It wasn't that they couldn't kill each other—they absolutely could. But it was like the way nuclear-armed nations refrain from launching missiles at their allies. Just because you can doesn't mean you should.
And yet—he still died.
He died to save Roy.
That unchangeable reality shattered Roy.
The memories of everything they'd been through together, the words they'd exchanged—all of it replayed vividly in Roy's mind. He still had to get the list. But maybe… maybe he could help him get his revenge in another way.
Those men had relied on their lofty status to act with impunity. So why not tear them down, one by one? Strip them of their power, take away the influence they cherished most. Once that was gone, exacting revenge would be far easier.
That was the plan. So why—why did he have to die?
Why die like that? Why die saving him?
In anguish, Roy buried him at the edge of the cliff, facing the wreckage of the plane, where he could forever look out over the sea.
And there, before the grave, Roy broke down.
His desperate, soul-wrenching sobs burst through the screen, drowning the theater in grief. Every single person in the audience felt it—his heartbreak pouring from the screen, raw and unfiltered.
This was an Oscar-worthy performance.
This was an Oscar-worthy film.
Critics in the room shared the same thought.
The performances—both Roy's and Zhang's—had been nothing short of perfect. The emotional intensity, the clash between ideals and inner convictions, had been brought to life with haunting clarity.
In the final moments of the film, the two massive raptors seen in the trailer soared into the sky together—only to fly off in separate directions.
Standing by the grave, Roy gripped the USB drive containing the list tightly in his hand, his eyes locked on the rescue vessel approaching in the distance—resolute, unwavering.
The movie ended on an open-ended note.
It never revealed whether Roy exposed the contents of the drive or destroyed them.
This, too, was a brilliant choice. No matter which ending Laila had chosen—exposing or erasing the list—it would have placed the film squarely in the eye of a storm, praised by some, fiercely criticized by others.
Instead, she laid all the elements on the table and left the final judgment to the audience.
As the credits rolled, the theater was dead silent.
Everyone sat in that heavy, sorrowful silence, clinging to a sliver of hope—waiting, maybe, for a post-credit scene that would give the story a happy ending. Something to ease the weight in their chests.
But the screen stayed black.
When the lights finally came on, the applause was hesitant at first—scattered and subdued. It gradually built, but it never reached the fervent highs that usually accompanied Laila's premieres. Instead, there was a kind of unspoken pressure in the air. A heaviness.
Critics clapped as they thought.
How should they review this film?
Was it good?
Honestly… it was excellent.
Laila had used the techniques of a commercial blockbuster to tell a story that was deep, grim, and thought-provoking. Whether in terms of cinematography or thematic weight, there was virtually nothing to criticize. In fact, many of them silently agreed: this might be one of the top three films of her career.
But would general audiences love it?
That—no one could say for sure.
Judging by the premiere night's atmosphere, the response wasn't all that promising. Didn't they notice how muted the fans' reactions were?
And it wasn't hard to see why.
Laila had built her brand on commercial hits—movies that delivered adrenaline-pumping excitement and cathartic satisfaction. Her fans had come to expect that signature style. They probably had sky-high expectations going into this film.
But this movie wasn't just a commercial blockbuster.
It was too real, too heavy, too deep.
Fans looking for a fun, action-filled escape likely wouldn't connect with this kind of narrative.
So… was this going to be Laila's first flop?
Several critics glanced around at one another, and their faces gradually turned grim.
What would happen if this really flopped?
No one could say. Laila had never failed. Since her debut, she hadn't had a single box office flop—not even a film grossing under $300 million.
People were used to thinking of her movies as guaranteed hits, instant classics. If this film failed, it wouldn't just damage trust in Laila—it might shake audience confidence in all of Hollywood.
But at the same time… if someone predicted this failure before it happened, that person would instantly become the most credible, most respected, most followed critic in the industry.
Fans would worship the "prophet" who had seen it coming.
And what critic wouldn't want that?
After all, the rise of the internet had flooded the space with self-proclaimed reviewers. Anyone with a computer could spew out opinions—most of them poorly thought-out regurgitations of what others had said, lacking any serious analysis or original insight.
What did regular people know about film?
Would they notice if a single flower in the frame symbolized evil?
Would they realize a prop could reflect the protagonist's internal struggle?
True critics looked down on the online masses. They believed these people were just parroting public sentiment—if everyone said the movie was good, they'd echo that. If the film was panned, they'd find flaws just to fit in. Even the few who tried to be contrarian often lacked substance or coherence.
Yet despite their disdain, the real critics couldn't do anything about them. What were they going to do? Take away their internet? Ban their keyboards? If they tried that, they'd have the police knocking at their doors.
But now—this was an opportunity.
Laila's film. This one right here.
It could be their golden ticket.
The film had depth—undeniable depth. But would young audiences who loved flashy, brainless action flicks care?
And who made up Laila's core fanbase?
Young people.
Teens to thirty-somethings had practically grown up on her films. They were used to her signature flavor. Now she'd hit them with something this heavy, this reflective, this… tragic.
Would they even understand it?
She had missed her key demographic. And without that—how could the box office possibly succeed?
If the box office tanked, how could anyone say the film was a success?
For most directors, a $65 million film pulling in $200 million would be a huge win. But for Laila?
Anything under $300 million was a failure.
And if even her core fanbase didn't embrace this film…
Would it mean that her winning streak was over?
Would this be the end of her legendary run?
If so, then the first critic to predict this fall…
Would become a prophet.
And prophets get power.
They get influence.
They get worship.