The alarm hadn't gone off, but Anton was already awake.
He jolted upright, as if sleep had been a broken truce. The screen was still on. The midnight coffee was cold. So were his fingers. He had written until he fell asleep on the keyboard.
But the script was there. One hundred and twenty-six pages. Maybe more. Maybe too many.
He showered in silence. Fresh clothes, decent hair, and that black jacket he hadn't worn since someone mistook it for an expensive tablecloth. Today it worked. Or at least it hid how badly his hands were shaking.
At 7:58, he was walking down the hall toward Jameson's office.
The lights at the Bugle were just coming on. Some employees glanced at him. Others didn't bother. Anton was part of the furniture—the kind that costs more than it's worth.
At the office door, he didn't knock. Just walked in.
Jameson was already there, like a statue poised to charge, behind the desk. Steam rose from his coffee. The other hand held a pocket watch.
"You're two minutes late and think I wouldn't notice?" he growled, eyes on the open pocket watch next to him. "Is this in the script? The lead shows up late to his own humiliation?"
Anton raised the printed script.
"Here it is. No thongs, no musical numbers... and no excuses."
He placed it on the desk with both hands. Jameson eyed it like it might explode.
"'Batman: Begins'?" he read aloud. "Sounds like a Christopher Nolan movie with anemia."
"Thanks. That was the goal," Anton replied, steady.
Jameson snorted. He grabbed the first act as if it weighed more than the cover suggested.
"You have five minutes. If I get bored before then, I'm pulling the fire alarm," he warned, beginning to read.
Anton sat down uninvited. He watched silently as Jameson flipped the first page. Then the second. Then the third.
The room froze. Only the faint sound of turning paper.
One eyebrow rose. Then the other. Jameson frowned. He turned a page without snorting. That was rare.
At the end of the first act, he set the script down. Looked at it like he had found something valuable in a dumpster.
"This isn't crap," he said, almost annoyed.
Anton didn't move.
"That's good, right?"
Jameson looked at him like he'd said the Earth was flat.
"No. It's worrying. Now I have to make calls. And if the third act sucks, you'll wish I only yelled at you."
Anton allowed himself a small smile. Controlled.
"So... greenlight?"
Jameson sipped his coffee. Slowly. As if each sip helped him swallow his pride.
"No. You have a damn yellow with red sparks. But if you keep it that way, maybe it won't be the worst mistake you make."
Anton stood, steadier this time.
"You won't regret it."
Jameson pointed at him, dry.
"Don't start printing posters. It just means... I'm willing to waste a bit of time on you."
Anton smiled.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Shut up before I change my mind," Jameson growled.
Anton turned to leave.
"One more thing," Jameson added, without raising his voice. "I know I said you could leave the Bugle... but don't. Not until I find your replacement."
Anton turned, raising an eyebrow.
"I already told you Betty is the perfect replacement..."
And I already told you," Jameson cut him off, with that tone that brooked no argument, "I'm not putting a girl in charge of my paper. What's next? Changing the Bugle's logo to a rainbow flag with pronouns?"
"Perfect. Send that to Disney with your resume. They'll fire you before you finish saying 'inclusivity.'"
"What?" Jameson began, then waved off his own curiosity. "Never mind; I have someone in mind. Eddie Brock."
He didn't wait for a reaction.
"Reporter from the Daily Globe. Ten years on the frontlines, covered wars in Latveria, exposed a scandal in Sokovia, made a dictator cry live on air, and wrote a column so explosive the UN scrubbed it from their archives. He has more rejected Pulitzers than you have excuses not to wear a shirt, and unlike you, he doesn't think an open jacket is enough to run an editorial room.
"I already spoke to him. As long as he doesn't bite another photographer, he starts in a few weeks."
Anton shrugged.
"Good luck with that. Just don't give him my chair. It has history... and pizza stains."
Jameson grunted, but didn't argue.
Anton walked out of the Daily Bugle like he would leave an awkward party: without looking back. The mid-morning sun hit his face like a reminder the world kept spinning—with or without his script. He just put on his sunglasses and walked straight to his car.
The driver opened the door.
"Hotel, Mr. Jameson?"
"Hotel," Anton replied, tossing the portfolio into the back seat like he was dropping a weight no one else could see.
Half an hour later, Suite 907 at the Excelsior Palace once again smelled of reheated coffee and ambition in progress. Anton took off the jacket, kicked off his shoes, and dropped into his chair. The laptop was still open. One tab: BATMAN: BEGINS – FINAL DRAFT.
He opened the file and started rewriting furiously. Tightened dialogue, cleaned the intro, added an action scene on page thirty-three. Every keystroke sounded like a war drum.
He had an appointment that night.
Not with a woman. With cinema.
The contact's name was already in his phone: Jim Lambert. Producer. Old friend of his grandfather. One of those guys who'd tasted the top and now gnawed leftovers with grace.
Anton had never met him. But if his grandfather had called him, it meant something. Jameson didn't waste calls. Or favors.
At six sharp, Anton closed the file, printed it on thick paper, stapled it with pride, and placed it in a leather portfolio. Then he called:
"Prep the jet."
"Destination?"
"Los Angeles. Tonight."
Less than an hour later, L.A. greeted him with that golden glow that made everything look more promising than it was. Anton stepped off the private jet with purpose, sunglasses on, portfolio in hand. Inside was a script. In his mind, the certainty that this was his entrance into the game.
A black car awaited him. Elegant, discreet. Just right.
They crossed the city without rush. Palm trees, premiere billboards, and the usual mix of smog and glamour.
The car stopped in front of a building with no sign, no red carpet. Just a glass door and silence.
Anton didn't hesitate.
He entered.
Inside, the air smelled of varnished wood and old coffee. The walls were decorated with framed posters of past glories: thrillers with dramatic titles, forgotten rom-coms, an indie that once won something at Sundance—though no one remembered what.
And in the center of that altar to faded greatness, Jim Lambert.
Standing behind a solid desk. Shirt sleeves rolled up, hair slicked back with surgical precision.
He wore the smile of someone who'd signed too many contracts, buried too many promises, and seen too many actors cry in casting room bathrooms.
"Mr. Anton," he greeted, poker-faced. "A pleasure to finally meet."
"Don't say anything yet. Save the applause for the end."
Anton handed over the portfolio. Lambert took it casually, flipped through the first pages with the detachment of someone who's read too many expensive mistakes. He looked up, one eyebrow raised.
"You wrote this?"
"Made with these babies right here" Anton said, raising them like he'd just finished open-heart surgery.
Lambert skimmed a bit more. Flipped back a page. Then closed the script with a measured sigh.
"This isn't commercial," he said flatly.
"Not yet," Anton replied, still smiling.
"And it has no cast, no studio, no campaign," Jim scoffed. "Who the hell is going to finance this?"
"It's already financed," Anton answered, unfazed.
Jim looked up, part curious, part skeptical. Slight frown.
"With what? Your credit card?"
Anton paused dramatically, then delivered the line with perfect calm:
"I have an investor."
"Oh yeah?" Jim crossed his arms. "And who is this visionary philanthropist?"
Anton adjusted his sunglasses without hurry. Enjoying it more than he should.
"Tony Stark."
Silence.
Jim looked at him like he'd just claimed Walt Disney resurrected to direct the second unit.
"The Tony Stark?"
"The one and only. He read the concept. Thought it was... fun."
Jim leaned on the desk, letting out a short, defensive laugh.
"Holy hell. Either this is brilliant... or you're insane."
"Hopefully both."
Jim didn't respond right away. Walked to the window. Thought a few seconds.
"I need a preliminary budget, a shooting plan... and a screenwriter who knows to delete every time you wrote 'the camera does.'"
Anton shrugged, composed.
"Send whoever you want. Just don't bring anyone with scenes where cars jump between satellites. Been there."
Jim chuckled dryly.
"Alright then. Budget, screenwriters, and a miracle."
He extended his hand.
"Happy collaboration."
Anton shook it. Firmly.
"Until money or ego do us part."