Burbank.
Warner's headquarters, inside the grand conference room.
The executives exchanged glances before diving into a heated debate with Drew over shares and investment figures.
They'd already reached a tacit understanding: Warner was definitely investing in this project. The only question was how big a slice they'd claim.
The earlier executive's remarks were just a ploy to gain leverage in the negotiations—a classic good-cop, bad-cop routine. Martin knew it well; he and Drew had played the same game plenty of times.
As Warner's team sparred verbally with Drew, Alan Horn strolled over to Martin with a grin, steering the conversation toward politics. In America, the ties between capital and politics ran deep. No capitalist could afford to ignore the game.
"Martin, how's Obama's momentum looking?" Horn asked.
"Not bad at all. The latest polls show his approval rating topping 60%."
"The debates won't be easy," Horn cautioned. "McCain's a master at them."
"No worries," Martin replied. "Barack told me he's sticking to speeches, not debates."
Horn burst out laughing.
It was a jab at McCain, tied to a notorious moment from 2000. Back then, during the Republican primary against Bush, McCain faced a smear campaign just before the final debate. Bush's team had spread rumors that McCain had an illegitimate mixed-race daughter with a Black woman—when, in fact, she was an adopted daughter from Bangladesh. The scandal tanked McCain's popularity, paving the way for Bush to clinch the Republican nomination.
"Word is, McCain's planning to push some radical ideas in the first debate," Horn said, curiosity piqued. "Like expelling Russia from the G8?"
Martin nodded. "I've heard the same. If it's not just a smokescreen, McCain's camp is clearly going all-in, banking on extreme rhetoric to win over certain groups."
He shook his head. "It's a desperate move. Won't work."
While Martin and Horn chatted, Warner's executives and Drew finalized the project's terms and presented the results to the decision-makers.
Warner would invest $25 million plus the rights to the Joker, securing a 30% stake in the project.
Meyers Pictures would put in $20 million, plus Martin's directing and acting fees (folded into the investment), for a 70% stake.
However, the peripheral product revenue split was the reverse: Warner and DC would take 75%, while Meyers Pictures would get 25%.
…
Leaving Warner's headquarters, Martin headed to pick up his car.
"Wanna grab a bite nearby and celebrate the new project?" Drew suggested.
"Sure," Martin agreed. "I know a great steakhouse close by."
On the drive to the restaurant, sirens suddenly blared behind them. Several police cars roared past.
A couple of kilometers later, Martin and Drew spotted a crowd gathered in front of an eight-story building. Police, freshly arrived, were cordoning off the area.
Martin slowed the car, catching a glimpse through the crowd. A middle-aged man's body lay on the ground. "Another jumped the building," he sighed. "Ever since the subprime crisis hit, suicides have been skyrocketing."
Drew looked away, nodding. "Yeah. It's not just the middle class getting crushed. Even billionaires are being wiped out. Since the start of the year, over ten tycoons have taken their lives—Steven Good, Adolf Merckle, René-Thierry Magon de la Villehuchet. These were people the public once idolized, but this economic crisis broke them."
Martin added, "Investing's a minefield. Those guys lost everything because of bad bets, compounded by the financial crisis. Take de la Villehuchet—he was a Wall Street legend, but he lost billions of his clients' money investing with Bernard Madoff."
"Madoff's Ponzi scheme?" Drew exclaimed. "That guy screwed over a lot of big names."
She added, with a hint of relief, "You know, Cameron and I almost invested with him. Thank God you warned us. Who'd have thought a former NASDAQ chairman would pull something like that?"
"Forget when this financial storm will pass," Drew said, her voice heavy. "Unemployment's spiking like crazy."
Martin shook his head. "This crisis is worse than people realize. The fallout could last over twenty years."
"Twenty years?" Drew gasped. "But McCain and Obama both promised at least $700 billion in relief once they're in office!"
"Drew, you've got to understand—in a global financial crisis this massive, the wealth evaporating is astronomical. The U.S. alone could lose tens of trillions. Seven hundred billion won't even make a ripple."
But for Martin, who knew how history would unfold, this crisis—spanning nearly a decade and lingering even at the time of his other soul death—was a golden opportunity.
He was snapping up overseas assets discarded by tycoons at bargain-basement prices, focusing on high-value industrial enterprises.
Take the Smederevo Steelworks in Serbia, for example. Founded in 1913, it was once Serbia's only state-owned steel mill, hailed as the "Pride of Serbia." It accounted for 40% of the Smederevo region's fiscal revenue but had been declining since the 1950s.
Later, a subsidiary of the U.S.-based Cleveland Group acquired it for $33 million. The Cleveland Group, once a symbol of American "old money," had been spiraling downward since the late '90s. When the financial crisis hit, their cash flow dried up, forcing them to sell off assets to survive.
Martin swooped in, acquiring the Smederevo Steelworks for just $1—though he had to assume €46 million in debt.
Once in his hands, Martin immediately brought in experts to dismantle the operation. He transferred key workers and machinery to his own turf: Guinea.
Simultaneously, he was scooping up factories worldwide—steel, shipbuilding, automotive, aerospace, railway construction—while recruiting waves of unemployed workers from the U.S. and Europe to relocate to Guinea for industrial projects.
Truth be told, without the economic crisis, these skilled workers would never have considered moving to what many Westerners saw as the "savage" lands of West Africa.
For Martin, this financial crisis was nothing short of a goddamn jackpot.