With the end of the year right around the corner, even on the other side of the ocean, Alex couldn't help himself. He opened his phone and took a look at what was lined up for the big holiday release season back home.
And that's when a bitter, almost funny taste rose in his mouth - the kind you get when you realize, a little too late, that you just missed the perfect moment to drop a legendary one-liner.
Damn.
He scanned the lineup, one title after another, and his expression slowly twisted somewhere between disbelief and pity. It was like staring at a full display window of movies that were already tired before they even hit theaters - projects stitched together out of obligation, marketed on nostalgia, with barely any courage to deliver something truly worthwhile. A repackaged romance drama with the cast swapped out like that could fix a rotten script. Another casino-and-scams sequel living off the same old trick. A sugary adaptation designed to go viral through couple edits. A fantasy film that looked like everyone signed on because it was "easy money."
You could change any face on the poster. You could swap a smile, a hairstyle, the lighting. Deep down, it still reeked of "good enough." And Alex - who had never been blessed with the ability to swallow that feeling quietly - could only think about how unfair it was that his own movie was running worldwide… and the audience most likely to turn it into a true phenomenon was the one he couldn't reach.
In the middle of the mess, the only thing that even seemed to deserve being taken seriously was a smaller film - the kind critics praise and the public ignores because it doesn't scream loud enough. The kind of movie that, in a year less clogged with formulas, might have found room to breathe.
Alex let out a slow breath, pressed his palm lightly to his forehead, and gave a short laugh that carried no joy.
He was losing money. Worse than that, he was losing the chance to rub it in everyone's face.
The thought didn't even have time to mature. He simply opened his social feed and typed with the calm certainty of someone who knew exactly what kind of explosion he was trying to set off.
"Happy New Year to everyone. Without the support of my people back home, I feel like this film is missing at least 3 billion in box office… massive loss."
And, like tossing a match into gasoline, he attached the poster for Death Note.
If they wouldn't let the film through, they weren't going to stop an image. Not as easily, anyway.
The reaction was instant.
There's a particular kind of stillness at the end of the year: work slows down, the streets shift tempo, and people's fingers get lighter on their phones, hunting distraction the way you hunt warmth. And there was something else smoldering underneath it all - the fact that Alex's debut couldn't release back home had been a topic for a while now, a small but open wound inside the industry. Everyone had an opinion, everyone had a theory, everyone had their own version of the "real reason."
So when that post landed, it wasn't just comments.
It was a flood.
Within minutes, the comment section turned into a war zone, the numbers climbing too fast to follow, sentences colliding, cheers and hate and jokes and people shaking with impatience just because it felt like they were participating in something big.
"Alex, you scumbag - how many celebrities have you corrupted in the U.S. already?"
"Who was it this time? Megan? Scarlett? Anne? Bet you can't even pick."
"You're all missing the point! He said 3 billion less. That means if it released at home, he's confident he'd make 3 billion, no hesitation!"
"Same stench of arrogance as always. Amazing how he never gets tired."
"3 billion… that's Top 3 in history territory. Is he serious?"
"Easy, Alex. The louder you bark, the easier it is to see where it hurts."
And the strangest part was that even his fans didn't quite know how to react.
Because, deep down, there's a chasm between a series and a movie. A series is a subscription, cheap, consumed in doses, something that becomes habit. A movie is a ticket, two hours, the decision to leave your house, the price tag that stings - and the risk of being disappointed under a giant screen.
It wasn't just "success" in another medium.
It was an entirely different game.
And recent history had too many examples of people who ruled one format and turned to smoke in the other. Stars who dominated television like a storm, who made headlines just by breathing… and then spent years in cinema stumbling through forgettable projects, as if their talent got stuck outside the theater doors.
Alex knew that.
And he posted anyway.
Inside the industry bubble, the reaction was different. Less laughter, more teeth grinding.
For the people who lived by spreadsheets and ego, it sounded like a direct insult. It wasn't simply an artist being confident. It was a rookie publicly declaring that his first film would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with record holders. And that was exactly what burned - the confidence wasn't humble. It wasn't the cute kind of promise everyone applauds.
It was a warning.
Three billion wasn't a joke. At that moment, the market still hadn't turned into the place where everything had to be enormous just to count as a win. The domestic record was still held by a comedy phenomenon that had reached around 3.3 billion with a film about a mermaid - one of those anomalies that becomes a reference point for years, quoted like an unreachable ceiling.
And Alex was saying, clean-faced and shameless: my first movie touches that.
It didn't take long for someone hungry for a headline to chase down the man holding the record and throw the question at him, pre-loaded with poison.
He looked visibly confused, like someone had asked whether he was afraid of his own shadow. Still, he answered with practiced politeness - the kind that avoids unnecessary enemies: records exist to be broken.
Inside, though, the discomfort was real. Nobody likes being number one and feeling someone closing in behind them with long strides.
But he wasn't naïve, either. He'd seen too many people laugh at Alex before, calling it exaggeration, luck, fan hysteria… and one by one, those people had walked away with their faces bruised by reality. You didn't have to believe Alex's first film would be perfect to admit the obvious: ignoring that kid was dangerous.
And ironically, Alex didn't even think he was being that bold.
In his head, three billion was him holding back.
What he really wanted to type was four.
Because he knew his people like you know an old habit that refuses to die: their tolerance was absurd. The same stubborn faith of a sports fan who gets beaten all year and still buys the jersey. If it wasn't a complete disgrace, if it wasn't offensively bad, the audience would embrace it, push it, carry it, turn it into an event. Alex was convinced that if he could officially release there, he could raise everyone's standards by force - simply by making the industry feel pressure again, reminding them they couldn't sell anything and call it cinema forever.
That thought rolled around inside him with a dangerous pleasure - ambition that felt clean, almost generous… and at the same time, merciless.
It was in that mood that he set the phone down and glanced toward the hotel room door.
"Violet, try to sleep early tonight. From here on out, you're going to be running the world with me on this promo tour."
His new assistant appeared as if she'd been waiting for the opening, an automatic "okay" right on her tongue. But instead of just agreeing and leaving, she hesitated. Her eyes searched for courage before the words slipped out.
"Okay… okay, boss. But… just… don't go to those women's houses over there. I've heard their private lives are… a mess. What if you catch something…"
Alex's eyes widened, like she'd committed a crime right in front of him.
The audacity.
For a second, the outrage was real - not because she was wrong, but because someone actually dared to try and control his personal life with that worried tone. In the end, though, he only waved his hand, pushing the topic away like smoke.
"Yeah, yeah. I got it. Go sleep."
She left with the face of someone who wanted to say more but knew she was stepping onto a minefield. Alex watched the door close, and an unspoken, acidic thought flickered through his mind: with a face like that - so mature, so composed - it was impressive how much she loved sticking her nose into things.
When the hallway finally went quiet, he picked up his phone again, unlocked it, and started dialing.
If the problem was going to someone else's house…
Then it was simple.
He could just call them to come to him.
No problem.
On the other side of the world, in Paris, the scene was different, but the energy was the same.
At the entrance of a theater packed far beyond what that season should've drawn, a man with thick-framed glasses and a distinctive nose was pulling his wife by the hand, like he was afraid of losing the line in the middle of that human tide. When he saw the crowd, he stopped on instinct. Behind the lenses, his eyes widened in a kind of shock that looked almost childlike.
"So many people…?"
He was a film critic. The kind who makes a living dissecting, deconstructing, and acting like he's the smartest person in the room. And his recent history was very specific: he was the same guy who'd once sworn, with total confidence, that a certain Shiba clan girl was Sosuke Aizen's ex. When the Arrancar arc aired, the internet did what it always does - and his theory was crushed with theatrical cruelty.
His face had become a meme.
But, strangely, that also made his numbers go up. Humiliation, when it comes with spectacle, can turn into reach.
And he wasn't hiding it: he'd been waiting for Death Note for far too long. He'd studied in France years ago, knew the city, knew how to navigate. If he couldn't watch the film back home, then he'd do what a truly obsessed fan does when it becomes personal.
He flew out just to see it.
And he wasn't the only one.
On another continent, there was another critic - more combative - who'd chosen to watch it in the United States. A guy known not for kindness, but for a fast tongue and the courage to start a fight alone. The type who could praise a work into the heavens… and if he felt the movie was trash, he'd make sure he was the first one to light the bonfire.
And around them, scattered across the map, students, immigrants, people far from home for work, for dreams, or for necessity began recognizing each other outside theaters the way you recognize family in the cold. Some had never met, but a single glance was enough to understand: they were there for the same reason.
Even fans with too much money to burn turned it into a ritual. They posted flight tickets, flashed boarding passes, swore they'd watch the film abroad, sprint back, and still make it in time to toast the New Year with their families. The very same people who, when the Arrancar arc ended, had flooded Alex's official page with demands and emotion like it was a collective pressure valve.
Because there was one thing nobody could deny, whether they loved him or hated him: when those people decided to move as one, the word "unity" meant something else entirely.
And that night, in every line, in every packed screening room, in every face lit by the glow of the marquee, it felt like the whole world was about to witness the same test.
It wasn't just a movie.
It was the first time someone like Alex truly put his name on the big screen… and asked the planet to judge him.
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