"Of course… and I also need to thank the masters who pulled up when I still didn't know where I was standing, the veterans who shared the screen with - especially my old friend Mark - and everyone who bled ti and sleep to make Bleach happen." Alex drew a breath as if he were about to wrap it up, but then the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile that was half charm, half provocation. "Alright, I'll stop here. I'll be back on this stage soon anyway… better save so words, in case the trophies outlast the speech."
It was the kind of line that didn't need an explanation to start a fire.
The room laughed, whistled, buzzed. It wasn't just confidence - it was an almost indecent way of betting against bad luck, like the word failure didn't even exist in his vocabulary. And inevitably, the sa question flashed through everyone's mind at once: what if he didn't co back? What if, next ti, his na wasn't inside the envelope?
Then he'd have slapped himself in public.
Except Alex looked, genuinely, incapable of fear.
The next awards rolled in like predictable waves. Best Original Score went to a competing series, which made sense in Alex's head - Bleach carried a more international sound, sothing a little more "outside," and he knew certain voting panels love to reward what feels "local," "traditional," "classic." Still, his mory slid to an older ceremony and that ridiculous image he'd seen circulating for years: a row of legends seated in the audience, n who had built an entire era of music… while onstage a viral phenonon - hook empty, chorus repeated until it beca addiction - accepted the trophy like Beethoven reincarnated.
He let out a short breath, almost a laugh through his nose. The industry had a special talent for sabotaging itself with glamour.
Then ca Best Cinematography. Sa competitor. Beautiful work, imposing, built to impress through framing and texture. If Bleach hadn't exploded the way it did, that show would probably have carried the entire year on its shoulders.
But the air changed when they announced Best Actor.
The room went heavier.
The cara drifted across the nominees - faces trying to disguise hunger with elegance, while tension leaked out through tiny tells: a jaw held too tight, a stare that didn't blink, a glass gripped like an anchor. Alex, on the outside, looked relaxed. On the inside, he felt the weight of that category like a door that, once opened, would never close the sa way again.
Beside him, the youngest co-star from Bleach had zero emotional control. Her small hand clamped onto Alex's arm with absurd strength, as if the announcent could physically rip him away.
"Breathe," he murmured, never dropping the cara-ready smile.
She didn't breathe. She practically folded in on herself with anxiety.
When Teacher Heleno opened the card, even the noise of the hall seed to drop a level. The pause was short - just long enough to torture everyone.
And then the co-presenter said it, crisp into the microphone:
"Congratulations… Alex!"
The girl beside him nearly launched out of her seat. In the end, she only didn't jump because she was glued to his arm - and her excitent turned into a clumsy, tight hug, complete with her rubbing her face into his suit like it was a lucky charm.
Alex walked to the stage with the sa stride of soone who'd rehearsed this win in the mirror, took his second trophy, and before he even began, he tilted his head and shot the presenter a sly look that said, told you so.
"Now we're talking," he said into the mic, letting the room catch the joke. "Think I can actually finish my speech without running out of material."
The laughter ca easily. He knew how to conduct a room.
But when his voice dropped a notch, the tone changed. It beca a declaration.
"I've never hidden my ambition." Alex lifted the trophy slightly - not to show off, but like a period at the end of a sentence. "In my heart, I've always been the best. And still… today I only took the first step."
The line carried venom and gasoline at the sa ti.
That was exactly why so many people loved him and so many people hated him. Alex wasn't just talented - he made a point of reminding the world, with a smile. In an industry where everyone shields themselves with ceremonial humility, it sounded almost like a personal challenge to destiny.
When he returned to his seat, Emily wore an expression that mixed pride with fear. Another actress in his circle, seated on the other side, looked unsettled too - not because of the award, but because of how Alex kept walking straight into the crosshairs with no armor.
"Do you really have to talk like that…?" Emily whispered, low enough not to beco tomorrow's headline on the spot. "What if one day it goes wrong? One day… you fail, Alex."
She wasn't exaggerating. All it took was a project that was "just good" for the internet to turn it into a funeral. One stumble. And with Alex, the fall would be replayed in slow motion - snarky narration, humiliation as background music.
Alex shrugged like the idea was too small to waste brain space on.
"When I fail, we'll talk."
And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he tossed both trophies into Emily's hands and the other actress's, like dropping his coat onto a couch. Beside him, the youngest girl pouted instantly, offended - eyes demanding a third like it was her rightful due.
Alex tapped the top of her head with quick, almost brotherly affection.
"I'll go back up there in a minute and get you one."
Nearby, other celebrities heard it and wore the sa expression: not sure whether to laugh, get annoyed, or start praying reality would correct him.
Ten minutes later.
"Best Director…" Teacher Heleno announced, and the entire hall leaned forward without realizing it. "Alex."
For a second, it was pure silence - the kind that lasts less than a blink and still feels endless. Then the blast: applause, shouts, people standing.
And this ti, Alex climbed the steps without theater. No wink, no bravado, no performance. He thanked them quickly, almost automatically, as if his energy had drained out. There was a strange calm on his face - the clear, tired state of soone who's won so much in one night that the body starts shutting down out of self-preservation.
When he ca back, he placed the third trophy into the girl's hands - and she turned into pure sunlight, laughing nonstop, hugging it like physical proof the world had chosen the right side.
But the night still held its most unpredictable award: Favorite Artist (Audience Choice), decided by votes, by fandom, by all-out war online.
In the won's category, the win went to the actress who played Yasmim Banner in Bleach. Emily and the younger co-star widened their eyes at the sa ti, like they'd been personally startled. Alex only raised his brows, understanding imdiately. That award wasn't exactly about acting. It was about army power - who had the bigger crowd willing to stay up all night voting, which character had beco a collective obsession.
And let's be honest… Yasmim Banner was the kind of presence that turned viewers into believers.
The n's category was worse. And funnier. And crueler.
Mark was nominated. Other nas from the mont too. The obvious, the logical outco - the one everyone had accepted before the envelope was even opened - was Mark taking it.
But Teacher Heleno took the card and made a strange face. A microsecond of hesitation that reached the caras, the room, and the internet all at once.
"And the winner is…" he began, the pause slicing like suspense. "…one of today's biggest idols."
The na he read wasn't Mark.
It was like the entire hall said what? without making a sound.
So of the nominees looked like they'd just bitten a lemon. Mark, on the other hand, stared into nothing with a tired kind of calm - the expression of fine, universe, just finish it already - like he was far too seasoned to be shocked by injustice wrapped in applause.
Alex watched with bitter clarity. This was the era of hype. The era where numbers beat talent, and "trend" was enough of an argunt to crown soone.
And then ca the final twist: in his acceptance speech, the idol even ntioned Alex, said he wanted to work with him, said it would be an honor to appear in one of his projects.
Alex felt his smile stiffen, almost crack.
On the outside, he nodded politely. On the inside, he could only think: don't say that out loud, for the love of God… Because the internet doesn't hear an invitation - it hears a promise. And promises beco demands. And demands beco chaos.
For a split second, a cruel joke flashed through his mind - a very specific role that would be perfect to test whether that kind of star had any courage at all - and he swallowed the laugh before it escaped.
When the ceremony ended, the world outside was already on fire.
The headlines hit like bullets, one after another, across every portal, every feed, every tiline: Alex as "the night's triple-crown winner," Alex as "the most arrogant man onstage," Alex as "the one who never apologizes for wanting everything." And, inevitably, the controversy: how could Bleach dominate the ceremony and still leave Mark empty-handed?
Online, the comnts turned into a ring. People cheering, people hating, people waiting for the first fall just to say I told you so. The crowd that had been annoyed with him since that old "1.9 rating" ca back hungry, spitting venom like it was sport.
But the real fans… the ones with Bleach running in their veins…
They didn't care about trophies at all.
They cared about this week's episode.
And last week's teaser had already made it clear: a new era was starting now. The screen flickered - rapid cuts, darker atmosphere, the weight of a past that hadn't been buried properly.
The title appeared, huge, impossible to ignore:
"The Past Arc Begins - the truth from 110 years ago."
And in less than thirty seconds of preview, one presence took over the trailer like it had always belonged to him.
Sosuke Aizen.
That was enough.
Months without even his shadow had beco collective withdrawal. One look, a half-smile, a single line delivered with that calm that felt like a blade… and the fandom detonated, like soone had poured gasoline straight onto their hearts.
In group chats, forums, social feeds, comnt sections, the phrase rose like a battle cry - repeated, copied, turned into images, into s, into a promise:
"Alex raises the crown… Sosuke Aizen is back!"
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