Tycoon Actor C535 (Patreon)

The World Cup was already the most-watched sporting event on the planet, but the Opening Ceremony had become something else entirely. A global superstar performing at that level, at that scale, had taken the occasion and lifted it into a different category altogether.

The internet hadn't stopped talking about it since. Football fans in particular had latched onto Magic In The Air — and whoever was running the official broadcast clearly knew it, because by Day 2 the song was already being used as the halftime fill music, and again on Day 3. It had become the tournament's unofficial soundtrack before the group stage had even finished its first round.

The effect on Lucas's profile was difficult to overstate. Billions of people had watched. Billions of people now knew the name.

The ceremonial kick clip alone had passed a hundred million views on Twitter and Vine combined, and it was still climbing.

"From now on, besides Messi, my idol is Lucas Knight."

"Can Lucas meet Ronaldo please, FIFA make it happen."

"I was at the Opening Ceremony in person. I will never forget that as long as I live."

"Why am I only discovering him now?? Lucas Knight is the new Michael Jackson, I'm sick."

The praise was overwhelming — almost unanimous. Almost.

"Why the hell did FIFA push the Opening Ceremony hours before the actual match? Are they that obsessed with Lucas Knight that they turned the whole thing into a concert?"

"Is this still the World Cup or did I accidentally tune into some American celebrity show?"

"I genuinely cannot stand this Lucas guy."

Some of the criticism had a point. Most of it didn't. Either way, it was beside the larger one: the 2022 World Cup Opening Ceremony had carved out its own place in the tournament's history, distinct from anything that had come before it. It would be talked about long after the final whistle of the last match.

Which was, of course, exactly what Qatar and FIFA had intended. Exactly why they'd been willing to spend what they spent.

---

By Day 4, Lucas made a brief appearance at the FIFA Fan Festival at Al Bidda Park — nothing extended, just a short stage moment, a wave to the crowd, a few words. Enough to show face, enough to feed the ongoing buzz.

The day after, the brand events began.

Several companies had organized promotional media days around the tournament, and Lucas had been pulled into a handful of them — appearances already folded into the broader week of obligations FIFA and Qatar had negotiated into his contract.

The brands themselves were straightforward enough: they wanted his presence in the room, his face in the photos, the association. Lucas kept it at that. Plenty of them had come with longer proposals — year-long deals, campaign partnerships, the kind of arrangement that would tie his image to their product for twelve months — but the price tags they'd have needed to meet weren't ones they were prepared for, and Lucas wasn't particularly interested in becoming someone's brand ambassador on top of everything else.

So the appearances stayed what they were: appearances.

Along the way he crossed paths with Mbappé, briefly, at one event — easy mutual recognition between two people who understood exactly what the other's life looked like. Neymar at another, louder and warmer, the kind of man who made a room feel immediately smaller in the best way.

But the one that drew the most attention — the one that had been quietly arranged between FIFA and the host country, as deliberately as anything else about this tournament — was Lucas and Ronaldo.

The setup was clean: a joint stage appearance, two of the most recognizable people on the planet sitting down for a moderated interview in front of cameras and a live crowd.

The photographers in the room treated the moment accordingly. Every frame of the two of them together had a certain quality to it — the kind of image that ends up on the front page not because anything dramatic happened, but because people understood instinctively that it was rare.

Ronaldo had come out to the stage to genuine noise, the crowd surging when he appeared. When Lucas met him there, the reaction doubled.

"It's very good to see you," Ronaldo said, extending his hand — direct, warm, the accent carrying the words cleanly.

"I've always wanted to meet you," Lucas said, gripping it. "This is great."

The interview that followed covered the expected ground — football, inspiration, the tournament itself — but framed through Lucas's perspective as an outsider; a global celebrity who understood spectacle and performance intimately but had no stake in the result. The moderator leaned into the contrast.

When Ronaldo was asked what he'd say to a child who wanted to become a professional footballer one day, he leaned into the microphone with the certainty of someone who had thought about this question his entire adult life.

"Work. Every single day. When other people rest, you work. When other people celebrate, you prepare. I came from nothing — from a very small place — and I always believed I could be the best. You must believe that about yourself. Nobody will believe it for you." He paused. "And love it. If you don't love it, you will stop when it gets hard. And it always gets hard."

Lucas was asked the same, broadened out beyond football.

"I'd say the same thing applies whether you want to play football or act or make music or build something from scratch. The people who make it aren't always the most talented people in the room. They're usually just the ones who didn't stop." He glanced briefly at Ronaldo. "And find someone who's already done it and study them. Not to copy them — to understand what's actually possible."

The crowd responded to both of them. The hour moved quickly.

When it was done and the cameras stepped back, Lucas was still processing the wrap when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find Ronaldo standing there — and beside him, his son, wide-eyed, barely containing himself.

"Sorry — can we have a photo? Together?" Ronaldo asked. Straightforward, no performance to it.

Lucas blinked, genuinely caught off guard. There was something disarming about being asked for a photo by Cristiano Ronaldo. "Of course. Yeah, absolutely."

They took the picture — Ronaldo's son between them, grinning in a way that made the whole thing feel less like a celebrity moment and more like a regular one.

Ronaldo looked at him afterward with something direct and sincere in his expression. "I love your music. The performance — it was great. Keep going."

"Thank you," Lucas said, and meant it. "And good luck with the match — break a leg out there."

Ronaldo's expression shifted, just slightly. "...Break a leg?"

Lucas winced internally. "It means good luck. It's a theatre thing. Means — I'm wishing you the best."

Ronaldo considered this for a moment, then laughed — a short laugh. "Okay. Thank you. I will break a leg."

They parted ways, and Lucas watched him go.

He knew, of course, how it would end for Portugal this tournament. In his previous life it had been Argentina who lifted the trophy — Messi finally getting his moment, the one that had been building for twenty years.

Lucas said nothing of this, naturally. He just hoped the man played well while it lasted.

He was about to head back when the car pulled around and he caught sight of what was waiting by the road.

A cluster of people — not a mob, maybe ten or so — lined the exit route. Most of them were content creators and journalists who'd attended the event, credentialed enough to know which way the cars would go. They'd been out there a while, by the look of it.

And right at the center of the chaos, unmistakable, was Speed — currently attached to Ronaldo like a barnacle, jumping up and down with the kind of energy that suggested his body had briefly stopped being under his own control.

Lucas watched from behind the window and laughed quietly to himself.

He'd noticed Speed in the interview room earlier — tucked among the other content creators, surprisingly restrained for once — and had thought nothing of it. But of course he'd positioned himself at the exit. Of course he had.

'It appears, that my being here has somehow accelerated this meeting.'

In his previous life, Speed's encounter with Ronaldo had come much later — Portugal, if he remembered correctly. And yet here they were, four days into the World Cup, Speed's face buried in Ronaldo's shoulder while Ronaldo patted him on the back with the patient warmth of a man who had seen many things in his career but perhaps not quite this specific thing.

'And Ronaldo isn't even trying to leave.'

That was the other thing. Lucas had half-expected the security detail to be quietly herding people back by now. Instead Ronaldo was standing there, genuinely present, his son at his side chatting animatedly with Speed like they already knew each other.

"Boss," Simon said from the front seat. "Looks like quite a few of them are here for you as well."

Lucas looked again. Simon was right — several of the faces had turned toward his car, and one of them had started jumping.

He didn't particularly want to go out and pull focus from what was clearly Ronaldo's moment. But then Ronaldo looked over, caught his eye through the glass, and gestured — come on then — and Speed, still mid-hug, physically pointed at the car while somehow maintaining contact with his idol.

Lucas rolled the window down. "What's going on out here?"

The response was immediate.

"Lucas! Autograph, please!"

"Can we get a photo — you and Ronaldo together—"

"LUCAS! RONALDO!"

The security team was already out and positioned, presence alone doing most of the work of keeping things orderly. The group was small enough that it stayed controlled — nobody pushing, nobody doing anything stupid. Lucas stepped out.

Among the faces pressing forward was one that gave Lucas a brief double-take — the blonde, the build, the whole studied presentation of it. He'd seen the clips. This had to be him.

The impersonator hit Lucas with roughly the same energy Speed had hit Ronaldo.

"I love you so much, bro!" Brandon grabbed him in a hug, bouncing on his heels.

Lucas accepted it with good humor. "What's your name?"

The man pulled back, eyes visibly wet. "Brandon. But online — I go by Lukas Night. With a K."

Lucas looked at him for a moment. "Lukas Night."

"Yeah."

"You could be my twin brother."

Brandon laughed the laugh of someone whose brain had temporarily gone offline. It was clearly a joke. He smiled like it was a prophecy.

A minute later, Lucas found himself standing next to Ronaldo while Speed positioned himself between them, one arm around each, grinning at whatever camera was pointed at him with the expression of a man who had achieved everything he had ever wanted out of life.

It lasted about as long as it needed to — photographs, a few words, the natural wind-down of a spontaneous sidewalk moment — before both of their security teams began the gentle, professional process of steering them back toward their respective vehicles.

Lucas fell into step beside Ronaldo for the last few feet.

"That streamer," Lucas said, keeping his voice low. "It looked like his soul was trying to leave his body."

Ronaldo smiled, glancing back briefly. "My son told me about him. Apparently he is a very big fan." He added, "I watched one of his videos. He is... intense. But I think the heart is genuine, so." He gave a small shrug. "It costs nothing to be kind."

Lucas nodded. A few last words, a handshake that felt like a proper goodbye this time, and they went their separate ways.

---

By the following day, it was everywhere.

The clips had spread the way only the most unexpectedly joyful things spread online — Speed finally meeting Ronaldo, losing his composure completely, Ronaldo kissing him on the forehead like a proud uncle. Lucas stepping out of the car.

The group photo. Brandon the impersonator hovering in the background of half the frames, somehow both an extra and a main character.

The comments came fast.

"Speed finally met Ronaldo and I'm actually emotional what is happening to me."

"The way Ronaldo just accepted the hug like this was completely normal behavior. King behavior."

"I am physically ill with jealousy. Speed met both Lucas AND Ronaldo in the same afternoon."

"Lucas just casually stepped out of the car like yeah alright. The most unbothered man alive."

"That guy hugging Lucas in the background — who IS that? Lucas from Temu?"

That last thread had its own momentum. The impersonator — Brandon, streaming under the name LukasNight — had been quietly building an audience around the World Cup already, riding the wave of Lucas's opening ceremony and leaning into the resemblance with a mix of clips, commentary, and the occasional bit that landed well enough to clip.

He wasn't Speed. He didn't have that particular frequency of chaos that made Speed impossible to look away from. But the combination of the physical likeness, the timing, and now this — appearing in the same frame as the actual Lucas Knight, visibly overwhelmed in a way that felt completely sincere — had pushed him into a different tier overnight.

He was riding Lucas's coattails, and everyone knew it, including him. But the coattails belonged to someone whose star was currently one of the brightest things in the sky, so nobody was complaining.

---

They stayed a little over a week. Jennifer had made good use of it — stores that closed their floors to the public just for her, beauty appointments, long stretches of time where nobody needed anything from either of them. She looked genuinely rested by the end, which didn't happen often enough.

Before they checked out, Lucas found Hamad and handed him an envelope. Twenty thousand dollars. He did the same for each of the maids who had looked after Seraphina through the week, one by one.

When they actually went to leave, most of the staff had gathered in the corridor. A few of them were already crying — the money, the goodbye, probably both at once. Lucas took photos with all of them before walking out.

He also arranged, quietly, for several million dollars to go toward migrant worker assistance programs across Qatar and the wider Middle East. No announcement. It just went.

After they left, the World Cup kept going. Portugal advanced, Argentina advanced, the bracket filled in match by match. But something had stuck in the football conversation that had nothing to do with any of it.

"When is Lucas performing again?"

"FIFA please. One more song. Just one."

"I came for the football and somehow left with a new favorite artist. I don't know what happened."

He wasn't a footballer, wasn't even a particularly avid football fan. But after the opening ceremony, the community had quietly adopted him anyway. Nobody made an announcement. It just settled that way.

---

By early December, the tournament was deep into the knockout stages — and Joker 2: Madness of Two opened in cinemas worldwide.

It had been anticipated for over a year. For DC fans it was the follow-through on everything the first film had set up; for Lucas's fans it was something more specific — the chance to see him back inside Arthur Fleck after everything that had happened in between.

The opening weekend pulled enormous crowds.

From the first act, audiences felt that Arthur Fleck this time was different. He was still the Joker — but he was trying to suppress it. Trying to just be Arthur, even inside a prison cell.

That didn't last.

His reputation had preceded him, and the prisoners had their own ideas about the man they were sharing a block with. Arthur took the beatings. He kept taking them — until the laughter came out, the uncontrollable kind, the kind he'd never been able to stop.

It pulled audiences straight back to the subway scene from the first film, and they felt the same thing they felt then: pity. For Arthur, who was trying his best to be better. But also for the prisoners — because those men had no idea what they were stirring awake.

What Joker did to them afterward sent a cold ripple through the cinema.

Nobody blamed him. That was the unsettling part.

From there, scene after scene — Joker and Harley building toward their plan, Gotham's discarded gravitating toward the Joker myth the way desperate people always do. One thing leading into the next.

Among the memorable sequences, one stood out — a musical duet between Joker and Harley that played like a besotted back-and-forth between two people utterly taken with each other:

"Anything you can do, I can do better! I can do anything better than you!" Harley sang.

"No you can't."

"Yes, I can."

They went back and forth before Joker countered: "Anything you can be, I can be greater. Sooner or later, I'm greater than you."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am."

Then, almost boastful: "I can shoot a partridge with a single cartridge."

It drew a chuckle from the audience. Then the realization settled — the song was dressed up as a lover's spat but was really two people contending over who was more capable of harm. The lyrics were innocuous. The context was not.

More musical sequences followed, and the film pressed toward its ending.

Connor had been there the whole time — a fanatic, quietly backing Joker from the shadows. When his moment came he killed a guard for the keys and opened the cell.

Joker stepped out, took Connor's hands, and danced with him — tender, unguarded, without a trace of cruelty in it. Then the knife appeared.

"Let's put a smile on that face."

Connor didn't pull away. He leaned in. That image — the look on his face, not pain but something closer to reverence — was what people carried out of the cinema.

"Besides me, you're the Joker. I can see it in your eyes. He lives in you. Doesn't he?"

"I'm honored," Connor breathed. "To be the Joker."

Cut to black.

As the credits rolled, the audience murmured. Friends turned to each other.

"That ending — they're not even hiding it. Arthur's retiring and passing the mantle to the next generation."

"Yeah. And I'm pretty sure that young inmate is meant to be the Dark Knight version."

"The sequel was great, but it still doesn't quite match the first film. Good, though. Definitely good."

"Agreed."

"And did you catch that line? 'Let's put a smile on that face.' That's Heath Ledger's line."

"I know. Gave me chills. Lucas used it and then passed it straight to the next Joker. Like a ritual."

"That was the whole point of the scene. Arthur giving that kid the line, the smile, everything."

"I'm a little disappointed, if I'm honest. This is probably Lucas's last time as Joker, isn't it?"

"Looks like it. He literally handed it over in the final scene."

"Ugh. I'd love a third film with Lucas still in it."

"Not happening now."

People filed out. The sequel had landed within expectations — not as raw or as affecting as the first, but a worthy follow-through. And whatever mixed feelings lingered about the ending, nobody left thinking Lucas had done anything less than his best.

---

The internet didn't wait for morning.

Reddit was the loudest.

r/DCcomics — "So that unnamed inmate at the end is obviously the Dark Knight Joker. Here's why."

"Arthur literally hands him the smile and the line. 'Let's put a smile on that face.' If you know where that line comes from, that moment hits completely different. The studio isn't confirming anything but they didn't need to."

"The unnamed inmate has no origin. He just wanted it. That's exactly the difference between Lucas's Joker and Heath's Joker."

"SPOILERS IN THE TITLE ARE YOU SERIOUS"

"I haven't watched it yet and now I know the ending thanks."

"Stop opening Reddit if you haven't watched it yet, that's on you."

The spoiler complaints ran almost as long as the theory threads. Fans who hadn't watched it yet were furious; fans who had watched it couldn't stop talking. The studio said nothing, which everyone took as confirmation enough.

By opening week, Joker 2 had pulled $140 million at the box office. Not the seismic number the first film had put up, but WB wasn't complaining. They'd barely spent on marketing — Lucas's name had done the heavy lifting, same as it always did, and they knew it. The numbers made sense given what they'd put in.

Avatar: The Way of Water was the real monster of the month, eating everything around it. Babylon, The Whale, Violent Night — all solid in their own right, all somewhat swallowed by the sheer footprint of Cameron's sequel.

Joker 2 held its own against all of them, which under the circumstances was more than enough.

---

At home, Lucas kept half an eye on the updates as they filtered through from Neil.

He'd already moved on by the time the final tallies came in.

He was at his desk, scrolling through a folder his agent had put together — a collection of indie projects, small films, the kind of thing that didn't come with a hundred-million-dollar offer attached.

Nobody had approached him for any of these. He'd gone looking himself.

He'd started on indies. Before any of the blockbusters, before any of it — he'd started small, and that had never entirely left him.

One title stopped him.

Aftersun.

He read the synopsis slowly. A father and his daughter on holiday. On the surface, warm and ordinary. Underneath — a man quietly falling apart, hiding it well enough that even the people closest to him couldn't see it.

Lucas sat back.

He was a father now. That part alone would have caught his attention. But it was the other thing — the depression tucked behind a smile, the weight carried in private — that made him stay with it longer than the rest.

He stroked his chin, thinking it over.

There were others in the folder too — Past Lives, All of Us Strangers, May December, Saltburn, A Real Pain, etc. He read through each of them, one by one.

---

Song: Ethel Merman & Ray Middleton - Anything You Can Do