Mark stared at him, saying nothing, as if he'd just realized that beneath the controlled exterior, Alex was an opportunist with fangs.
…
The rest of the day made it painfully clear that show business worked on a different logic here. The shine was the sa, but more… rehearsed. More artificial. Smiles on an assembly line. Kindness manufactured by the ton.
At one point, Alex crossed a room and saw a lineup of actors - ten, maybe more - pressed against the wall, all smiling with identical intensity, like they were ready to sell their souls in monthly installnts. For a second, he thought he'd walked into a disguised luxury club, the kind where everyone looks expensive and disposable at the sa ti.
And that was the worst part: most of them were disposable.
Alex didn't want "good enough." He wanted impact. He wanted nas. He wanted that invisible boost fa gives - the advantage that makes a project trend before the trailer even drops.
He'd considered soone on Rebeca Verne's level… but reality ca with a price tag. When he heard the number demanded, he didn't bother with pretty negotiation. Instinct took over. Pride, too.
Alex had a simple rule: he could be greedy, but he refused to be the victim.
…
Still, not every A-list actress ca in with a shark's appetite.
Not long after, Georgia walked in.
Beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair. Strong presence, sweet voice, a gaze that made it clear she knew exactly what she did to a room. Her fee was slightly higher than Mark's - just enough for Alex's expression to tighten before he could fully hide it.
She noticed instantly.
Pen in hand, she tilted her head and smiled like she was enjoying his discomfort.
"Alex… do you think I'm asking too much?"
He didn't lie. Didn't sugarcoat.
"A little."
Georgia raised an eyebrow, waiting for the justification. Alex leaned forward and spoke with the blunt aggression of soone absolutely certain of his own value.
"This project will turn you into a phenonon in my market. After that, you go back and make money off ads, campaigns, contracts, appearances… You should be paying to walk through this door. And you still have the nerve to charge ?"
It was shaless. Nearly offensive. But it had a core of truth that stung because it was true. He'd seen it happen before - average people becoming a frenzy just for being in the right place at the right ti. And he knew what Bleach: Arrancar Arc would do to an audience, especially with characters that were big, sensual, intense… the kind that beca obsession.
Georgia didn't take offense. She laughed softly and blinked slowly, like the ga between them was sothing else entirely.
"If we knew each other better… I might give you a friends-and-family rate."
The words hung in the air like a stronger perfu. Not a direct strike. A teasing invitation.
Ten minutes later, her fee had been cut in half.
And no - nothing happened.
But Alex felt it. In the way she held his gaze a second too long, in how her body moved like it was always saying sothing her mouth didn't.
He waited until she left, then grabbed his phone and searched on impulse - like he needed to confirm an uncomfortable hunch.
Recently divorced.
Alex let out a short, humorless laugh, staring at the screen like it had just confessed to a cri.
Seriously? Was that it?
She wanted him to take the whole package?
His mind, traitorous, flashed quick images of her body, the obvious provocation, that energy of delicious trouble. And yes, he admitted it: he liked it. He liked the idea of a woman like that - intense, dangerous, no detours.
But one thing was choosing trouble.
Another was becoming an accidental stepfather to a life that wasn't his.
He shut the screen off, pocketed the phone, and forced himself back to center.
"Alright…" he muttered, scanning the character list like it was an anchor. "Now all that's left is casting Nell."
"Nell" wasn't a casual pick. She was delicate. An ex-Espada - soone who could be tenderness and devastation inside the sa body. A role that, if miscast, would collapse half the arc.
Alex pressed the call button by the table. The bell chid - short, clean, professional.
"Next."
The door opened.
And Alex froze for half a second.
Rebeca Verne walked in with her eyes down, red all the way up to her hairline, as if every step were a silent apology. Glued to her side - too close, almost like an extension of her body - was her mother, wearing the expression of soone who wanted to disappear from the earth. It was the kind of sha that didn't need words: tense shoulders, eyes avoiding contact, breath held too tight.
Alex watched them and felt the irony settle inside him like a bitter aftertaste.
He rembered the rejections. Twice. Invitations turned down. Doors closed in his face. The sensation of being treated like a disposable option.
Now they were here.
He picked up the form, read the role Rebeca had co to audition for.
Misa.
A girl who had to feel in love and dangerous at the sa ti - sweet and sick, capable of smiling while tragedy grew around her. A role that, if played wrong, beca parody. If played right, beca a blade.
Alex stayed silent for a few seconds, evaluating with a coldness that was professional - and with a part of him that couldn't help enjoying how uncomfortable they both looked.
Then he closed the file calmly.
When he spoke, his voice was neutral again. Controlled. Almost emotionless.
"I'm sorry. You're not right for this role."
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