The next two weeks flew by.
Anton had returned to New York and hadn't stopped for a second: meetings with Jim, visits to the Bugle, calls with cinematographers, location scouts, assistants. All without making too much noise. He'd already held several meetings in his office—the big one, the boss's—with people who hadn't stepped on a set in years but still knew how to move a camera.
The script kept evolving. The project, too.
That morning, Anton stepped out of the elevator adjusting his jacket cuffs. He crossed the Bugle's lobby with a confident stride, giving a brief nod to the interns. Technically, he didn't own the place. But nobody questioned him. And that was enough.
As he pushed open his office door, he saw him.
Eddie Brock stood by the window, so stiff he looked like an uncomfortable statue. He wore the editor-in-chief pin like it was a life sentence hanging from his collar.
"Anton," he said, without moving. "Got a minute?"
Anton raised an eyebrow, closed the door with his elbow, and walked toward his desk with all the calm in the world.
"I've got five. But if you're here to bite me, make it the left side. The right one looks better in photos."
"It wasn't a bite," Eddie muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.
Anton, halfway to his chair, turned his head slightly.
"Huh? You'll have to say that louder. My subtitles aren't on."
Eddie looked up, swallowed hard, and repeated with more conviction:
"It wasn't a bite."
Anton looked at him with more interest than mockery. He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
"Well, now I'm curious... sit and tell me."
Eddie sat down, still tense. Hands clasped. His voice, now steady.
"Carlton Drake. The guy behind the Life Foundation."
Anton didn't interrupt. He simply sank slowly into his seat.
"I'd been investigating him for months. Everything was too perfect. But I saw things. People going into labs and not coming out. Clinical trials on the homeless. Experimental, illegal treatments. Some could barely walk. Others... just never came back."
Anton leaned back. Silent.
"I had no proof," Eddie continued. "But I saw it. I had a source inside. They were going to give me the documents. They vanished before they could. So I went straight to Drake. Got a private interview. I asked about the missing people, my source, his experiments."
He paused for a second.
"He just looked at me. Like he already knew I was screwed. Days later, I got fired. Then the rumor started."
He laughed without humor.
"They said I had a 'breakdown' in a meeting. That I bit a colleague. No one confirmed it. No one defended me. They just... let it spread."
Anton crossed his arms, let out a low whistle.
"Hell of a way to turn journalism into urban legend."
Eddie looked at him.
"And yes. I want to keep investigating."
Anton studied him for a moment, then murmured:
"You lost your career for this... and you still want to keep digging?"
"Yes."
Anton stayed silent another second, drumming his fingers on the desk. The guy in front of him had just admitted he'd lost everything chasing a truth no one wanted to hear… and still wanted more.
"Alright." He leaned back, letting out a sigh more theatrical than tired. "Maybe I can give you a hand. But you know how this goes."
Eddie nodded, resigned. He misread the tone as a disguised goodbye. He stood up with the same stiffness he had when he walked in.
"Understood," he said, looking toward the door.
Anton raised an eyebrow.
"Where you going? That fast?"
Eddie hesitated. Looked at him for the first time without tension, just a flicker of confusion.
Anton swiveled his chair slightly and pointed a thumb at his chest.
"Personally, Eddie... I'm with you. But you know how this works: the Bugle is my house, sure, but the old man still holds the lease. And he doesn't hand out keys for free."
Eddie studied him. Not with suspicion anymore, but something subtler. Almost hope.
"Thanks," he said, sincerely.
"Don't thank me yet," Anton replied, shrugging. "I said I'd talk to him. Not that I'd win him over with roses."
Eddie smiled. A real smile, finally, before leaving the office.
Anton watched him go. When the door closed, he let out a low grunt and pulled out his phone. Dialed without thinking.
On the other end, a raspy voice, like sandpaper, answered instantly:
"What did you do now?"
"Nothing yet," Anton replied, settling into his chair. "But I might be about to."
"God. Did you knock someone up?"
"Old man, I have standards. I'm calling about Brock."
"Brock knocked someone up?"
"No, Jonah. No one knocked anyone up!" Anton huffed. "Listen. The guy wants to keep digging into the Life Foundation. Yeah, the same one that nearly buried him. What he told me... it sounds fucking real. Illegal trials, missing people, a source that vanished before handing over documents."
A brief silence. Then the voice returned, sharper:
"And you believe him?"
Anton hesitated for just a second.
"I don't have proof. But I have eyes. And that guy wasn't lying."
"Then tell him to do it," Jonah said, like it was nothing.
Anton blinked.
"Come again?"
"What, do you need subtitles too?"
"I thought you'd say no. That you didn't want more fires."
Jonah let out a short laugh.
"And miss the chance to take down a lab tycoon with a god complex? Please. Besides, the Life Foundation is in San Francisco. New York is our turf. If they want to come here, they better bring umbrellas."
Anton laughed, surprised.
"Look at you... the iron editor with a sense of justice."
"Only when it's worth getting my hands dirty."
Click.
Anton set the phone on the desk, still smiling, when he heard a knock at the door.
"Come in," he said without missing a beat.
A slender man entered with a sharp face, neatly combed brown hair, and a brandless, perfectly pressed shirt. Browning Toby. Award-winning screenwriter in indie circles, still unknown to the wider public.
"Anton Jameson, right? Pleasure. Thanks for seeing me."
"Thanks to you for not charging me by the minute." Anton smirked. "I've got a story. And I need it to sound like we're changing cinema."
Minutes later, they were both seated. Poorly cut printouts, half-empty coffee cups, and an idea on the table that looked like nothing Browning had read before.
"This is... different," the screenwriter murmured, flipping through the draft with growing interest. "A vigilante. Not with superpowers, but trauma. Psychology. Real pain. This isn't a hero. He's a warning in a cape."
"That's what I want," Anton nodded. "A story that hits hard. That feels dangerous. That unsettles and fascinates at the same time."
Browning studied him. He expected a rich kid playing filmmaker. But the man in front of him knew exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was to break the mold.
"I'll finish it as soon as I can," he said at last. "But while we're at it... what else do you need?"
Anton leaned back.
"A novel. Based on the script. Something publishable. That leaks into blogs, forums, culture columns. That sparks curiosity before a single frame is shot."
"And the pay..."
"Will be generous. I don't haggle over art."
"Then it's a deal."
Browning got up with more energy than when he'd arrived. He had read something different. Something that could define an era. That didn't happen every day.
"I'm flying to Los Angeles tomorrow to meet the producer," Anton added. "If you're up for it, there's a seat on the jet."
"I'll think about it. And thanks for trusting me."
Anton nodded as the screenwriter left. Then he stood there a moment, watching the golden sky fall over the city, as if it, too, wanted to be part of the story.
Then he remembered Eddie.
Anton stepped into the hallway just as Betty slammed her locker shut. Her bag hung from her shoulder like a declaration of independence.
"Is Eddie still in the building?" he asked, almost casually.
Betty didn't even turn.
"Is this a promotion... or are you just collecting broken promises?"
"Hey..." Anton raised his hands. "I admit I handled it badly."
"Badly? You said it was my position. And the next day, surprise! Eddie Brock, new editor. Not even a message, Anton. Not one."
"I didn't get to choose. Jonah imposed it and—"
"And what? You tripped over your spine?"
She finally looked at him. One second. Precise. Lethal.
"If I ever trust you again, someone slap me," she said, and walked off.
Anton stood there, staring at the empty space she left behind, as if rehearsing an apology for another lifetime. He rubbed the back of his neck, when another voice broke the silence:
"Everything okay with your boss?"
Eddie was leaning against a doorway, arms crossed. Anton turned with a crooked smile.
"Ex-boss. Technically, neither of us knows who's in charge here."
"Make that three of us."
Anton pointed at him with his thumb.
"Got five minutes? There's a bar downstairs. I promise not to ruin your career over a beer."
Eddie thought for a second, then nodded.
"And you also promise not to offer me a job you won't give me?"
Anton squinted at him, grinning.
"So you heard... I knew she'd still be mad."
"Relax, man. She'll get over it... as long as you stop promising her the moon and leaving her hanging."
Anton snorted, shaking his head.
"Noted. Fewer promises, more results."
Eddie smiled, just a little.
Both stepped into the elevator.