The system seemed to respond to his resolve with one final line:
Hero Template Selected: BATMAN
Deferred activation. Progress tracking enabled.
Reputation under surveillance.
The room began to dissolve, like the code holding that reality together was unraveling line by line.
The light vanished.
Not violently—like a flame slowly running out of oxygen.
A blink.
And the world changed.
Now he was sitting. A desk in front of him. A half-empty cup. A screen with the Daily Bugle logo. The afternoon sun poured in through the window, casting a warm orange glow on half his face.
Anton inhaled deeply. No epic transitions. No dramatic music. Just reality.
A monitor. An office. And the relentless buzz of an old fan in the corner.
He looked around. Framed posters of historic front pages. A couple dusty trophies. A nameplate badly engraved: "Acting Director."
"How convenient," he muttered, eyes on the screen.
In the corner, the system icon pulsed discreetly:
Current Fan Points: 222
Template: BATMAN (activation deferred)
Progress: 0.02%
The phone on his desk buzzed violently. Riiing, riiing, riiing!
Anton eyed it warily.
Caller ID: Tony Stark.
"What the…?" he frowned. "I work at the Bugle and I'm friends with Tony Stark?"
He answered.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end oozed elegant arrogance:
"Anton, don't tell me you forgot about tonight's party."
A pause.
"Oh no. No way you're bailing again. Come on, don't ghost me like last time."
Anton closed his eyes for a second. Memories from the body's original owner leaked in, slow and fragmented.
Parties. Bets. Ridiculous contests to see who could attract more female attention. Once they even bet on getting the cleaning lady to join the afterparty.
Anton sighed.
"Party? Of course. How could I forget… which one is it again?"
"Well, look who's grown sarcasm. Thought you only used that to charm reporters," Tony shot back. "Tonight's special. The Atlantis Club is reopening. I reserved you a table. Don't make me look like a socially abandoned orphan, okay?"
"And if I don't go?"
"Then I guess I'll have to console your admirers. Painfully, of course. In the jacuzzi."
Click. Call ended.
Anton stared at the phone.
"Friends with Tony Stark. Sure. Why not."
He stood.
The window reflected his face. His body. His new self. Anton Jameson—the grandson of journalism's most infamous dictator—now the honorary, decorative head of a newspaper. The same guy who, according to the system, was more meme than man.
"I need a plan," he muttered.
If he wanted to activate the Batman template, he had to fix his reputation. Become more than just a viral surname.
Tonight's party wasn't a distraction.
It was an opportunity.
Anton left the Bugle with a head full of static. A taxi took him to the Excelsior Palace—his "home" according to the body's memories. A hotel that promised luxury but delivered discreet comfort.
He entered Suite 907 with a genuine sigh of exhaustion. The room was a time capsule of past-Anton: stacked pizza boxes, clothes scattered like islands on a carpeted sea, empty bottles lounging in impossible places.
"Good to know I didn't inherit your taste," he muttered at the mess.
He made his way to the bathroom, nudging clothes aside with his foot. In the mirror, he met a version of himself he didn't fully recognize: dark, tousled hair; a face attractive but worn from too many useless nights; barely-disguised bags under sharp eyes; a jawline that looked like a deliberate choice, not neglect. He looked exactly like what he was—a rich kid with potential, trapped in his own apathy.
He showered quickly, chose a fitted black suit and a crisp white shirt, dug a sleek watch out from the chaos, and locked it in place. In the mirror, he gave himself a nod.
"Alright, Anton," he told his reflection, adjusting his jacket with a crooked smile. "Let's see how much it costs to change a reputation."
In the lobby, a dark sedan was waiting. Anton slid in with curated calm.
"Atlantis Club."
He caught his reflection in the window, shrugged.
"Let's go to the circus."
The car glided into Manhattan traffic while he reviewed the plan.
The Atlantis Club rose from the pavement like a billionaire's fever dream: minimalist façade, cool lighting, a lineup of luxury cars. Anton stepped out with measured ease, adjusting his jacket like even the lobby's AC was silently judging him.
The doorman recognized him instantly. Not his face. His name.
"Mr. Jameson. Mr. Stark is expecting you. Basement level three. Table seven." He handed Anton a black card and lowered his voice. "You have full access—except the shark tank. That was a bad idea last time."
Anton raised an eyebrow, amused, and pocketed the card.
"Thanks for the heads-up. I promise to only misbehave where the cameras can see."
The doorman almost smiled.
Inside, the club was spectacle incarnate: electronic music vibrating through the walls, holographic jellyfish floating above tables, glasses shifting colors under the lights. Anton headed straight for the elevator, leaving behind a trail of murmurs: "That's Jameson's kid."
The elevator dropped through blue-lit floors. Numbers dropped: 0, -1, -2, -3. When the doors opened, a cobalt carpet and the hum of elegant conversation greeted him.
The private lounge was a miniature ego theater. Familiar faces. Designer suits. Tony Stark at the center, drink in hand, like a conductor who always gets the solo.
"Look who showed up! The Bugle heir," Tony announced, sharp grin in place. "You here to drink or fish for another front page?"
Anton approached with a party-hardened half-smile.
"Just here to remind you that you can still lose, Stark. Even if you keep forgetting."
Chuckles followed. Tony gestured him over.
"Sit down, Jameson. Don't say I don't treat you like royalty."
Anton accepted the seat, soaking in the luxury and the watchful eyes. This was a game, but everyone played to win.
Tony poured two drinks, handing one to Anton with a smirk.
"So what's the deal this time? Asking for a scoop for your grandpa, or trying to sell me the Bugle in exchange for fashion lessons?"
Anton took the glass, arm draped lazily over the back of the couch.
"Neither. This time I'm here for real business."
Tony laughed.
"That sounds like financial disaster. Go on."
Anton took a sip. The burn was just right.
"I want to produce a movie. Something big. A trend-setter. And I want you in on it."
Heads turned. Others pretended not to listen.
Tony watched him like he was waiting for a punchline.
"A movie? What is this, 'How to Burn a Fortune Before Thirty'? Or is it a buddy comedy with your grandpa screaming headlines?"
Anton raised an eyebrow.
"No reality trash. No biopics. I want something challenging. Loud. If you invest, I'll make it worth every cent."
Tony set his drink down, eyeing him with that trademark cynical gleam.
"You're asking me for a hundred million for a mystery pitch? Anton, even you can't sell me vaporware with that poker face."
Anton held his gaze.
"I don't expect you to believe me. That's why I want to bet on it."
Tony laughed louder.
"Oh great, it's one of those. You pitch, I laugh, you push, we bet. What's the wager this time, Jameson?"
"Box office," Anton said firmly. "If the movie profits, I keep it all. If it flops, I'm yours. One year. Driver, butler, cheerleader—you name it."
Someone snorted. Tony laughed with them, tossing his head back.
"For just fifty mil, watching you serve drinks in lingerie might be worth it. But let's spice it up."
Anton didn't blink.
Tony leaned in, voice low and sharp.
"I don't make losing bets. I want a clause: the film has to clear at least a 50% return. Miss it, and forget your pride for a year."
Anton nodded.
"Deal. And if I win?"
Tony pretended to think—but the answer was ready.
"You get everything. Profits, credit, the front page of Variety. And I'll throw you a party in LA just to celebrate. Full guest list. All yours… if you survive it."
Laughter rippled through the lounge, but Anton didn't hear it.
He extended his hand.
"Written in the stars, Stark."
Tony shook it with force.
"Don't get cocky, Jameson. I never lose on home turf."
Hands released. Noise returned.
A subtle pulse rippled through the air—visible only to Anton:
[Fan Points +110: High-stakes bet with Tony Stark]
[Fan Points +28: Public challenge witnessed by others]
[Progress: 0.07%]
Tony shot him one last look before turning back to his guests.
Anton took his drink and allowed himself a quiet smile.
The game had finally begun.