Eddie's office was a mess.
Empty mugs, scattered notes, and a whiteboard with more cross-outs than actual ideas. The guy had been locked in for hours, reading reports that looked like they were written by people suffering from chronic insomnia. Each new piece of data made him frown deeper.
According to reports gathered by Bugle journalists in San Francisco, the Life Foundation had taken a diabolical turn: they were now the city's star philanthropists.
The strategy was flawless. They recruited homeless people with contracts no sane person would sign… except they did. Then, they created a so-called "Homeless People's Association," entirely funded by the Life Foundation itself, with Carlton Drake smiling in the picture as honorary president. A PR move so polished it was nauseating.
They built a massive complex on the outskirts of the city. They called it "Homeless Home," as if the name itself wasn't already a cruel joke. In practice, it was a cage: the homeless were transferred there by the municipal government itself, with limited freedom, 24/7 surveillance, and cameras everywhere. Getting in was easy. Getting out, not so much.
And the worst part? It was working. San Francisco's streets were "clean." Citizens applauded. Politicians pocketed campaign donations. And the Foundation got raw material for their experiments with chilling efficiency.
Eddie clenched his jaw. The plan was so clean, so disturbingly legal on the surface, it was terrifying.
Without direct proof, any article they published would barely be an annoying buzz. And if they failed, they'd drag the Bugle's credibility down with them. Years of reputation tossed away on a weak accusation.
"An attack that doesn't sting or itch is useless," he thought.
His phone buzzed on the desk. It was Phil Yurick.
"Boss," said the young voice on the other end, cutting to the chase. "We've got a problem."
Eddie rubbed his face. Not a good sign.
"The security patrol doesn't stop, day or night. Cameras everywhere. All access points sealed. If someone tries to sneak in, they're caught before they even cross the first fence. We barely got a few exterior shots… but there's no way to film what's going on inside."
"Figured as much," Eddie murmured grimly.
Phil hesitated a second before continuing:
"We could… infiltrate. With a micro-camera. Pretend to be one of them. If we get footage of a signature, proof of experiments, something incriminating… we could blow this wide open."
"Are you nuts?" Eddie snapped. "I'm not sending you into the lion's den to play hero."
Silence. Then Phil's voice returned, calmer.
"So… what's our next move?"
Eddie stared at his empty mug. Thought about the cage, the cameras, Drake's smile. Then answered:
"From the inside. If we can't break in, we find someone who's already in."
Phil seemed to catch on instantly.
"Reverse infiltration. Good idea. I'll see what I can find."
"Take it slow," Eddie warned. "One wrong move and they're on alert. Then we're screwed."
"Got it, boss. We won't screw this up."
The call ended. Eddie exhaled.
He had a plan. Not ideal. But it was a start. And with some luck, maybe this time they'd strike where it hurt.
The first two days of filming were… intense. In the same way a daycare fire is intense.
A light exploded. An actor fainted from the heat. The prop horse collapsed before even shooting a single scene. And Anton —wearing sunglasses, clutching a cold coffee, and carrying a folder full of ideas only he understood— discovered that directing a movie was an extreme sport.
The worst part wasn't the chaos. It was the looks. Everyone stared at him like he was supposed to have the answers. Spoiler: he didn't. Halfway through the second day, after yelling "Cut!" when no one had even said "Action," he knew he needed reinforcements.
On the third day, thirteen assistant directors arrived like celestial envoys. Real professionals. With schedules, earpieces, and that look of "we save film shoots the way others make coffee."
Anton didn't bother hiding his relief. He delegated tasks with surgical enthusiasm: "You, lights. You, camera. You, make sure the horse doesn't die again." He kept charge of scenes featuring the male lead —a young guy with a sculpted jaw, perfect hair, and zero sense of humor— while the rest of the team handled the supporting cast and sets.
The film progressed. The shooting plan, crafted by the meticulous Jim, promised a wrap in 120 days, followed by 90 for post-production, fifteen for final editing, and a marketing campaign that sounded like "we'll do what we can with whatever's left of the budget."
Two hundred days total. For a special-effects-heavy blockbuster, not bad.
But for Anton… it was hell.
"Half a year to see results?" he said one night, sprawled on the trailer sofa eating chips straight from the bag. "What is this, plastic surgery?"
The system was still locked. No tangible results, no points. Batman remained in "dormant mode" like a poorly downloaded app. And it was driving him insane.
So he did what he did best: ignored advice and sped everything up.
"Jim, I want this in three months. Max."
Jim looked at him like he'd just asked him to rebuild the Colosseum in papier-mâché.
"Are you insane?" he said, dropping a folder full of schedules. "Do you know how many movies get ruined by rushing the shoot?"
"And do you know how many get ruined anyway after six months and double the budget?"
There was yelling. Flying documents. A coffee mug hit the floor. A dramatic scene in which Jim threatened to quit while Anton discreetly recorded it to use as a promotional blooper.
But in the end, Jim agreed. Grudgingly. Because as producer and investor, Anton had the final say. Literally.
With Jim out of the way, Anton ordered the shoot to be split into multiple units. One for main scenes, another for secondary scenes, and one exclusively for special effects, all working in parallel.
Chaos returned. But this time, it was productive chaos.
Within a month, the team had completed nearly half the movie. The special effects department joined earlier than expected, setting up computers, green screens, and a projector no one knew how to use but looked great in behind-the-scenes photos.
Of course, not everyone was convinced. The whispers on set were constant:
"Is that the real director?"
"I thought he was just a rich kid playing filmmaker…"
"He told me 'less is more' and then ordered three explosions for a scene where no one dies."
Some supporting actors even started considering faking injuries to leave the project without contract penalties. But no one dared say anything to Anton's face. Not because he was intimidating… but because, honestly, it was impossible to tell if he was joking or serious 90% of the time.
Even Rachel —the lead actress, who had a close professional relationship with him— was beginning to emotionally unravel. She cried at night, or so said the makeup crew. No one had proof. Not Anton, not the system, not even Rachel herself.
One night, after finishing a complex crane-and-rain scene that included a minor accident where a lamp nearly decapitated an extra, Anton took off his headphones, looked at the crew with a tired smile, and said:
"Alright, folks. That's a wrap for today. See you tomorrow at seven. And remember: if someone dies, we rewrite it."
He easily declined Rachel's invitation to "discuss the script" (which he knew meant another talk about her character's emotional motivation in a scene where she just had to look out a window), and dragged himself back to his trailer.
His back cracked. So did his neck. He felt like he was aging three years per week. He checked his phone. Missed call from Browning, the screenwriter.
He called back immediately.
"Anton," Browning said on the second ring. "The novel's ready. Sent the manuscript to your email. Take a look. If anything's off, I'll fix it."
"Did you include the bats-as-childhood-trauma-symbol part?"
"…Anton?"
"Kidding. Great job."
He hung up. Opened his email. Read the adapted novel. Sharp, punchy, well-paced. He smiled.
Browning had nailed it. He'd turned Anton's cinematic chaos into something worth printing. Maybe that gold medal was real after all.
He opened the call app and dialed Eddie.
"What do you want now?" Eddie answered, his voice dripping with insomnia and bad airport food.
Anton propped his feet on the table with a triumphant air.
"Sent you a novel. Check your email. I want it serialized in the Bugle. Sixty days, one chapter every two. Big, visible. Needs to be seen even in the bathrooms."
"Part of the campaign?"
"It is the campaign," Anton said. "People need to read it before the trailer drops. Trust me."
Brief silence. Then Eddie sighed.
"Alright. Not hard."
"Good." Anton settled more comfortably on the couch, raising an eyebrow. "By the way… you okay?"
"What?"
"Your voice. You sound like you've been locked up three nights straight with a Red Bull and some unresolved trauma."
"I'm fine," Eddie answered, a bit too quickly.
"Uh-huh. Sleeping at least?"
Silence.