….
The lights dimmed in the cinema hall, the chatter died down, and the theater screen glowed to life.
For once, the three boys weren't jostling or bickering.
Dev leaned forward in his seat, knuckling white around the armrest.
Rayan slouched back, a grin plastered across his face, whispering little quips during the trailers.
And Arav - quiet, watchful, sat with a kind of stillness that seemed older than his age.
Martin, sitting on the aisle, folded his arms.
He wasn't one for superhero nonsense, not really.
But this wasn't about him.
He had brought his son, and by extension his son's friends.
One of them, Rayan, he tolerated with a stiff politeness, his own distaste rooted not in the boy, but in the boy's father.
Old grudges had long shadows.
Still, as the movie rolled on, even Martin couldn't deny its grip.
The opening beats drew gasps.
The action drew roars.
Every set-piece landed like thunder in the theater, and soon the boys were swept in entirely - Dev laughing, Rayan hooting loud enough to make strangers glance, and even Arav's eyes lit with something unspoken.
By the halfway mark, their hands hurt from clapping.
By the climax, Rayan's voice cracked, his throat dry from cheering.
Dev looked like he might burst out of his seat.
And Arav, though still silent, leaned forward at the exact moments that mattered most.
When the credits rolled, the room erupted in applause.
The crowd rose as one, buzzing, talking over each other about favorite scenes.
Martin stood with them, stretching his stiff legs.
Dev jumped up, grinning ear to ear.
Rayan shook his stinging hands, muttering. "Worth it."
But Arav stayed seated.
"Arav?" Martin asked, a hint of impatience.
The boy's gaze stayed fixed on the screen, where names scrolled endlessly.
He spoke softly, but his words cut through the noise around them. "Didn't you all forget who the director of this movie is?"
Dev blinked.
Rayan snorted, not getting it at first.
Even Martin frowned, unsure where the boy was going.
That question hung in the air.
For a moment, all three stared at the quiet boy, then it clicked.
Regal.
If Regal directed this, then… of course.
He was known for never letting things end at the surface.
There had to be something waiting.
But most of the theatergoers didn't care.
People were already stretching, gathering jackets, herding kids toward the exits.
The crowd slowly drained out, the roar of voices fading into the corridor outside.
Arav didn't move, his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, patient.
Dev shifted uncertainly but sat back down.
Rayan groaned, rubbing his dry throat, but curiosity won.
Even Martin, with his usual skepticism, found himself lingering.
The credits crawled on… Long.
Almost deliberately long, and then - black screen.
A cut.
Suddenly: the click and flash of cameras.
A swarm of reporters circled a man in a dark suit, his face bruised, lip cut, eyes sharp, he looked tired but proud, almost defiant.
"Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!" they shouted. "Are you saying you're some kind of vigilante? A superhero?"
The name landed heavy.
Tony Stark.
For the audience, it was the first time they had ever heard it.
Tony adjusted his tie, his arrogance impossible to miss, he smirked, but the pause behind his smirk carried weight.
Then - flash cuts.
Rapid, almost disorienting images surged across the screen.
A figure of steel painted in red and gold.
A bulky, tank-like prototype stomping through flames.
Not a machine, but a man inside the machine.
Eyes glowing, repulsors charging.
Then it all snapped back to the press conference.
The man at the center.
Tony Stark.
His expression hardened, the ego, the pride, the dangerous honesty in his eyes.
A reporter pressed, condescending: "I never said you were a superhero."
Tony leaned into the microphone, the room went quiet.
The audience in the theater leaned forward without realizing it.
He opened his mouth.
And in that moment, Arav whispered with him - voice low, almost reverent, like recalling the words of a bedtime story his father once read long ago.
"I am Iron Man."
The screen cut to black.
The theater erupted in disbelief - half the audience had already left and would regret it forever.
But for those who stayed, it was like a door had opened to something far bigger.
And in the dim light, Martin stared at Arav, unsettled once again.
How had this quiet boy known?
….
Regal leaned back as the credits rolled on, white letters climbing into the darkness above the screen.
This time, he wasn't standing by the balcony exit, studying the crowd's faces like he usually did. Gwendolyn was tucked against his side, her hand looped firmly around his arm, and for once he let himself sit still.
He didn't need to see the audience to know - their energy hung in the air, buzzing, still alive even after the final scene.
He could sense it, the gamble had paid off.
That was when his phone buzzed.
He almost ignored it.
Hardly anyone had his personal number, and the few who did weren't reckless enough to interrupt him tonight of all nights.
But instinct made him check, thumb swiping across the screen.
The message was short, barely anything at all.
Hey, the movie is great…
That was it, with no punctuation or a signature. Just a handful of words.
Regal's brows lifted, then his gaze dropped to the name saved in his phone:
[Green Lantern]
He had kept it that way as a private joke, a quiet reminder of the man behind it.
Though soon, he thought, he might have to rename it.
Something fitting, maybe a scarlet mask, something with blades of sarcasm and a streak of madness.
A comparison to Spider-Man? No.
That would be insulting.
This one was sky and earth apart.
Ryan Reynolds.
Once positioned as the shining face of MDC's cinematic leap, only to be dragged under when [Green Lantern] collapsed into a disaster.
It hadn't just damaged the studio's credibility; it had left scars on Ryan himself, the kind that still lingered in every headline, every late-night punchline.
Regal had his number thanks to Stan Lee, who had even traded a few casual words with him recently.
Nothing much, yet Ryan had latched on, almost eager, as though sensing Regal might hold the keys to something better.
Something redemptive.
Regal's fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he typed out a reply, dry and deliberate:
- Want to make a Green Lantern sequel together?
The answer came so quickly it might've been waiting, loaded in his drafts.
- Fuck off respectfully…
Regal couldn't help it, he laughed, sharp and sudden, shoulders shaking in the quiet theater.
The image of Ryan still haunted by that green suit, still clawing away from the nightmare, was too much.
Gwendolyn turned her head, frowning, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "What's so funny?"
He shook his head, trying to school his grin into something more neutral. "Nothing." He said lightly.
But Gwen wasn't buying it, her grip on his arm didn't loosen.
Womanly instinct had a way of peeling through deflections, and Regal knew she sensed it, there was something in that laugh he wasn't sharing.
So… Regal's next film is going to be Deadpool?
The thought flickered through his mind like a match strike, quick and sharp.
But soon he decided, that was a question for another time, another stage.
Nonetheless, he could already picture it.
The suit, the blades, the fourth wall crumbling under Ryan's grin.
A character too sharp, too wild to be ignored forever.
There would be a day - inevitable, undeniable, when that same man who still flinched at the word Lantern would stride across the big screen again, red mask on, voice dripping with sarcasm, stealing the show in ways no one else could.
Regal didn't smile this time, he just exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the fading credits.
He knew the pieces were already moving.
And the audience, still unaware, had no idea what storm was coming next.
.
….
[To be continued…]
★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★
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