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Chapter 744: The Reason for Becoming a Director

Leonard the horny bastard actually had a way with words. He had even tried to crown Leon with the ancient Persian title of Shah.

Still…

If a strong internal traitor was already in place, and if the price eventually settled at something reasonable, swallowing Warner Music was not a bad fantasy. Leon’s war chest still held more than a billion dollars in pure cash. The CBS television deals, the Brooklyn Nets, the media company, and the rights-management arm all kept feeding that iron vault without pause.

First Warner Bros. Pictures. Now Warner Music.

The two companies no longer shared a single ownership link, yet anything carrying the Warner logo seemed infected with the same cancer of betrayal.

The irony was almost perfect. The company itself had been born from a story about solidarity and trust.

In 1918 Harry, Albert, Sam, and the youngest brother Jack Warner founded Warner Bros. in Burbank. It was the third-oldest major studio in American history. Fairy tales about brothers climbing the mountain together only existed in children’s books. Hollywood never believed that narrative.

Jack, the youngest, burned with pure hunger for power. He went to his two older brothers and proposed that they were all getting old; better to sell the entire company to an investment group led by banker Serge Semenenko and retire with the cash. Out of trust, Harry and Albert agreed and sold every share they owned.

What they did not know was that Jack had already signed a secret side deal with the same group. The moment his brothers were cleanly removed, Jack bought back his own shares—and more. Overnight he became the sole highest authority and president of Warner Bros.

“The only thing that still worries me,” Leon said, “is whether Leonard can actually be trusted.”

A clear road had appeared. Testing the water first cost nothing.

Warner Music’s Nasdaq IPO was still pure vapor. Applying a little early pressure on the British oligarch carried zero downside.

“Relax. It’s not just Leonard. The CFO, the COO, the head of A&R—every senior executive has reached the absolute limit of what they can tolerate from Access Industries. The signal for open revolt can be given at any moment.”

Lenny thumped his chest, confidence dripping from every word.

“Fine. Stay in contact with that bastard. Let’s see what kind of waves he can actually make.”

“No problem. Leave it to me!”

Lenny was practically glowing. Once again the lesson was clear: for a professional manager, choosing the right boss mattered more than anything else. Most executives never controlled real capital. Ambition without an investor’s backing remained pure fantasy. Career ceiling was decided by the attitude of the people holding the money.

The new boss could casually green-light a multi-billion-dollar acquisition. Compared with his previous employer Jay-Z, the difference was night and day.

Remembering all those old “King of New York” and “Godfather of Harlem” headlines, Lenny almost laughed out loud.

You? King of New York?

Three days later it was already late October. 2016 was running out of time. The once-every-four-years election was about to deliver its verdict.

“I’m sorry, Director Anderson. Mr. Leon’s schedule is… difficult. Building his calendar is the most painful part of my job.”

Bonnie personally served coffee to Paul Thomas Anderson. This was the highest level of reception Apocalypse Music offered; normally junior assistants handled such duties.

God damn it, the man was getting worse and worse about time.

Bonnie cursed silently.

“No problem at all. Everyone knows Mr. Leon is a busy man.”

Anderson was the guest Leon had invited—the original director of Inherent Vice. Leon had seriously considered Leonardo’s suggestion. Heavy narrative drama of this type lived in Martin Scorsese’s comfort zone; the absurd tone shared DNA with Taxi Driver. In the end he discarded the idea. Anderson was the original director and the man who had adapted the novel himself. Handing the film to Scorsese would mean endless script arguments with an old legend. Choosing Anderson removed that entire headache. The screenplay would already match the director’s vision one hundred percent.

“Director Anderson has been waiting a long time.”

Bonnie took the boss’s call, frowning as she complained.

Beep.

She hung up and turned back to Anderson with a professional smile. “Mr. Leon has arrived. He’s waiting for you on the second-floor stage.”

“Oh—of course!”

The host was late and then changed the meeting location on the fly. If this had been Scorsese, the old man would already have been threatening to walk. Anderson swallowed every complaint and kept smiling.

“You made it, Anderson.”

The moment Leon saw the director he crossed the space, threw an arm around the man’s shoulders, and pulled him close with a bitter smile. “Come look. You’ll understand what kind of trouble I’m dealing with.”

“Hallelujah…”

Anderson looked up. His pupils contracted. His mouth fell open like a man who had never left the farm.

White flesh filled the entire frame.

More accurately—white and black.

According to the plan, Cardi B’s new video had brought in the two younger Kardashian sisters to raise both the hype and the pure carnal voltage. Kim was already yesterday’s traffic. The younger sisters were the upgraded versions—better faces, better bodies, the living templates every plastic surgeon studied.

Right now both girls wore the same vulgar costumes as Cardi, nothing left to the imagination. They were also in the middle of a full screaming match. Shooting had stopped cold.

“Calm down, ladies. Finish the work first, then fight, okay?”

Old Mike pretended to mediate while his eyes never left the twin pairs of rear lights.

Sister fights this visually rich were rare entertainment.

“Ha! You two look like you’re about to throw hands!”

Cardi clapped with pure excitement, already hungry for more chaos.

Kendall: “Mom has told you a thousand times to stay away from worthless rappers. Why don’t you ever listen?!”

Kylie: “God, I’m so done. Who I date is my business. Nobody gets to interfere!”

Kendall pointed a finger. “You better pray you don’t catch some weird virus. Have some self-respect, girl. Stop looking so permanently thirsty!”

Kylie exploded. “You’re the thirsty one!!”

“See?” Leon gave Anderson a helpless smile. “If I’d arrived five minutes later these two would have demolished the brand-new stage I just built.”

The root of the fight traced back to Will Smith’s younger son Jaden. The pair had gone public in 2013. On the surface it looked like perfect celebrity math: famous actor’s son plus the world’s most skilled publicity family. Under the skin it was pure business.

Jaden still hadn’t fully decided his own orientation when his parents pushed him into the relationship. Whether that skinny frame could even handle Kylie remained an open question. From Kylie’s side the entire romance had been a disaster she endured only because mother Kris ordered her to siphon Will Smith’s traffic. For a girl who worshipped pure physical power, Jaden barely registered as male.

The bizarre arrangement somehow lasted three years—until Kylie was caught trading messages with several rising rappers and Jaden finally found an exit. Kris Jenner exploded and sentenced her daughter to three days of house arrest. Only the Apocalypse Music video invitation had gotten Kylie out of the Beverly Hills mansion.

“Those texts were disgusting,” Kendall muttered, covering her face. She glanced at Leon and dropped her voice so only her sister could hear. “You actually sent Leon that kind of photo… God. He doesn’t even care about you.”

“Shut up!!”

Exposed, Kylie flushed scarlet and ran to Leon for comfort.

Leon’s policy on unsolicited sexy selfies from actresses was simple: look, never reply. If something ever exploded, at least he had a clean story for the lioness at home.

“Can the private drama wait until after work?” Leon’s tone was pure command.

“Kendall won’t stop talking!” Kylie complained.

“Hey! Who started the stupid shit in the first place?!” Kendall yelled from across the stage.

“You shut up too.”

It was not a request. Kendall immediately wilted, head down, muttering, “Fine… I…”

Leon had zero interest in admiring the sisters’ anatomy. He turned back to Anderson with another bitter smile. “Sorry you had to see the circus.”

When you decided to build a woman-led label and then entangled yourself with America’s most skilled publicity family, daily melodrama became part of the job description.

“Not at all! Working at this company is a privilege!”

Anderson’s eyes burned with pure envy directed at Old Mike.

They were both directors. He should have chosen music videos from the beginning.

This was a man who had won Best Director at Cannes at thirty-two, yet right now he looked nothing like an artist. Pure hunger for flesh filled his gaze.

It traced back to his childhood. Studio City in the 1970s had been the heart of America’s adult film industry. He had fallen hard for those movies early. In every public interview he openly admitted the addiction. In fact, loving those films was the exact reason he became a director.

His first short film told the entire story: The Dirk Diggler Story. The footage itself was long lost—even Anderson no longer possessed a copy—but the title alone explained everything.

“You two calm down and stay here,” Leon said. “Director Anderson and I have business.”

“I don’t feel like shooting anymore,” Kylie muttered.

“Neither do I,” Kendall shot back.

“Fuck both of you…”

Leon was about to discipline the sisters when Anderson stepped forward with a bright smile. “Why not invite these two beautiful ladies to join the conversation? Looking at them, inspiration is already flooding me.”

“That’s not appropriate.”

Kendall and Kylie were not yet family. Letting them sit in on an unannounced major film project carried no real risk, but it still felt wrong.

“Nothing inappropriate about it. Casting still isn’t locked. These two young ladies might actually be perfect.”

“Fine.”

Under Anderson’s repeated insistence Leon finally allowed it.

Once they reached the office, Leon realized his earlier worry had been pure waste. The sisters had zero interest in the men’s conversation. Both of them immediately started taking selfies with their phones.

Tomorrow’s Instagram feeds would almost certainly feature several new posts: #Guess whose office we’re in? New York’s living legend!

“Can you tell me more about SLW Apocalypse’s new project?”

Anderson looked meek, yet before formal talks began he still planted his flag. “I have no interest in superheroes, and I refuse to shoot pure political pamphlets…”

The meaning was crystal clear. He wanted nothing to do with the DC villain universe, and he absolutely refused to help Leon produce conservative propaganda.

Leon sat across from him and pushed a heavy white manuscript across the table.

Inherent Vice by Thomas Pynchon.

“Shit!”

Anderson cursed like he had seen a ghost.

He was not merely a Pynchon super-fan; he was widely considered the living director who understood Pynchon best and the only one willing to put the author’s work on screen. Two years earlier his own Inherent Vice had become the first legally authorized and theatrically released Pynchon adaptation in history.

Out of pure respect for the novel he had done something almost fanatical while writing the screenplay: he typed the entire four-hundred-page book on a typewriter, word by word, simply to inhabit Pynchon’s rhythm before cutting anything. He had perfectly captured the author’s signature—profound, dark philosophy on one side, the filthiest toilet humor on the other.

“Interested?” Leon asked.

“Of course.” Anderson no longer bothered hiding it. “Inherent Vice is the purest distillation of Pynchon’s career. I’ve dreamed of putting it on screen for years. Almost no studio wanted the project. You know the golden-money era—everyone went insane chasing superheroes, big IP, and animation. That’s where the milk and honey live.”

“Leonardo and I are both interested in the story. SLW Apocalypse has already decided to bring it to the screen.”

Leon glanced at the two idle Kardashian sisters and decided they might as well earn their keep. He snapped his fingers. They obediently fetched brandy and glasses from the cabinet.

The temporary assistants were still wearing the tiny bikinis from the video shoot. When they bent to pour, certain angles became extremely difficult to ignore.

Anderson was already hypnotized. He raised his glass like a robot. “Even better. Leonardo’s attachment is already strong insurance for the box office.”

SLW Apocalypse had collected plenty of Oscars, yet Anderson understood the truth perfectly: the man steering the company had never been an artist first. Street Jesus always locked onto box office. Awards were merely the garnish.

Working for this particular boss meant pressure most directors never faced.

Still, Anderson could invent no reason to refuse the olive branch. Outside of Leon, who else would hand him a Leonardo DiCaprio package and throw unlimited money at a cold literary novel by Thomas Pynchon?

“No one understands Inherent Vice better than I do. I’ve read the novel seven times. If you are truly putting it on screen, I am ready to serve.”

“Once the company locks Pynchon’s rights, we can sign whenever you want.” Leon smiled and swirled the amber liquid. “I hate delay. I want industrial-pipeline efficiency and Oscar-level craft at the same time. Don’t call me greedy. I know you can deliver both.”

“Yes… yes, I can.”

With the words already this far, Anderson could only nod. “I can visit Pynchon myself. The old man despises over-commercialization, but he and I get along.”

“Even better.”

The author was still alive. Without his formal authorization, even a complete finished screenplay would be nearly impossible to move. The only alternative was rewriting the script until every trace of Inherent Vice vanished—an enormous amount of work that risked destroying the original structure, story, and tone.

Better to simply buy the rights. Cold literary novels by niche authors never cost that much.

“I have one question… if it’s not too early to ask.”

Anderson lifted the glass, set it down, then lifted it again, clearly nervous.

“Just say it. You’re family now.” Leon clapped him on the shoulder.

“Will you be producing this film yourself?”

“No. I’m handing every on-set decision to you and Leonardo.”

Leon had already exhausted the producer high years ago. He no longer had time to live on a film set. That was exactly why he had insisted on Anderson. Every line of dialogue and every frame the system had delivered already came from Anderson’s original work. Even if Leon completely disappeared from the production, the director would never be able to twist the film into something unrecognizable.

“So casting is also entirely mine?”

“Of course.” Leon shrugged, half joking. “Just don’t replace Leonardo. Otherwise he’ll go full Jordan Belfort from The Wolf of Wall Street and verbally destroy both of us.”

Anderson waved both hands. “That will never happen. I have absolute respect for Leonardo’s achievements.”

“Read the script first. I need the male co-star opposite Leonardo to be able to carry real dramatic weight.”

Leon almost said Sean Penn’s name out loud. Penn’s original performance had matched Leonardo blow for blow. He swallowed it. Plenty of actors could generate that voltage—Al Pacino, Dustin Hoffman, Robert De Niro, any of the old gods. Anderson was a pure academy traditionalist. He already knew how to choose.

Leon was still thinking that when reality slapped him across the face.

Paul Thomas Anderson was staring at Kendall and Kylie’s retreating backs with an intensity that surpassed Ryan Gosling’s rain-soaked gaze in The Notebook.

“Even though this is a very male film,” he said slowly, “I believe the female casting is equally critical…”

Chapter 745: Who Is Judas

“These two pure vases?”

Leon propped his chin on one hand and tilted his head, watching the Kardashian sisters’ retreating backs with open skepticism.

They would detonate as pure erotic stars. Putting them in an actual film felt like a stretch. Especially one adapted from a serious literary novel.

Their older sister had at least appeared on screen once. In 2008 Kim Kardashian played a cameo stripper in the slapstick Disaster Movie. The film lived up to its name and swept that year’s Razzie Awards with unstoppable force—an alternative kind of fame.

“Woman is the origin of art…”

Anderson murmured, suddenly sounding a lot like Old Mike whenever the subject turned to women. “The Venus of Hohle Fels from the Paleolithic already exaggerated bodily proportions to express pure generative force. Aphrodite rose from the foam of the sea. Greek sculpture turned her nude form into the ultimate standard of beauty, harmony, and proportion. Plato once said—”

“Enough.”

The mystical lecture left Leon completely lost. No wonder this guy had been considered a weirdo since his student days. He had started with pure adult films and somehow climbed all the way to the top of Cannes. Reaching that particular level of cinematic devotion was genuinely rare.

“Audition?!”

“A movie?!”

“Opposite Leonardo DiCaprio?!”

“The two of us?!”

The sisters were losing their minds.

Kylie was only nineteen. Kendall was twenty-one. Even raised under Kris Jenner’s pure-interest education, they were still just girls in their early twenties. Internet model and Hollywood actress remained two completely different worlds. Their older sister had spent half a lifetime trying and never fully crossed the gap.

SLW Apocalypse production. Leonardo starring. Street Jesus manufacturing.

Golden rings of that size made refusal almost impossible.

“OMG, I knew one day you’d give me this chance! I won’t let you down!!”

Kylie covered her mouth with one hand, eyes already shining with tears. She ignored Anderson’s openly hungry stare and bounced straight into Leon’s arms. Kendall refused to be left behind and hooked on from the other side.

Leon’s frame was not fragile—he still boxed and did push-ups—but two girls built on that scale hanging off him still tested the structural limits.

Slap. Slap.

He gave both pairs of rear lights a polite, professional pat and forced a smile. “All right, ladies. Director Anderson’s approval is only the first step. You still have to conquer Leonardo in the actual audition. This film means everything to him. It’s his seventh real shot at the Oscar.”

That only made them more unstable. Golden statues began floating through their minds, rising slowly.

Megan Fox had already shattered the Hollywood stereotype that pure sex-appeal actresses could only deliver emotional support on screen. After her, plenty of women refused to stay in the soft category forever. Who said a hormone-spreading siren had to look up at a Judy Foster–type intellectual?

Kylie, younger and more intense, stayed in full excited mode even after leaving the office. She kept holding Leon’s arm and, at one point, quietly tried to drag his hand toward the same rear lights. The elasticity and density were genuinely different from Kim’s version.

“Damn. That girl is too hot.”

Travis, producer on Cardi’s new single, had just finished cooking the beat in the recording booth. High as a kite, he stepped out for air and walked straight into the scene.

In his eyes Kylie’s ass was the pure soul of Brooklyn. Unfortunately the body currently pressed against it belonged to his own boss.

Kylie seemed to feel the Black gaze. She turned and delivered a heavy-eyeliner white-eye without a word.

A hundred lectures from her mother had never worked. Real change required concrete events. Now that she had boarded Street Jesus’s ship, her labels no longer stopped at influencer and reality star. Continuously trading looks with random rappers suddenly felt beneath her.

Better to clean up a little.

October 19. Twenty days remained until Top Gun: Maverick hit theaters. Leon summoned every key film executive and production head to Brooklyn for a final summary meeting.

Tom Cruise was absent. Right now he was standing on the flight deck of the USS Midway in San Diego, giving interviews. Even though he was the oldest and highest-status member of the cast—Theron herself stood half a step behind him—Cruise remained the hardest-working person in the entire promotional cycle. At peak intensity he averaged two media interviews a day and a live roadshow every three days.

Box-office numbers no longer represented money alone. They represented an uncompromising answer to every threat and frame-up. No one blackmailed a world-class action star. No one.

The fire of resistance in Cruise’s chest had already reached full burn. He had even personally flown an N375R helicopter and landed it directly on the Midway’s deck before stepping out to face every global camera. The pure visual impact would dominate entertainment headlines worldwide the next morning.

By coincidence, the third and final presidential debate also took place that same day.

Since it was the last one, every remaining card got played.

Donald voluntarily raised the red-hot “Russia collusion” story. “I have no dealings with Vladimir. We respect each other. He respects a smart, hard man like me. He will never respect Hillary… Do I even need to say who the puppet is?”

“There is no more time to wait. We must act right now to save America!”

“Clear the woke poison and the immigration garbage from our great land. This is a life-or-death turning point!”

“Donald is leaving nothing on the table,” Jeff said with a shrug and a laugh. “He even brought Saudi Defense Minister Mohammed bin Salman to America and promised the public the best oil prices in history if he wins. Dead-cat bounce. Those oil guys have been dominating every major auction these past few days, but the polls still say everything.”

Immediately after the debate, CNN—flagship of the left-wing media—released its first flash poll showing Hillary leading by thirteen points. Gallup’s numbers were even more extreme: Hillary at sixty percent chance of victory, Donald at a miserable thirty-one.

The data was heavily distorted, yet it still left Donald unable to sleep. He called Leon repeatedly, begging him to appear at rallies. The answer never changed: relax, you’re going to win.

“The original Salvator Mundi the Saudis have been chasing was supposed to go under the hammer at Christie’s New York this week,” Jeff continued, killing time while the last attendees arrived. “Force majeure delayed it. Qatar and the UAE royal families are both interested, but MBS is determined to take it.”

The white-cloth oil men had become the absolute center of New York high society. Old Wall Street money looked pale next to pure petroleum dollars. Mohammed bin Salman was no soft prince. Officially Defense Minister, he already controlled both Aramco and the Public Investment Fund—the two real arteries of the Saudi economy. He had broken the traditional brother-to-brother succession, deposed his uncle Prince Muqrin, and, according to quiet reports, already cut a secret deal with Donald: if the latter won, MBS would bare his real fangs and clean house with force. America would look the other way.

Even the oil men wanted a slice of the following-the-dragon merit.

“How much are these rich, stupid white towels prepared to spend on that painting? Three hundred million?” Leon asked casually.

“Three hundred is the auction house estimate.” Jeff drew a long breath. “MBS’s budget is unlimited. A billion would not stop him.”

“Fuck. That’s pure insanity.”

“The painting carries special weight for every Abrahamic country,” Jeff said. “You refuse to spend on art. Plenty of rich men live for it.”

“If it were The Last Supper I might actually be interested. Judas’s expression is worth studying up close…”

At that exact moment the last executive walked in.

“Sorry—traffic…”

Russell used the classic New York excuse and hurriedly took his seat.

“Guess what we were just talking about,” Leon said, eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t catch any of it.”

“Judas Iscariot. Thirty pieces of silver. The original great betrayal.”

“Heh…”

Under the boss’s direct stare Russell stayed surprisingly steady. He forced a small laugh. “Sounds like you want to put the story on screen? Good idea, but Mel Gibson already did it. Six hundred ten million worldwide—most successful religious film in history. If you’re really interested in the genre I know a young female director, Alice Rohrwacher. She only does religious material. The Happy Lazzaro script is sitting on my computer. Want to see it?”

Russell’s reaction was natural and calm. Leon watched him for a long moment, then turned away and tapped the table. “Meeting first. Religious films later.”

The University of Utah shooting remained wrapped in fog, yet certain outlines had already emerged. The shooter Thomas had almost certainly been steered by either the media Jewish network or deep Democratic forces. Until the day of reckoning arrived, the ledger stayed impossible to balance.

One sentence from the Saint, however, still echoed: Why did you go all the way out to that barren Utah countryside?

Exactly.

If Leon had never gone to Utah, the carefully prepared assassination simply would not have happened. The shooting would have been written off as a lone gunman targeting Charlie Kirk on pure impulse.

The person who had pushed hardest for Leon to attend the Joker offline promo in Utah had been Russell.

After the incident the man’s entire energy had shifted. He no longer fought Jeff for power. He constantly disappeared on “business trips,” as if he had voluntarily surrendered the war for future captain of SLW Apocalypse Pictures. It did not match his usual power-hungry nature at all.

Leon had just tested him with the Judas story. The reaction had been normal enough.

“Lady Gaga received an invitation to sing Hold My Hand at Hillary’s final rally at the Reynolds Coliseum at North Carolina State,” Anisha reported, face worried.

Hold My Hand was the lead track on the Top Gun: Maverick soundtrack and the recurring emotional theme inside the film. The single and video had already dropped a week earlier. Gaga had drawn from eighties power ballads—big choruses, guitar, pure emotional explosion. The old-fashioned stadium rock fit theater speakers perfectly but failed in the streaming era; it currently sat at only number 49 on the Hot 100.

Even so, it remained the official theme of Top Gun: Maverick. Letting the blue camp borrow it was unacceptable.

Leon pressed a hand to his forehead. “Talk her out of it. Immediately.”

“I’ve tried every method.” Anisha sighed. “You know Stephanie’s temper. She’s the kind of calf that makes every cowboy’s head hurt. She refuses every leash.”

“Then make her change the song. She can sing The Star-Spangled Banner for all I care. Just not Hold My Hand.” Leon’s voice turned sharp.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Not your best. Mandatory.”

Gaga had written both music and lyrics herself. Technically the studio had no legal right to stop her from performing the song anywhere. If Leon planted his feet hard enough, she would still obey—but the carefully repaired relationship would crack again, possibly forever.

“The Porsche collaboration is performing well. The 1972 classic reissue is making every car enthusiast happy…”

“Microsoft’s free Flight Simulator DLC is almost ready. Players will be able to fly both the hypersonic micro-jet and the F/A-18 directly inside the game…”

The meeting was still rolling when Bonnie hurried in and whispered in Leon’s ear. “Miss Robbie is here. She specifically said she will not wait.”

Leon tossed the empty meeting notebook aside, stretched, and cut Jeff and Russell off mid-sentence. “That’s enough for today, everyone.”

Unconventional marketing—game crossovers, car collabs—sounded impressive and moved almost no actual tickets. Real power still lived in traditional channels: distribution muscle, screen count, theater marketing, and internet heat. All the linkage work combined probably generated less buzz than one of Kate’s buttons popping open at a live event.

Leon had zero desire to face an angry Robbie. The meeting ended early.

After all, the ex-girlfriend had threatened more than once to “Kill Bill.”

“You’re that impatient?”

Driven by pure hunger for the new song, Robbie had skipped the office entirely and gone straight to the recording studio.

“Time is money. I can’t stay in New York long. I want both the vocal and the video locked on this trip.”

She sat with legs crossed on the sofa, tasting coffee, one high-heeled foot swinging. Her free hand reached behind her back.

“Look what I brought.”

“Fuck. You actually carried that thing here?”

A simple yet extremely elegant katana rested in front of Leon.

“Well?”

Robbie drew the blade. Overhead studio lights struck the steel and threw a cold flash that briefly hid her eyes. She studied the metal the way one studies a lover. “I commissioned Ben Abbott himself—champion of Forged in Fire seasons two and three. Not an antique, but I can’t put it down.”

“Cool.”

Leon gave the classic combination of lip curl and shrug. He knew the show. It was one of the better niche-hobby reality programs. Taylor’s kitchen knives had been made by one of its judges, David Baker.

Shing.

Robbie slid the blade home in one smooth, almost elegant motion. “When do we start?”

“Lyrics memorized? Melody locked?”

Leon glanced at his watch. Still half an hour before Max’s team was due.

“I can already recite them backward.”

Robbie rested both hands under her chin and stared at him. “How did you even come up with those lyrics? I can feel the emotion in every single line.”

“Inspiration. You know how it is. Can’t explain it.”

Leon offered the usual empty answer, dropped onto the sofa, and texted Max to hurry up.

A notification banner slid down from the top of the screen.

He opened it. Kylie.

No text. Just a thirty-second video.

Ever since Anderson’s audition invitation, the younger Kardashian sister’s brain had been completely occupied by Hollywood starlight. She had even forgotten to update the Instagram account she treated like a second heartbeat.

Leon did not press play. The cover image was enough.

Kylie wore a white sleeveless turtleneck mini-dress that stopped mid-thigh and perfectly outlined the curve of her ass. Smooth blonde wig, soft makeup, full legs, high heels. She sat, crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. The camera “accidentally” caught the light beneath the skirt.

Every element was in place. The girl was clearly practicing Sharon Stone’s classic Basic Instinct sequence at home for the coming audition—one of the most quoted sexy shots of the twentieth century.

Even the cover quality showed the professional polish of a top-tier influencer.

Unfortunately Robbie saw the banner at the same moment.

“The Kardashian girl is already on your list too?”

“You know her?”

“I watch her makeup tutorials sometimes.” Robbie shrugged. “The pure blonde bombshell look is outdated. Men these days want the Latin-tinged heavy glam, the glossy thick lip gloss… You’re that shallow yourself, aren’t you?”

Chapter 746: Destined Street

“Am I that shallow of a man?”

Privately Leon preferred the tall blonde type, but in principle he had never been picky about the menu. Still, every woman from the Kardashian family came with extra complications. Kendall and Kylie might not share Kim’s complete absence of bottom lines, yet their mother Kris’s “holy decrees” still sat on their heads like a mountain. Kris’s values had shaped the entire clan: everything could be sacrificed for fame and money.

No rigorous study existed, but America’s increasingly deformed consumerism almost certainly owed a debt to this family performing and manufacturing drama on television every single day.

“Looks like someone refuses to admit it.”

Robbie rested the sheathed katana against the mixing console. “I’ll stop teasing. Good news for you: Kevin Tsujihara and David Heyman agreed to terminate. They can walk away at any time.”

“That’s good news.”

Was it really that simple?

David Heyman had been the first to recognize the gold mine inside Harry Potter and turned the series into a lasting commercial empire. After the eight main films he kept pushing the Fantastic Beasts spin-off, scheduled for release around Halloween this year. Across the entire Potter machine he had earned nearly as much as J.K. Rowling herself, while using elite social skills to keep the British novelist’s emotional scales balanced. He also held deep stakes in the theme-park and merchandising revenue streams. Missing no chance to make money was simply his business philosophy.

Tsujihara needed no introduction. The Warner he inherited had already been chewed full of holes by internal rats—an Emmental cheese of pure debt and decay. He had only risen because ViVi and John Malone pushed him upward; his actual ability was average at best. Facing a commercial tsunami of this size, the man could barely walk.

Less than six months into the job and he had already fumbled multiple major projects. When Sony and MGM’s joint distribution deal on Spectre expired, every studio fought for the next Bond film. Warner, Universal, Fox, and Paramount all competed hard. Under Jeff the advantage had been clear. The moment the little Japanese took over, the line turned into a pure red candle—straight down with no bounce.

Universal walked away with the prize.

Martin Scorsese had spent the previous year publicly declaring he would reunite Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci for The Irishman and directly challenge The Godfather. Almost no outlet treated the claim as empty talk; those three names still ranked among the brightest in gangster-film history. The budget kept climbing until Warner lost the project to cash-rich Netflix.

Even with two powerful godfathers standing behind him, Tsujihara’s president experience card would expire within another six months at most. A man without vision should already hate Street Jesus and the bald thief beside him with every cell in his body.

Simply opening the cage and letting Barbie fly free did not match either Tsujihara’s or Heyman’s nature, nor did it match basic commercial logic.

“Warner is activating Clause B,” Robbie said with a sigh. “LuckyChap has to pay a thirty-million-dollar termination fee. A caged canary never escapes that easily.”

Leon laughed and idly spun a microphone. “Fuck. I want to shove this mic straight up that greedy bastard’s ass.”

Under the original contract only Warner—who had buried the landmine early—could terminate without penalty. If the production side initiated the exit, a heavy fee applied. Tsujihara and company were now trying to force Robbie’s neck down and make her surrender unconditionally.

They could simply keep staring at each other forever.

“Thankfully Mattel understands my position.”

Robbie stroked the scabbard. This time the blade was not meant for a scumbag ex; it was meant for pure human garbage. “Kreiz says we shouldn’t try reasoning with bandits. Take them to court.”

Mattel’s protection was the only reason the rights holder had not piled on additional pressure. Without it, Robbie’s first-time producer dream would already have been dead on arrival. Under traditional collaboration models the IP owner held the unconditional termination right. Mattel had granted the adaptation rights to LuckyChap, and the rookie producer had failed to control the legal landmines inside the contract. That was how they arrived here.

“Lawsuit? That little Japanese bastard might not even last until the hearing before he packs his bags.”

Leon exhaled smoke, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

Silly girl. Waving a katana looked cool, but a Barbie doll remained a Barbie doll. In the real, cruel adult world she was still too green.

“So we just keep bleeding time?” Robbie asked quickly.

“Follow the legal process if you have to. But trust me—the decisive hand is not inside any courtroom.”

No matter how deep Tsujihara’s personal resentment ran, he should aim it at the true source of evil—the bald head. Was it really necessary to fight the most powerful producer on the planet to the death? The man was only a high-level employee. His foundation could never match Jeff’s, the old captain of Warner.

Looking closer, this entire play was probably being directed by the two godfathers standing behind the Japanese.

“Is it that hard for you to speak clearly? Doesn’t the constant mystery get exhausting?”

Robbie still carried old resentment. When they dated, the scumbag had always loved running dirty schemes behind her back. Now that they had shifted from lovers to partners, he still preferred keeping cards hidden.

“Just watch. One day that little Japanese will crawl over and kiss your boots.”

“Tch…”

Even as flattery, the “kiss the boots” line still sounded strange to her ears.

The Japanese and the squid made a perfect pair of evil twins.

Robbie was about to launch another round of curses when the recording team finally arrived.

Max’s eyelids hung heavy. His shoulder-length hair looked greasy. The reigning pope of twenty-first-century pop was clearly in a foul mood.

“Let me guess—how much did you lose in the market?” Leon asked with a smile.

“I stopped touching that shit a long time ago.”

Max had been obsessed with stocks since the dot-com bubble. Back then the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears ruled global pop. Every classic—As Long As You Love Me, Everybody, Baby One More Time—had come from the Swedish bearded genius’s pen. Peak on debut. Of course he played hard. Under the guidance of industry elders he followed the herd straight into the worst-performing names: Yahoo, Amazon, the pure disasters. Only constant inspiration kept him from ending up like Phil, one step from the chopping block.

“Every finance friend I have issued the same warning,” Max said with a shrug. “If Donald wins the presidency the world enters an anti-globalization era. The equity markets will run with blood. I sold everything.”

Even though the polls still gave Donald only a thirty-percent chance, that risk probability was already enough to spook capital. Institutions dumped the fear onto retail, and the clever retail investors obediently rushed for the exits.

“Including the one I recommended?” Leon asked.

“NVIDIA? Yeah. Cleared it all.”

“That name didn’t make you money?”

“It did. Quite a bit, actually.” Max was honest. “But the gaming GPU market only goes so far. The company’s potential is already fully priced. Smart people always know when to take the chips off the table.”

“Fine…”

“Drop it, partner. Money isn’t everything to me.”

Instead of starting the session, Max pulled out his phone and shared a video. “Look what I found on YouTube today.”

On screen a short, stocky young Black man gripped a battered microphone, wearing a Nike hoodie stained with oil. Beside him stood a tall white youth. The location was Kensington Street in Philadelphia. The white man stood bare-chested against the late-October northeastern wind, guitar in hand.

One freestyled pure rage. The other sang classic rock. Two completely unrelated styles somehow reacted and produced something electric. Hundreds of passersby had stopped to watch.

The young Black man’s delivery and lyrics overflowed with pathological anger:

“Poverty is a trap, the rich paint you pictures of pie

Our music never gets close, my headphones full of pain-type beats

Who’s the bottom, who’s the top, who’s just pretending to hurt

I peel the Gucci off, nightmares get switched on

What the fuck is truth? Money, money, money—it’s all fucking money!

I hate money, I hate myself, I hate society, I hate this life

I hate the rich who get to decide a poor man’s fate…”

The improvisational performance carried the same cathedral force as seventeen-year-old Biggie standing on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn in 1989. The white youth screamed backup vocals until his voice cracked, fingers flying across the guitar strings.

“Davis!”

Leon was stunned.

The nigga had vanished for so long only to return to pure street performance. Even the white youth beside him looked familiar.

“Dan Reynolds?”

“Exactly those two. The video hit four million views in three days. Davis performed like a real street poet. He made people cry on Kensington Avenue.”

The clip ended. Max put the phone away and lowered his head for a long silence.

Five years earlier Apocalypse Music still operated out of a corner of Highland Park. No commercial office building, not even a proper studio. From day one Max had been the first-call producer. Even on rap tracks outside his comfort zone Leon still dragged him in and forced him to work. Davis’s writing ability was average, but his grasp of flow changes, drops, and rhyme schemes was excellent. He had solved more than a few recording problems. In short, Max had always liked the loud little Black kid.

“He’s improved massively,” Leon said. “I watched his old performances live.”

If Davis had unlocked this level of talent earlier, maybe he never would have switched to acting and then lost himself completely. After his younger brother and mother died one after another, the disease was no longer something money or medicine could touch.

“And Dan Reynolds… such a good kid,” Max pressed a hand to his forehead. “I heard Imagine Dragons’ EP in 2009. I bet friends those kids would carry the rock revival. One day they would explode.”

“Big Dan is genuinely tragic.”

Even Leon’s bulletproof face felt a faint knife edge. Ever since the two of them crossed paths at the 2010 Made in America festival, Dan had never recovered. No matter how desperately he smashed guitars, he could no longer write a single decent song. Interscope gave the band four full years of patience. No debut album ever arrived. Before the termination letter even landed, the band announced its breakup. For a while Dan still scraped by on leftover name recognition at minor festivals. Then he vanished completely. Now the former rock rising star had fallen this far.

Davis’s twisted path also carried Leon’s fingerprints. If the nigga had never tasted the beautiful bubble of the fame game, he might never have become a lost lamb.

“This industry is too fucking cruel, isn’t it…”

Max’s sentimental side fully activated. The more he thought, the worse he felt. Actual moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Nothing is truly owned by human beings. Material things and feelings are the same—pure shit…”

“Stop the melodrama, brother.”

Leon clapped him on the shoulder. “Time to work.”

“Let Max recover a little. He looks wrecked.”

Robbie had held her katana the entire time, watching the video with an unreadable expression. So many years later she still remembered the loud little Black guy who always stood beside Leon, and the brief Hollywood memory Davis had left behind.

“Come on.”

One cigarette was enough for Max to flatten the emotions. He still had more to say, but Leon gave him no room for poetry.

Work time.

Max loaded the track. Per Leon’s requirements he had used a Sequential Prophet-6 to create a flute-like retro texture, then personally played and recorded the basic chords and bass line. Kick, hi-hat, 808 snare, and a dense web of additional drums followed. The pattern sat thick yet somehow remained gentle.

The instrumental was gentle. The lyrics were not.

Five years away from a booth and Robbie still treated the isolation glass like a stranger. She kept drawing deep breaths to settle, then slipped on the headphones. Even though the video was not scheduled for today, she refused to put the katana down. Whether the prop helped her enter the Bride’s mindset from Kill Bill or whether she simply needed cold steel for security remained unclear. Either way her state locked in. The first take was clean.

I’m still a fan even though I was salty

Hate to see you with the other girl, know you happy

I try to ration with you, no murders, no crime of passion

But damn, you was out of reach

“Whoa. Feels like five years ago again.”

The session ran smooth—three clean passes without a single stumble. Max laced his fingers behind his head and relaxed. “You haven’t changed. Robbie hasn’t changed either.”

“What’s wrong with you today?” Leon frowned.

He had long grown used to the Swedish beard’s extreme sensitivity. Today the man was more delicate than any woman, and it was starting to irritate.

Who hadn’t changed?

Everything had changed. The parts the eye could not see were beyond any stylist’s magic.

“Sorry. That video hit me too hard…”

Max seemed to realize his behavior had turned a little soft for a wild bearded producer. He straightened immediately. “Yesterday I spent the whole afternoon with Ken Bunt, president of Hollywood Records. Every third sentence was pure envy of you. Apparently every promising female singer ends up under your roof.”

“Thanks. Those girls’ achievements also required your work.” Leon offered the polite line.

“Not everyone is as lucky as you. Hollywood Records has one girl—Disney child star. Everyone used to believe in her future. Five years of pushing and her music career still hasn’t moved.”

Disney child star. Failed crossover attempt.

The description rang a bell.

“Sabrina Carpenter?” Leon asked.

“You know her?” Max lit up. “That’s exactly why Bunt invited me. I turned him down. My calendar is already packed—you and Taylor keep launching surprise attacks.”

“The girl has a little talent.”

Leon remembered her perfectly. Backstage at a festival she had almost come to blows with Doja Cat. Her music was still immature, but the sweet-plus-slightly-seductive timbre was genuine, and the camera presence from her child-star days let her control stage rhythm with ease. On paper the ingredients for a breakout were all there.

“I regret turning Bunt down.” Max slapped his own forehead. “What if one day Sabrina also ends up on Kensington Avenue? Disney raised her, sure—but Davis once headlined a superhero film. Look at him now…”

“Your worry is unnecessary.”

Leon propped his chin on one hand, eyes locked entirely on the booth. He no longer even bothered to perform interest in Max’s spiral.

The internal subtitle was simple: You’re hilarious.

“In the end Hollywood Records is just a Walt Disney subsidiary. Not a real professional major label.” Max failed to notice the attitude and kept talking. “One of these days I should bring Sabrina to Brooklyn. Let her see the absolute top of twenty-first-century pop.”