Monday morning in the Bel Air house was unnervingly quiet.
For the first time in quite a long while, Daniel Miller's phone wasn't vibrating off the marble kitchen island. There were no urgent emails from the visual effects department waiting in his inbox. There were no panicked calls from Marcus Blackwood about tabloid fires to put out. No call sheets, no set-build approvals, and no massive budget meetings. Return of the Jedi was completely locked in the can, and Vice City was currently generating a small country's GDP on absolute autopilot.
He had a completely, genuinely empty schedule.
And it was driving him absolutely insane.
Daniel poured himself a second cup of coffee from the French press. He walked over to the massive glass windows looking out over the pool, took a sip, and then turned right back around. He walked over to the stainless-steel refrigerator. He opened it, stared at a carton of oat milk for three seconds, closed it, and walked back to the windows.
Sitting at the kitchen island, Margot and Florence were watching him like a tennis match.
Margot was wearing a pair of reading glasses, scrolling through a digital budget spreadsheet on her iPad for LuckyChap Entertainment. Florence was eating a bowl of oatmeal, her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing an oversized sweatshirt.
Daniel turned away from the window and started pacing back toward the hallway.
Thwack. Something small and wet bounced directly off the side of Daniel's forehead. He stopped in his tracks, blinking, and looked down at the hardwood floor. It was a blueberry.
He looked back at the island. Margot was casually reaching into a small ceramic bowl of fruit, not even looking up from her iPad screen.
"You're making me dizzy, mate," Margot said, popping a blueberry into her own mouth. "Sit down."
"I am sitting down," Daniel lied, crossing his arms.
"You've walked a 5K in the kitchen since eight o'clock," Florence pointed out, resting her chin in her hand. "Seriously, Dan. It's Monday. You told the entire studio you were taking time off. Go read a book. Go sit by the pool. Go play your own video game."
"I tried," Daniel said, running a hand through his hair. "I stared at the pool for twenty minutes. It's just water. It doesn't do anything."
Florence let out a genuine, bright laugh. "If you don't sit still, I'm going to go to Petco, buy a leash, and tie you to the dining room table. Or better yet, I'll send you down to the Valley lot just so you can go bother the security guards. They probably miss you checking their badges."
"I just don't know how to do nothing," Daniel admitted, finally walking over and leaning against the counter next to Margot. "Normally I'd book a trip between movies, but I don't even want to look at an airport right now. The idea of packing a bag, dealing with TSA, and checking into a hotel sounds exhausting. I just wanted to stay home."
"So just exist," Margot said, nudging his arm with her elbow. "Enjoy the quiet."
"I give it two hours," Florence grinned, taking a spoonful of oatmeal. "He'll be re-editing a commercial or reorganizing the garage by lunch."
Daniel let out a heavy sigh, looking between the two of them. They were completely in their element, totally relaxed. "What are you guys doing today?"
"LuckyChap prep," Margot said, tapping her stylus against the iPad screen. "I have some location scouting for the skater movie this afternoon, but this morning, we're heading to the ice rink in Burbank. Flo needs to figure out how to stand on skates without breaking her neck before we actually roll cameras on this."
"I can skate," Florence said defensively.
"You can wobble," Margot corrected her without missing a beat.
"I'm coming with you," Daniel decided instantly.
"To watch me fall on my ass?" Florence raised an eyebrow.
"To get out of this kitchen before Margot throws another piece of fruit at me," Daniel smiled, grabbing his car keys off the counter. "I'll drive."
The private indoor ice rink in Burbank was freezing, echoing with the harsh, sharp sound of metal blades cutting into solid ice.
Daniel sat in the front row of the metal bleachers, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Next to him, Margot had fully transitioned into her producer persona. She was bundled up in a thick, oversized puffy coat, wearing a beanie, holding a clipboard and a literal stopwatch. She was tracking the ice time they were paying for down to the minute.
Down on the ice, Florence was going through hell.
She was wearing heavy black sweatpants, a thick sweater, and bulky knee and elbow pads strapped securely over her clothes. An older, strict-looking Russian skating coach was standing in the center of the rink, barking instructions at her.
"Again!" the coach yelled, her breath pluming in the cold air. "You drop the shoulder too early! You need height, Florence. Height and rotation!"
Florence was standing near the blue line, breathing heavily. She nodded, setting her jaw. She didn't look like a glamorous Hollywood star. She looked like an athlete trying to push through a brick wall. She dug her toe pick into the ice and pushed off, building speed down the center of the rink.
"Alright, she's got speed this time," Daniel noted, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"She keeps hesitating right at the jump," Margot muttered, tapping her pen against the clipboard. "She's overthinking the landing."
Florence hit the center circle. She planted her left foot, swung her right leg up, and launched herself into the air, trying to pull off a double axel.
For a split second, she had the rotation.
But gravity is brutal. She didn't get enough height. Her skate hit the ice at a sharp, awkward angle. Her legs shot out from under her, and she slammed down onto the hard ice, sliding violently on her stomach for ten feet before crashing heavily into the side boards with a loud, wince-inducing thump.
"Ooh," Daniel winced, sitting up straight.
Margot didn't even flinch. She just clicked the stopwatch. "Thirty-two seconds. She stayed on her feet for thirty-two seconds that run."
Down on the ice, Florence didn't move for a moment. She just lay face-down on the ice near the boards.
"Flo?" Daniel called out, his voice echoing in the empty rink. "You good?"
Florence slowly pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. She looked up at them sitting in the bleachers, her hair plastered to her sweaty forehead.
"My tailbone is entirely shattered," Florence announced loudly, her voice dripping with sarcasm and mild agony. "I am in pieces. I require medical evacuation."
"You want me to go grab you a coffee?" Daniel offered, standing up. "Take a five-minute break?"
"No," Florence snapped instantly, her stubbornness flaring up. She grabbed the edge of the boards and pulled herself up onto her skates, shaking the white ice shavings off her sweatpants. "If I sit down now, I'll never get back up. I'm getting this stupid jump today if it kills me."
She pushed off the boards, skating back toward the Russian coach, who was tapping her watch impatiently.
Daniel sat back down, a proud smile forming on his face.
He watched Margot taking diligent notes on the clipboard, tracking everything for the production budget, and then looked at Florence out on the ice, throwing her body into the role with absolute, reckless dedication. They didn't need him. They were building their own empire completely from scratch, using his resources just to get the door open, and then tearing the hinges off entirely on their own.
It was awesome to watch.
But as Florence lined up for another brutal jump, Daniel realized sitting in a freezing rink wasn't going to cure his restless energy. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the time.
"Hey," Daniel said, bumping Margot's shoulder. "I'm going to take the other car and run an errand. I'll meet you guys back at the house for dinner."
"Okay," Margot said, not looking up from her notes as Florence launched into the air again. "Don't start another branch of the studio while you're out."
"No promises," Daniel smiled, walking up the metal stairs toward the exit.
The drive from Burbank out to Toluca Lake was easy, mostly because Daniel wasn't fighting rush hour traffic.
He turned his Range Rover down the quiet, tree-lined street. It felt incredibly familiar and comfortable. This was where everything had really started accelerating for him. He remembered the old house he used to live in down the block. He had loved this neighborhood. But once the money hit and the paparazzi figured out his address, it became impossible to step out his front door without a camera flashing. Moving to the secure fortress in Bel Air was a necessity.
But Stan Lee and Tom had stubbornly refused to leave. They liked their quiet street, their local diners, and their routines. Daniel didn't blame them.
Daniel pulled his car up to the curb outside of Stan's house.
He didn't bother walking up the front path or ringing the doorbell. He just opened the wooden side gate and walked around to the backyard.
Stan was sitting on his covered back porch, wearing a comfortable cardigan over a polo shirt, reading a newspaper. There was a pitcher of iced tea sweating on the small wrought-iron table next to him.
Daniel stepped up onto the wooden deck. "Is the perimeter secure, old man, or can anybody just wander into your backyard?"
Stan lowered his newspaper, looking over the top of his tinted aviator glasses. A massive, warm grin broke out across his face. He didn't look like a business partner who co-owned fifty percent of a multi-billion-dollar comic book IP. He just looked like a grandfather happy to see his kid.
"Well, look who finally decided to descend from the hills," Stan chuckled, folding the newspaper and tossing it onto the table. "I thought you'd be too busy counting all those video game quarters to come visit an old man."
"The servers are counting the quarters for me," Daniel smiled, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from him. "How've you been, Stan?"
"Ah, surviving. Thriving, actually," Stan said, reaching over and pouring Daniel a glass of iced tea from the pitcher. "Tom came over yesterday. We watched a baseball game. The neighborhood is a lot quieter since the circus followed you to Bel Air."
Daniel took a sip of the tea. It was sweet, exactly how Stan always made it. "The comics doing well?"
"Doing well?" Stan laughed, slapping the table. "Daniel, my boy, they are flying off the shelves so fast the printers are complaining. Iron Man is still a massive seller. The Spider-Man run is doing beautifully. And Avengers is already in the double digits. It's the golden age all over again."
Stan leaned back in his chair, looking at Daniel closely. He knew the kid too well. "But you didn't drive all the way out here on a Monday afternoon just to ask me about comic sales, you could just ask that on a call from Marcus. How's the movie business?"
"Star Wars is locked," Daniel said quietly. "The picture is finished. The game is out."
Stan's eyes lit up behind his glasses. "So your schedule is clear."
"Completely clear," Daniel nodded.
Stan took a sip of his tea, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "You know, the timing couldn't be better. The cinematic universe is humming along nicely. You set the gold standard when you directed that first Iron Man. And Jon Favreau did a hell of a job following up what you built with Iron Man 2. The fans are hooked, Daniel. They know the world is real now."
"Jon crushed it," Daniel agreed. "He took the pressure off perfectly."
"So," Stan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Tony Stark is established. The world knows about the armor. How do we expand it? Where do we go next?"
Daniel looked out at the quiet, sun-dappled backyard. The restlessness he had felt all morning in the kitchen finally crystallized into something solid. The creative itch was back, burning just as bright as ever.
"We ground it," Daniel said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Tony is a billionaire in a tower. He's untouchable. If we want the universe to feel real to the people sitting in the theater, we need to show them what it looks like from the street level."
Stan let out a long, happy sigh, rubbing his hands together. "The Web-Slinger."
"Spider-Man," Daniel confirmed. "We need the kid from Queens. It connects with the audience better than anything else we have."
"I agree completely," Stan nodded eagerly. "So, who do we call? Have you been doing secret auditions behind my back in Burbank?"
"No auditions," Daniel said, shaking his head. "You already know who I want. We picked him out four years ago."
Stan paused, thinking for a second, and then his eyebrows shot up. "The Walker kid? From the fan mail?"
"Yeah," Daniel smiled.
"Daniel, that was years ago," Stan chuckled in disbelief. "I remember reading his letter about issue number five. I remember having him act out that scene before you gave him that arts scholarship. But he was just a teenager! You really think he's ready to carry a hundred-million-dollar movie?"
"He just graduated art school," Daniel said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "He's been doing these acting skits and stunt videos online. He's built a massive following. He's got the physicality, he's got the humor, and he's hungry. Acting was his hobby, but he put the work in. He's exactly who Peter Parker is supposed to be."
Stan leaned back, a wide smile on his face. He trusted Daniel's instincts more than anyone else in the world. "Well, what are you waiting for? Call him."
Daniel sat in the driver's seat of his Range Rover, parked on the quiet street outside of Stan's house. The engine was off. The windows were rolled down, letting the warm California breeze drift through the car.
He scrolled through his contacts, found the name, and tapped the dial icon.
He thought back to four years ago. Stephen Walker was just a kid getting bullied in high school. His single mom, Mrs. Walker, was working two jobs just to keep the lights on. After Stephen's letter reached Daniel through Stan, Daniel hadn't just thrown money at the problem. He set up the "Miller Arts Grant." It paid for Stephen's tuition at any art school of his choice, and provided a monthly stipend so Mrs. Walker could drop her second shift and actually breathe.
The phone rang three times before it picked up.
"Yo, Dan!" Stephen's voice came through the speaker. He didn't sound intimidated or overly formal. Over the last four years, Daniel had made a point to check in on him, calling every few months to see how school was going, treating him like a peer rather than a charity case.
"Hey, Steph," Daniel said, leaning back against the leather headrest. "Am I interrupting a shoot?"
"Nah, man, I'm just editing a video for the channel," Stephen laughed. The background noise sounded like a small apartment. "Dude, I meant to text you on Friday. I saw the Vice City trailer. You absolutely broke the internet. I guess that's usual for you, huh? My comments section on YouTube was literally just people talking about the game."
"It went a little better than expected," Daniel smiled. "How's your mom doing?"
"She's great, and says hi," Stephen said, his tone softening with genuine gratitude. "She actually just took a weekend trip to Napa with her friends. First vacation she's had in like, a decade. Seriously, man, I can't thank you enough for everything. Graduating last month... seeing her in the crowd, not stressed out about working a double shift... it was everything."
"You earned it, Stephen," Daniel said firmly. "You put the work in. I just gave you the runway. I saw the parkour skit you posted on Tuesday, by the way. Your physical timing is getting really sharp."
"Oh, thanks man," Stephen sounded genuinely surprised. "Yeah, I've been working on the wire-fu stuff at a gym downtown. Trying to make the stunts look less floaty, you know? Keeping the weight in the movement."
"It shows," Daniel said.
He let a beat of silence pass over the line, shifting the tone of the conversation entirely. The casual catching up was over.
"Hey, Stephen. Do you remember the conversation we had four years ago when we first met?"
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. "Yeah. Of course I do. How could I ever forget?"
"Do you remember what I told you when I handed you that scholarship paperwork?" Daniel asked.
Stephen's voice dropped, suddenly sounding a lot more serious. "You told me to go learn everything I could. You told me to get ready."
"Right," Daniel said, staring out the windshield at the quiet street. "Well, school's out, Steph. The runway is over."
"Wait," Stephen said, his voice cracking slightly. The realization was starting to hit him, completely short-circuiting his brain. "Dan... are you... are you serious?"
"Pack a bag," Daniel told him, a wide, unstoppable grin breaking out across his face. "Get on a plane. I want you down at the Burbank lot on Monday morning."
"Dan," Stephen breathed out. It sounded like he had completely forgotten how to breathe. "Dan, please tell me you aren't messing with me right now."
"I don't mess around with casting my leading men," Daniel said simply. "It's time to put on the suit, kid. See you Monday."
Daniel didn't wait for Stephen to start crying or hyperventilating. He hit the end call button, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and reached for the ignition.
As the engine roared to life, Daniel put the car in drive. The empty schedule, the restless pacing, the quiet morning in Bel Air—it was all gone. He felt the familiar, heavy, electric rush of adrenaline hit his system. The game was back on.
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A/N: Read ahead on Patreon: patreon.com/AmaanS