"Hello… why are you calling?"
Filming for Bleach: The Arrancar Arc was already past the halfway mark when Alex's phone lit up, slicing through the set's noise like a blade through silk. The name on the screen tugged a crooked smile out of him - not quite affection, more the dangerous kind of curiosity that blooms when you know the person on the other end has a talent for trouble without even trying.
Emily had just wrapped a full day on another lot. She was still deciding whether to sprint straight to her next commitment or steal two days of rest like a crime committed without witnesses. But the sound of that voice, even muffled by distance and signal, carried - sharp enough to reach her anyway.
The voice she hated most in the world.
Her body reacted before her mind did. Her posture changed, chin lifting by a fraction, attention snapping into place like a hunting animal scenting threat.
After she cut ties with her old agency, Emily had spent weeks grinding over two options like they were doors to entirely different futures: build her own empire from scratch… or step into Alex's company and let the world call it "a professional partnership." In the end, she chose the second.
Emily was competitive down to her bones, but there was one simple truth she'd never say out loud: if you could make money lying down, why would you insist on making it standing up? And with a little luck… a lot of luck… maybe she'd end up with his last name, too.
But there was a sharper reason underneath that decision. Emily had looked over the roster orbiting Alex's company and nearly laughed from sheer disbelief. There were girls who were too young, girls still brand-new, girls who still looked like they belonged in a classroom - and then there was her, with experience and gravity. If she joined, it was obvious: she'd be the face of the whole thing.
The problem wasn't work. Emily didn't fear work.
Emily feared sharing a throne.
And among every possible rival, there was exactly one who made her stomach turn on instinct: she could dismiss the tall airheads, ignore the ones who coasted on vibes, but the "goddess" - the untouchable darling, the one fans defended like a religion - was different. The kind of woman who didn't need to raise her voice to dominate a room. She only had to exist.
On the other end of the line, the voice arrived soft, hesitant - like it was apologizing for taking up space.
"My mom gave me a script," she said. "I read it… and I don't think it's bad. Could you take a look?"
"Oh?" Alex replied, glancing around as if searching for somewhere to sit - or maybe just searching for a way not to laugh. "What's it called?"
Bell, quick to read a room, stood immediately and pulled out a chair like he was offering a weapon to a general. Alex waved him off. He didn't need it.
Instead, he tapped Emily's shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, made her stand, sat down in her place - and in the same motion, pulled her onto his lap as if she were an extension of his comfort.
Bell blinked, momentarily frozen, like he'd just watched a scene that wasn't in the day's call sheet. But he didn't comment. Directors had seen worse. Film sets ran on egos, quiet deals, and scandals that turned into hallway jokes by lunchtime.
Still, nothing on that set prepared Alex for her next words.
"So Young."
For a second, his expression cracked. His throat locked mid-breath, like his body tried to swallow a laugh and failed.
He knew that title.
Not just "knew" - it was the kind of memory that stuck like a bad song you hate but can't stop hearing. The melodrama. The tortured youth. A line so overcharged it sounded engineered to become a meme… and somehow still lodged itself in your brain.
Alex rubbed at his face, trying to look serious. What came out was seriousness on the verge of collapse.
"Okay… and who's playing the male lead?"
"A singer," she answered carefully. "Really famous. From that huge group."
That nearly finished him off. Alex bit the inside of his cheek, a cruel slideshow of "alternate casting choices" flickering behind his eyes.
"I see." He inhaled. "Honestly… it's got a certain charm. If you want to do it, do it." And then the sentence dissolved. "Pfft - sorry, I - ha - "
On the other end, silence thickened.
It wasn't empty silence. It was the kind weighted with wounded pride.
"Are you laughing at me?" Her voice trembled - not from fear, but from insult. "You want to watch me crash and burn."
Yes, he answered in his head with the brutal honesty only thoughts can afford.
But out loud, he coughed, smoothing his tone back into something usable - an actor returning to character.
"That's not it. It's… your call. I'm not your agent. I can't decide for you."
"If you'd let me do one of your films, I wouldn't be so… torn," she muttered, barely above a whisper, like she hated herself for wanting it.
Alex was about to respond when a voice exploded beside him, ripping through the call like a gunshot.
"In your dreams, sweetheart!"
The "goddess" froze. Because that voice wasn't Alex's.
It was a woman's - sharp, venomous, perfectly placed.
Before she could react, before she could drag in a breath and pretend it didn't hurt, the line went dead.
In her room, alone, she stared at her phone as if it had betrayed her. Frustration flared hot and impulsive. She grabbed a pillow, hugged it like an enemy, and drove three ugly punches into it - no grace, no poise.
"That - " she hissed, pure fury. "That - "
On set, Alex stared at the disconnected screen, then at Emily, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he'd scattered himself.
"What was that?"
"What do you think it was?" Emily shot back, eyes bright with irritation. "I can see her trying to hook you. You're not going to tell me you're thinking of handing her a female lead in your film, are you?"
The word lead came out like a curse.
Emily knew exactly how hard she'd pushed for opportunities Alex kept locked behind a cold smile. She knew that, so far, the only truly confirmed casting was that a younger actress would play the protagonist's sister - and even that was enough to set tongues wagging and theories spiraling. A film wasn't a TV drama. In a film, even a decorative role demanded presence. And Emily had presence.
She could accept not being chosen. She could swallow it. Pretend it didn't sting.
But the idea of that woman getting it?
Unthinkable.
Because the question wasn't "Why not me?"
The question was "Why her?"
"Alright, alright." Alex lifted a hand, half soothing, half exhausted - like a man used to putting out fires with his bare palm. "Go back to the company and rest. Don't you still have promo to run for that fantasy drama of yours?"
Emily breathed hard through her nose, not answering right away. Her jealousy wasn't graceful or pretty, but it was real. And Alex, behind the smile he forced into place, felt a flicker of cold foresight: if he ever signed that "goddess" too - if he ever put her and Emily in the same building, the same hallway, under the same roof - there would be fighting. Every day.
Emily stood to leave, but before she did, she tossed a sideways look at Margot, who was across the set talking with production - calm as if she didn't know, or chose not to know, the chaos her existence caused.
Emily tipped her chin, the warning landing like a verdict.
"You can have your fun with foreigners, Alex… but you don't bring them home. Got it?"
The line hung in the air - heavy, intimate, far too personal for a crowded set.
Alex forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You're talking nonsense…"
Margot raised an eyebrow, as if she understood half of it - and decided the other half was funny.
The world moved on. The set moved on.
But something about that day had already changed its texture.
…
In the end, the "goddess" passed on the script.
Maybe she heard what nobody had the guts to say to her face in Alex's laughter: that it smelled like a trap, a bad film gift-wrapped in pretty promises. Maybe pride saved her career by accident.
And that was exactly when Alex realized it was time to do what he did best: control the tide.
The second batch of promotional stills for Bleach needed to drop - not out of necessity, but strategy. Keep the fire fed without letting it burn out. Keep the conversation alive. Make the world remember, every week, that this series was an event.
The new images focused on the main cast.
Mark appeared first, hitting with the same force as always - steady gaze, posture of someone who'd been beaten by fate and decided to hit back. In another shot, Joe Sullivan wore a new blue-and-white uniform, a look that screamed change - promise of another layer of power and mystery.
Alex made a surgical call right there, one the fandom would only truly understand later: he cut an entire supporting character, someone who - if you were honest - had never been essential. Not out of cruelty. Out of pacing. Focus. He redistributed that character's handful of meaningful moments and concentrated them into Joe, raising his weight in the group in a way that felt natural, like it had always been that way.
Then came Samantha Burnes, blade in hand as if it were an extension of her wrist. After her, Emily - costume immaculate, gaze softer than people expected, and that softness alone felt like provocation.
And then… the last photo.
The "goddess."
Long hair tied low, black uniform that made her look both colder and strangely more human. There was something about how she occupied the frame that didn't feel like acting. It felt like belonging. A trained serenity, almost domestic - but with something dangerous beneath it, as if tenderness were simply the smartest way to cut.
At that point in her life, her beauty was clean to the point of brutality. No cracks. No weak spots. No room for honest criticism.
And the moment the photo went live, the internet detonated.
The first wave of stills had convinced everyone she wasn't joining the project. People had said it like fact. Built arguments on it. Turned it into certainty. Now reality slapped those predictions in the face.
In the official comments, her fans surged in like an army that had been waiting for this moment. They came with victory, with mockery, with that aggressive joy of people who don't just want to be right - they want to humiliate anyone who doubted them.
And on the other side, her haters - and a chunk of Bleach purists - hit back just as hard, as if her casting were a direct threat to something sacred. The kind of people who don't debate choices, they debate "purity." The kind of people who don't fear mistakes - they fear change.
The replies turned uglier by the minute. More personal. More vicious. Theories crawled out like rats from a sewer: Alex had caved, he'd been bought, he'd been seduced - this, that, anything - always with the same sick need to reduce every decision to scandal.
And in the middle of that digital storm, a feeling began to gather like electricity before lightning:
This wasn't just a comment-section brawl.
It was the opening tremor of a fandom war.
And Alex, watching the notifications climb like smoke, understood with unsettling calm that the world was exactly where he wanted it.