If you stop someone on the street and ask who the president of some distant country is, a lot of people will blurt out the first famous name that pops into their head - without even realizing they're mixing everything up. Alex's situation, at that moment, had the same absurd aftertaste: across the ocean there were crowds who couldn't tell you who ran what in the world… but if you asked about Sosuke Aizen, the answer came instantly - certain, bright-eyed, almost proud.
The reason was simple. The two most recent episodes of Bleach: The Arrancar Arc had just aired, and with them Aizen's popularity in the United States surged again, like someone throwing gasoline onto old embers. At least among young people who lived and breathed film, TV, and pop culture, his name had become impossible to ignore.
"There are intruders… first, let's make some tea."
"Don't worry. No matter what happens… as long as you advance with me."
"Before us… no enemy stands."
Used to the American hero pose - straightforward, blunt, and loud - viewers over there were seeing, maybe for the first time, a villain who didn't need to raise his voice to dominate the room. Aizen imposed himself with elegance. He didn't force. He invited… and somehow it still felt like the whole world obeyed.
The English comments were a mix of shock and fascination, packed with profanity because people simply didn't have the vocabulary to describe what they were feeling.
"What the hell… this guy is ridiculously arrogant."
"Intruders? He makes tea. I've never seen a villain like this."
"Elegant. Too elegant."
It was almost funny. They didn't have a perfect word for that level of "presence," no term for that kind of dangerous charm. But they had a reaction - and reaction was what mattered.
In practice, if you asked on any younger street corner over there, "Who is Sosuke Aizen?" there was a high chance you'd get an answer. But if you asked, "Who is Alex?" you'd probably get a confused look - brows knitted like they felt they should know… but didn't.
While in the U.S. Alex's name was rising on the back of "Aizen," back home it was a completely different story: he'd broken out of the bubble for real. It wasn't just the people who watched.
It was the people who lived with the people who watched.
It was the kind of fame that traveled through walls.
Who the hell didn't know who Aizen was?
Even older generations - people who'd never cared about "foreign series" in their lives - recognized the name now, simply from hearing their kids and grandkids repeat lines in the kitchen, in the living room, in the car, like those quotes had become a new kind of modern proverb.
And in schools… it was worse.
The weekend barely ended before groups were already meeting in classrooms to rewatch together, as if the experience only became complete when everyone was in the same room, laughing and shouting at the same time. Most of them had seen it already, sure. They still hit play again.
Because the value wasn't just the episode.
It was the ritual.
That was where "watching live" became something else: the chat racing, the synchronized reactions, the feeling that the whole world was looking at the same thing with you. That was why on-screen comments had always existed in the first place - to turn consumption into a crowd.
And then, at the end of the episode, Aizen's voice cut through the air again, dropping another sentence with the taste of sweet iron.
"Before us… no enemy stands."
Instantly, the room erupted in shouts and laughter.
"Finally, finally… this is Bleach!"
"He's so arrogant… I love it."
"The king of presence. King of kings!"
"I swore there wouldn't be any Aizen this week… and he still shows up at the end just to put everyone on their knees!"
"Boys, noon game - BEFORE US, NO ENEMY STANDS!"
And like it always happens when a fandom gets big enough, someone tossed in a line from a totally different franchise, completely out of context, and the whole room became chaos.
"In front of me you're just a monkey!"
"Dude… wrong universe."
And that was how, in the middle of jokes, repeated quotes, and memes being born in real time, otaku culture spread without anyone noticing. There was no official announcement. No campaign.
Just contagion.
One episode pulls the next.
One line becomes a catchphrase.
A catchphrase becomes identity.
And before you know it, you're infected.
The funny part was that these two episodes didn't show that kind of absurd physical power display that had defined the end of the previous arc. There was no cinematic "slaughter." But the plan… the plan was worse. Using Orihime as a piece, kidnapping her the right way, allowing the farewell the right way, and with that dividing the group and the Soul Society - scattering the Gotei 13's strength like crumbs across the floor - everything about it, paired with dialogue dripping with class and threat, made Aizen shine even more.
Not for what he did with his hands.
But for what he did to people.
And the emotional impact of Orihime's confession - "I want to live five times, and in every one of them I'll love the same person" - transformed not only the character, but also Emily, the actress playing her. Fans came to her like breathing. People who'd ignored her started defending her. People who criticized her went quiet. Even those who only watched for the fights found themselves caught by that beautiful fragility, that sincerity that didn't ask permission.
The result was immediate.
The Arrancar Arc's score, which had been sitting at 9.7, surged to 9.9 - as if the audience had collectively decided to reward what they were feeling. Aizen fans repeated "now this is it" like a mantra. This was what they wanted: the villain being a villain in the most dangerous way possible - no rush, no sweat, reality bending around him.
And the platform holding the broadcast rights… rode the wave like it had struck gold. Subscriptions climbed so fast executives were grinning with their whole mouths. The boss, euphoric, called Alex personally with the kind of excitement that always tries to turn success into spectacle.
He asked if Alex wanted a party. An event. A "ribbon cutting." Something with carved ice, balloons, fog machines - the kind of corporate aesthetic that tries to look grand and ends up just looking… expensive.
When Alex hung up, his expression alone could've been its own show.
He felt like the whole thing was, at minimum… ridiculous.
But then the pragmatic thought arrived - the same one that always returned when time and money were on the table: he was about to leave for the United States to shoot Death Note. He'd be gone for months. Before that, calling friends in, having a drink, swapping stories, laughing about behind-the-scenes chaos… maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.
Especially if the boss was paying.
Other people's money had a special kind of charm.
A few days later, inside a massive banquet hall in a five-star hotel - booked entirely for the occasion - a glowing sign stood in the center like a monument:
"Congratulations! Bleach Surpasses 10 Billion Plays Nationwide."
The brightness nearly blinded Alex.
He stared at it a little too long, with the feeling he was looking at a joke that cost too much to be real. He'd always believed some billionaires had a screw loose, and with every new detail in that hall, the theory only felt more correct.
That party was both celebration and farewell, and Alex was the undeniable center of it. Even the boss drew less attention than he did. Because this wasn't an event for the public.
It was an industry event - people who understood how the game worked.
And in that game, clinging to the boss didn't help - unless you wanted something very specific and humiliating.
What mattered was getting close to Alex.
Starting a conversation.
Smiling at the right time.
Letting him feel you were "on his side."
Because if Alex rose, a lot of people wanted to rise with him.
In the middle of the hall, someone approached with an autograph board in her hands and courage shaking in her knees. A girl with a youthful face, the kind of look that could pass for a student even if she wasn't. She stepped closer with that transparent nervousness of a fan trying to look professional.
"I-I… um… Aizen - no, I mean… Director Alex… could you sign this?"
The slip of the name gave everything away. She realized it too late and turned even redder. She seemed to have come with Mark - and the kind of people around her said she wasn't here by accident.
Alex looked at her, trying to remember who she was.
It took a few seconds before his memory clicked with help from someone beside him, who whispered her name like they were rescuing the moment.
Sam.
An actress trapped in that cruel limbo of "everyone's seen her, but nobody remembers from where." He vaguely recalled her from an older project, one of those roles where she played young so naturally it didn't feel strange even though she didn't need to prove anything anymore.
And yes - she had that youthful aura other people envied.
Alex, meanwhile, had gotten into the habit of reminding Emily - with affectionate, teasing warmth - that once she hit thirty, she should drop the obsession with "girl energy" and lean into something stronger, sharper, more elegant. A woman doesn't need to look like a teenager to be desirable.
If anything, it's the opposite.
In fact, if Emily were already thirty right now, Alex wouldn't have cast her as Orihime at all.
He would've given her a heavier role. One that matched presence.
Summer Johnson, for example.
He signed, handed the board back, and simply nodded politely before moving on - because that's how those parties worked: you smiled, you greeted, and you kept walking, like every second you stood still was an invitation to be surrounded by ten more people.
And she wasn't the only one.
Terry, Bruce Walts, and other young names from the same circle were there too, brought by Mark - a whole group that looked like they'd begged to be allowed into that hall, knowing opportunities like this didn't repeat easily. And it wasn't only Mark who'd "dragged people along."
Veterans had arrived with little personal armies: colleagues, protégés, disciples. People who didn't just want to drink and celebrate.
People who wanted to be seen.
Some even showed up attached to their own families, like blood ties were an extra ticket of prestige. In the middle of luxury and glitter, it was impossible not to notice that everyone had their own strategy.
In one corner, a woman leaned in, lips almost brushing another woman's ear - too impatient to pretend calm.
"Go. Ask him for a part. A role. Anything. Now."
The other woman - elegant, controlled - kept smiling… but her eyes betrayed hesitation. In the series she played a captain with a dangerous aura, a woman with a serene gaze and unreadable intentions. In real life, though, she had a personal rule: she wanted someone you could marry. Someone who didn't make half-promises.
And Alex…
Alex had a reputation for not being that kind of man.
A man who attracted orbits, not vows.
But when she looked toward the center of the hall and saw Alex surrounded by heavy hitters, flattered like he was the sun of an entire system, her rule wavered for half a second.
Because deep down, nearly every beautiful woman has a weakness she hates admitting:
She likes heroes.
And in that moment, Alex looked exactly like one - a modern hero, stained with fame, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
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