"The Life Foundation is smarter than we thought," Eddie said dryly on the other end of the line.
Anton turned in his chair, frowning. He expected bad news, but not a total lockdown.
"Nothing? After more than a month?"
"No holes," Eddie confirmed. "From the inside or the outside, they're locked tight. They've taken way too many security measures."
Anton muttered a curse. Inside, frustration boiled. In his past life, he used to fantasize about Hollywood-style evil corporations, mad scientists, and absurd backdoors. But the Life Foundation played in a different league.
No clichés. No easy leaks. Just bureaucracy, surveillance, and a perfectly airtight system.
"Not all hope is lost," Eddie added. "We've received some solid intel from a few researchers. Apparently, they're preparing an experiment... a major one. They need a large number of human bodies and plan to increase the investment."
Anton let the words hang in the air.
"And?"
"No proof. Nothing that incriminates them. We can't get into the homeless shelter. We can't prove they're violating human rights. We can't do anything... unless—"
Anton finished the sentence for him:
"Unless someone grows a beard, puts on a filthy coat, and sneaks into the shelter playing homeless."
There was a pause.
"Yeah," Eddie said reluctantly.
And he didn't blame him. Disguising oneself as a homeless man and infiltrating a shelter indirectly controlled by a megacorp like the Life Foundation was practically career suicide. And literal suicide, too. If they found out he was a journalist, his most likely fate was ending up as a test subject... or worse.
Eddie knew that. That's why he hesitated. But the helplessness was eating at him.
Slowly, an idea crept into Anton's mind.
...
"Mysterious experiment?" he repeated under his breath.
He had a hunch.
He couldn't be sure, but his gut screamed they'd already started working on the symbiotes.
Considering how obsessed Carlton Drake was with them, it was only a matter of time before he crossed the line from brilliant scientist to lunatic with a god complex. A couple of successful results, and next would come a cape and codename. Probably a speech about forced evolution.
Of course, that wasn't Anton's problem. Not yet.
Drake operated out of San Francisco. Anton lived in New York and was currently shooting a film in Los Angeles. Cities, in this world, functioned almost like rival nations: each with its own rules, mafias, and madness. Sure, the Life Foundation wanted to expand... but they lacked the gear for a world tour.
If the conflict ever went public, everything would change.
Anton thought it over for a second, sprawled on his couch like someone deciding whether to get up to grab the remote.
"What about bribing someone on the inside?" he asked casually. "There's always an underpaid guard or a clerk with gambling debts."
"Won't work. The employees are completely in the dark," Eddie replied firmly. "And Drake's got management by the throat. He even threatened the families of some researchers. So no, we can't move forward that way."
A brief silence.
Then Eddie spoke, with a conviction that didn't sound improvised:
"I have to go to San Francisco. I can't sit back while that bastard plays god."
Anton didn't argue.
"Then good luck," he said. With that deadpan tone of his that sometimes sounded like sarcasm and sometimes like support. This time, it was the latter.
The investigation had hit a wall. Eddie was willing to cross the line. Anton wasn't going to stop him.
He'd seen it coming.
Giving up wasn't an option for either of them. Not after making that promise to Jameson. Not after getting this far. Backing down now wouldn't just be a professional failure — it would be a personal one.
Besides... thinking logically, Eddie seemed like the real protagonist here.
A moral guy. Stubborn. Willing to risk everything for the truth.
In other words: the chosen one.
And those don't usually die before the third act.
Anton picked up the phone again, just before Eddie hung up.
"One more thing. Before you go play martyr, make sure everything's in order. Including my novel," he said, like he was reminding him to turn off the coffee machine.
"Got it covered. I promise," Eddie replied, with a tone that mixed commitment and gratitude.
In his worst days, when he was a wreck, it was the Daily Bugle that lent him a hand. Now, he had a boss who trusted him more than anyone.
And Eddie was determined not to let either of them down.
Anton didn't think too much about it.
After hanging up, he collapsed on the hotel bed like someone had flipped his switch. Constant shooting, last-minute decisions, coffee that no longer worked... it all caught up to him. He fell asleep in under a minute.
Half a month passed without him even noticing.
The movie progressed at absurd speed. Against all odds, even the special effects were in motion, because Anton had supervised everything personally, dragging editors like Olympic sprinters.
The entire production followed the calendar he'd promised—or rather, the calendar he'd scribbled on a napkin during dinner with Lambert. But it worked.
The crew, who initially saw him as a spoiled heir with a genius complex, began to change their minds. They saw a preliminary cut. Just thirty minutes of film. And it blew their minds.
The story flowed. The scenes connected. The actors — miraculously — didn't look like robots.
To keep pace, Anton cut exterior shoots. He used effects, stand-ins, green screens, visual tricks... even had the assistant director handle 90% of the outdoor shots. Result: the pace skyrocketed.
In fifty days, two-thirds of the movie was already filmed.
And Jim Lambert... well, he dropped by the set every now and then to pretend he was still in charge. Each visit left him more confused. And more convinced he'd been scammed by a stylish millennial with a Batman script.
But that night, Anton wasn't thinking about success.
He was restless.
Eddie.
It had been over half a month since he went to San Francisco. At first, he called every two days. Sometimes to talk about the case, sometimes just to confirm he was still alive. But a week ago, after infiltrating a shelter, contact was lost. Total silence.
Anton wasn't the type to panic easily. But this... this was starting to worry him.
First, because he had greenlit Eddie's trip into the mud.
And second, because he genuinely liked him.
Eddie was stubborn, yeah. Obstinate. But he had convictions. And people like that were rare. Jameson had told him: "Don't let him do this alone." Anton had promised. And breaking that word now would be a personal, professional, human failure.
Besides, if this were a movie... Eddie was the lead. The one who dives into the heart of the problem. The one who finds the truth. The one who survives.
Anton, meanwhile, was the guy who funds the post-credits scene.
He sighed. Picked up his phone. Dialed a number he barely remembered.
Eddie had left it before disappearing. "If anything happens, call this guy. He's young but reliable." A backup reporter in San Francisco. Also worked for the Daily Bugle. Phil Urick.
"Hello?" answered a young, tense voice.
"Phil Urick?" said Anton, serious. "This is Anton. Anton from the Daily Bugle."
"Ah! Yes, sir. I'm Phil. Phil Urick. Good evening. Or morning. Whatever."
Clearly nervous. Probably sweating. Anton could practically hear him swallowing.
"Listen, any news from Eddie?"
Silence.
"Uh... not exactly, sir. Since he entered the shelter, we lost contact. No one's been able to reach him. Seems there's a communication blackout in that place. But... we bribed a guard from the Association. He says no one from the Life Foundation has shown up lately."
"Lately?"
Anton raised an eyebrow, though no one could see him.
Phil lowered his voice.
"I mean... as far as we know. No records. So we assume the editor-in-chief... should be okay. For now."
"And if they do show up?" Anton asked, slowly. "What happens if the Foundation enters the shelter?"
The silence on the other end was long. Awkward.
"In that case... we can't guarantee anything," Phil finally answered, without conviction.