[Chapter 60. A New Era of Hollywood Filmmaking.]
Last Time on Chapter 059 of [From Shadows To The Spotlight] —
"He wants the film to hit theaters first and let the audiences decide for themselves."
"Let the story stand on its own and earn its reputation through word-of-mouth—not through some 'expert' dictating how people should feel about it."
Totoro sighed, shaking his head. "I hate studio politics."
Sam gave a half-hearted shrug, eyes flicking back to the screen. "It is what it is."
Now Continuing —
Their conversation was momentarily forgotten as Spider-Man dove over the bridge, hurling himself into the air after a plummeting car.
Gasps rippled through the audience as his webs shot out, catching the vehicle just in time. The tension was palpable, but then—
A muffled cry.
The camera panned in, revealing a terrified child trapped inside the swaying car.
And just when it seemed like Peter had already pushed himself to the limit, he went further.
The bridge cables groaned under pressure. Peter's muscles strained as he held onto the web line; his fingers were trembling under the weight. He had just been at the end of patrol for the end when he heard about the monster's attack on the bridge and swung in.
Despite his injuries and exhaustion, he still didn't let go. He refused to let go.
A sudden exclamation cut through the hushed awe in the theater.
"Oh my lord! Is that kid lifting a freaking car?!"
"That's an SUV," a voice corrected from the row behind them.
"A Chevrolet Tahoe, to be specific. Those things have a curb weight of around 4,600 to 5,300 pounds (2.4 ton)." The man who spoke had an almost casual air about him, like he was pointing out a fun fact rather than watching an impossible feat unfold.
Sam turned, half incredulous, half amused.
"Woah, is Spider-Man supposed to be this strong?" someone else muttered.
A chuckle came from nearby—not condescending but amused, as if the question itself had triggered a memory.
"Anything you'd like to share with the class, Kahu?" A man turned to address the teenager beside him before glancing at the others and offering a polite apology.
"Sorry about the kid—my sister begged me to take him to see the new Spider-Man movie. I'm Argent."
The boy—Kahu—flushed slightly but kept his eyes glued to the screen. "Sorry, mister," he muttered, though his excitement was barely contained.
"It's fine," Totoro replied with an easy smile. "I'm Guillermo."
On-screen, the tension peaked as Spider-Man, his face drenched in sweat, pulled his mask off and gently placed it over the frightened child's head.
A simple gesture.
A symbol of reassurance.
The moment hit Totoro in a way he hadn't expected. His heart swelled with something warm and unfamiliar.
Pride.
Not for Alex, or even the film. But for Peter.
For the hero that Alex and his team had so carefully crafted—the kind of hero that, despite the superpowers and larger-than-life battles, felt human.
It was an odd feeling.
But not an unwelcome one.
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As the final scene faded to black and the credits began to roll, the entire hall was engulfed in a heavy, almost reverent silence. The last image lingered in their minds—a battered and bruised Peter Parker, his body broken but his spirit unyielding, swinging into the city skyline as the cheers of thousands filled the screen.
The title card reappeared one final time, followed by the words: "The End."
Their hearts pounded in the chests, as goosebumps prickled across the skin of their arms.
It was an entire crowd of thousands of extras shouting and praising and thanking for his act of bravery in the face of monstrous odds. The scene had been a triumph—not just for the hero on screen, but for the audience who had been with him every step of the way.
A scrawny, kind-hearted kid from Queens had become Spider-Man. He had faced his fears, battled his guilt, and still found the strength to help the very man he had unwittingly pushed toward darkness. The crowd watching felt something rare, something powerful.
This is my hero. This is my Spider-Man.
It was the reigning sentiment in the theater, an unspoken agreement among everyone present. And yet, despite the sheer emotional weight of the moment—despite the urge to rise to their feet and erupt into applause—they remained seated. Not out of a lack of appreciation, but rather out of respect.
Alex Masters had requested this himself.
When welcoming the guests for the night, he had made one simple request: Please remain in your seats until the credits finish rolling.
When asked for a reason, he chose not to reveal the truth and only offered a small smile as he said, "It's to pay respect to all the people who made this dream of ours possible."
Unlike other studios, though, in every MONARCH film, the credits weren't just names scrolling on a screen. They were faces. The behind-the-scenes heroes—the stunt teams, the lighting crews, the editors, the artists—were all there in photos, immortalized for their contributions.
In the audience, rival studio heads and HR executives leaned forward with anticipation. They had been waiting for this moment. Alex Masters was about to hand them the keys to MONARCH's greatest asset: its people, its legendary film crews that Alex had spent over a decade cultivating.
A blockbuster like [Spider-Man: First Swing] wasn't just about its director or its stars. It was built on the backs of unseen craftsmen—the very people these executives were eager to poach. They didn't care how much it would cost, these people were the backbone of MONARCH.
They are Alex's ace, his trump card, and they were dead set on breaking that like Bane did to Batman; and they were done being outshined by a so-called visionary who thought he could simply waltz in, charm everyone, and change the industry that they've ruled over for decades.
But when the credits appeared, their smug confidence faltered.
Every single person in the production photos was wearing a Spider-Man mask.
Not just the stuntmen. Not just the costume designers. Everyone.
Actors. Writers. Directors of photography. Even Alex Masters himself—credited as Director, Editor, Screenplay Writer, and Executive Producer—stood among them, his face hidden behind the iconic red mask.
The message was clear.
Spider-Man wasn't a one-man show.
He was all of their blood, sweat, and tears put together.
The rival executives gritted their teeth, frustration evident. Sure, they still had names to work with, but without faces, tracking down specific talents would be exponentially harder. Still, they weren't worried.
They had spies in MONARCH. HR. Marketing. They would figure it out eventually.
What they didn't realize was that Alex had already accounted for this.
Yes, money ruled Hollywood. But with Alex having quite a few geniuses in Wall Street handling his funds, he had grown immensely wealthy. So, MONARCH had never been short on money.
Though, what truly set MONARCH apart from the rest wasn't just its paychecks—it was its culture.
Employees weren't just well compensated; they were valued, their voices were heard, and their hard work was praised and duly compensated. Salaries usually ranged 30 to 50% above industry standards.
Bonuses were generous, career growth was unparalleled, and above all else, MONARCH fostered an environment where artists and technicians felt challenged and fulfilled.
Alex had learned long ago that some people could be bought. And if that was the case, then the best thing to do wasn't to fight over them or try to retain them by offering more money, but rather to, simply, let them go.
To him, losing those who were easily swayed by short-term gains was a favor done to him by his rivals. After all, in his eyes, it only served to strengthen MONARCH's core—a team of people who believed in something far greater than a paycheck.
And as the final credits rolled, the audience understood something profound.
This wasn't just a movie.
This was start of a new era of Hollywood.
---------
The credits kept scrolling, names fading in and out against the black screen, when suddenly—everything went dark. The audience, already perched at the edge of their seats, held their breath.
Then—BOOM.
A deafening explosion tore through the silence. It wasn't the dramatic swell of an orchestral score, nor was it the usual cinematic explosion that had been edited and mixed to sound "cool."
No, this was raw, visceral—like a vault door being blown off its hinges with a dull, stomach-sinking thud. The kind of sound that didn't just hit the ears but reverberated in the bones.
Then, the screen flickered to life.
A man, his back turned to the camera, strode casually into a dimly lit warehouse. The Oscorp logo loomed on the walls, half-illuminated by the flickering overhead lights. He moved with purpose, his heavy boots crunching against the debris left in the aftermath of the blast.
Around him, shadows danced as his men—masked, ruthless—began looting, greedily snatching up weapons and tech stored in the facility.
The camera lingered for a split second on a mechanical behemoth looming in the background. A beast of steel and wires, with a massive, wicked-looking horn protruding from its head—like a rhino. A few seats in the theater creaked as viewers leaned forward.
Further down, suspended by thick metal hooks, hung a massive glider—sleek, angular, predatory. A murmur rippled through the audience. A few of them knew what that was.. what it meant.
But the man in the hoodie paid them no mind. He walked past the weapons, past the chaos of his underlings, until he reached something covered by a heavy tarp. The moment his men moved to unveil it, he raised a hand, stopping them. This was something he wanted to uncover himself.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he yanked the tarp away.
A pair of mechanical wings gleamed beneath the harsh warehouse lights—broad, metallic, deadly. The design—especially the propulsion fans—bore a striking resemblance to the glider hanging behind him.
Then, for the first time, he turned to face the camera, pulling down his hood.
Adrian Toomes.
The same Adrian Toomes who had been humiliated, belittled, and thrown out of Oscorp by Norman Osborn at the start of the movie. The same man who had once been nothing more than a desperate scientist.
But now?
Now, his presence was different. The slump of defeat was gone, replaced by a quiet, simmering rage. His lips curled into a smirk—not one of joy, but of cold, calculating intent. He didn't need to say a word. The message in his eyes was clear:
Norman Osborn was going to pay.
And if the city's web crawling vigilante decided to play hero?
Well… he wasn't going to have a good time either.
The ominous score crescendos, and before the audience could fully process the implications, the scene abruptly cuts away.
—To darkness—
Then the sounds of blaring sirens.
A man ran through the alleyways, panting, stumbling. The red and blue lights of pursuing cop cars painted the grimy brick walls, his shadow elongating and twisting with every frantic step. His clothes were torn, his breath ragged. He vaulted over a chain-link fence and collapsed into an empty plot of land, gasping for air.
Then, the camera finally caught his face.
A few gasps spread through the theater.
Some people in the crowd immediately recognized him.
It was the accomplice of the crook who had murdered Uncle Ben. The man responsible for Peter Parker's greatest guilt.
Some audience members whispered to one another, others clenched their fists. They wanted him caught. They wanted justice.
But then—
His head snapped up. His breath hitched.
A look of panic and terror overtook his face as he realized that he might have made a big mistake.
The camera panned to a half-buried sign, its warning obscured by layers of windblown sand. Then, as if fate itself wanted to drive the horror home, a strong gust swept through, clearing just enough of the dust to reveal three fatal words:
DANGER: EXPERIMENTAL SITE.
Inside a nearby control room, a group of scientists stood around a console, frustrated.
"Damn sandstorm's blocking the cameras again," one grumbled, adjusting his headset.
Another glanced at the monitors, frowning. "I'm picking up an anomaly. Living matter detected inside the testing field."
"Probably just a bird," the lead scientist dismissed with a wave of his hand as he started the experiment. "It'll fly off when we start the machine."
The crook barely had time to register what was happening. A deep, inhuman rumble filled the air as the machinery beneath the sand roared to life. His screams were drowned out by the deafening vibrations.
His body—
His very being—
Began to dissolve.
He reached into his pocket, his trembling hands fumbling to pull out a small locket. His fingers barely had the strength to pry it open, but when they did, the camera zoomed in just enough for the audience to see—
A photograph.
A little girl's smiling face.
His daughter.
"I'm sorry, Prin—"
His voice choked off as his body crumbled into grains of sand, swallowed by the wind.
The last shot was of his T-shirt lying in the dust. The locket rested atop it, unmoving.
And then…
Silence.
The screen didn't cut away immediately. It lingered.
Forcing the audience to sit with it. To feel it.
Some of them had cheered moments ago, eager for the man to be arrested and punished. But now? Now they sat in stunned, horrified silence.
The ones who had read the comics knew exactly what had just happened.
This wasn't just any crook.
This scene was the moment the Sandman, an iconic Spiderman Villain was born.
The screen went black once more.
Then, the credits started rolling again.
This was it. The true end.
Or so they thought.
Just as the first few audience members shifted in their seats, ready to rise and give their long-overdue standing ovation—
The credits stopped and the screen went black again.
The theater collectively held its breath.
A few murmurs rippled through the audience as they exchanged curious glances, wondering if there was anything left to see. The theater, moments away from erupting into a standing ovation, fell into silence once again when a soft click echoed through the speakers.
It was the unmistakable sound of a pen tapping against paper, followed by the faint scratch of someone writing.
The screen flickered back to life.
A dimly lit room. A man sat with his back to the camera, clad in a dark trench coat. The glow from multiple monitors bathed the space in a cold, bluish hue, casting long shadows. The audience barely had time to take in the details before the camera shifted, panning slightly to reveal a defining feature—the stark black eye patch covering one of his eyes.
Looks of recognition filled the theater, as a few of the audiences could already tell who it was just based on the man's silhouette.
He didn't need an introduction.
The man sat in silence, flipping through a thin file as his one good eye fixated on the various screens before him. On it, video footage played—clips of Spider-Man in action, but not just from his climactic battle with the Lizard, who had turned himself into a 14-foot tall monster.
Every major moment from the film was there.
The screen displayed the young hero lifting an SUV to free a trapped child, the sheer effort visible in every muscle as he strained against the weight. Another clip showed him leaping in front of a bus, planting his feet, and stopping it just in time to prevent a deadly collision.
In another, he clutched his bleeding leg, struggling to move after being shot, if only just for a moment as he summoned his will to steel his mind and make his escape. Each act of heroism, each feat of impossible strength, was there—undeniable evidence of the vigilante's capabilities.
The man in the trench coat remained still, absorbing the information, his face unreadable.
Then, the soft click of heels.
From the shadows, a woman stepped forward, composed and confident. The moment the camera focused on her face, a fresh wave of whispers coursed through the audience.
Jennifer Connelly.
A familiar face to the fans of MONARCH's hit films and TV shows. But this wasn't the vibrant, charming presence they were used to seeing on screen. Here, she radiated a cool, professional demeanor, her movements precise, and her gaze was unwavering.
She stopped beside the seated man, holding a slim file between her fingers. "Director Fury," she addressed him, her voice even yet firm.
The camera finally panned to the front, revealing the full face of the man in charge.
Samuel. L. Jackson.
The audience barely had time to process the weight of the moment before Jennifer glanced at the screen and continued speaking, "Do we track down his identity? Are we considering him for the Initiative?"
Fury remained quiet for a long moment, flipping through the file once more before exhaling sharply. "Not yet," he finally said, setting the papers down. His voice carried its usual mix of authority and caution. "Spider-Man's got potential. Hell, he's got heart. But it's too early to tell if he'd be willing to join us for Phase Two."
Then, Fury lifted his gaze for the first time, looking past the monitors and straight at Jennifer. His expression hardened slightly.
"Maria," he said, his tone shifting ever so slightly to a more hopeful one. "What's the update on Stark?"
And with that final, loaded question—one that raised a dozen new possibilities—the screen cut to black.
For a brief moment, the audience sat frozen in stunned silence, minds racing with what they had just witnessed.
Then, at last, the end credits began rolling once again.
This time, for good.
— To be continued...
{2,875 words}
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