At the Atlantis, it all started simple:
Table 1:
"Did you hear? Tony says he's making a movie with Anton. They bet a hundred grand."
Table 2 (half-drunk):
"A hundred grand? For what?"
"Something about a movie... and Anton has to be the butler."
"A butler? In what movie?"
Bar:
"Hey, did you hear about Tony and Anton?"
"Yeah, the thing with the butler and the lingerie."
"Lingerie? I heard movie."
"Oh, then it must be a movie... about butlers in lingerie?"
Group smoking outside:
"Did you guys hear? Tony's producing something."
"What?"
"A movie. With Anton as the lead."
"Anton acting? Ha. About what?"
"Sexy butler or something."
Back inside:
"Hey! Is it true Tony's making porn?"
"Porn? No, it was a normal movie."
"With Anton in lingerie?"
"Well, if Anton's in lingerie, it's kinda porn."
Back table:
"Cheerleaders? Who said cheerleaders?"
"I don't know, someone mentioned uniforms."
"Butler uniforms or cheerleader uniforms?"
"What's the difference at this point?"
The slightly tipsy group:
"HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL?! Who the hell said High School Musical?!"
"'Cause if Anton's gonna sing, I'm buying a ticket."
"A hundred grand budget for High School Musical porn?"
"With butlers!"
"And cheerleaders!"
The final summary (yelled from a table):
"ATTENTION! Tony Stark is producing, Anton is starring, High School Musical porn with butlers in lingerie, hundred grand budget, FILMING HERE AT THE ATLANTIS!"
Choral response:
"SING BREAKING FREE!"
The entire club bursts into laughter. No one, absolutely no one, remembers how it started.
Meanwhile, at their table, Tony and Anton keep drinking, noticing the glances but unaware of the chaos the rumor had caused.
[Scandalous Movie Rumor: +15 Fan Points]
"What the hell..." Anton muttered to himself.
Tony tilted his glass, confused.
"Why's everyone looking at us like we just kicked a puppy?"
Anton: "Looks like word about the movie got out," he said, frowning.
A stranger approached the table, leaned in slightly, and whispered with a knowing smile:
"Hey... is it true about the movie?"
They both nodded instinctively.
"Yeah, word travels fast," Tony replied in his usual charming tone.
"We're producing a movie," Anton added, still not understanding why the guy was smiling like they'd confessed a sin.
The stranger winked and walked off with a silent laugh.
Tony watched him leave and shrugged.
"Well, at least there's buzz."
"Yeah..." Anton glanced around again. "But I don't get why they all look so... weird."
That's when they saw them.
Two women walking toward them. A redhead with a slow-burning stare and a blonde who looked like she walked out of a perfume ad. They were dressed to be noticed and knew exactly what they were doing.
Tony and Anton set down their glasses at the same time. Instinct.
Tony made the first move, smooth and direct:
"Tell me, have either of you ever dreamed of being movie stars? I have a project... demanding."
He threw a quick glance at Anton, like passing the ball without warning.
The redhead leaned against the backrest with a rehearsed pose.
"We heard you were looking for versatile actresses."
The blonde didn't speak. Just smiled. A smile with subtext.
Tony nodded, pleased.
"Of course. This project requires full commitment."
"We always give it our all," the blonde said, leaning slightly. "We have experience in... intense productions."
She placed a hand on the table, right next to Anton. Tony kept the rhythm.
"Meet my partner. The creative brain behind it all. I just fund and produce."
Anton sat up naturally.
"Doubt you've ever done something like this. I want to reinvent cinema. Real budget. Action scenes, harnesses, drones, multiple cameras. No filters. All physical."
The girls exchanged a glance.
"And those scenes... are mostly physical?" the redhead asked, testing the waters.
"Absolutely. I want raw, natural performances. People unafraid to explore new techniques."
(Anton notices their smiles and opens his mouth to ask) "Why are you smiling like that when I talk about the harne—"
Tony quickly cut in, patting him on the back: "My partner is very detail-oriented! Loves... analyzing every reaction."
The blonde leaned in further, taking advantage of the moment:
"It's just that we get excited working with... specialized teams. I once did a production that lasted for hours. Exhausting, but rewarding."
She leaned in closer and winked at Anton.
"And I'm also really good at singing, in case you were wondering."
Anton nodded, still processing. "That's great..." (pause, not sure why she brought it up, but going along with it) "Action films are demanding. And they always need people with multiple talents. But I'm curious... what kind of productions exactly have you do—"
Tony jumped in again: "Hey, maybe we should talk scheduling! Do you prefer shooting during the day or night?"
"We prefer nights," said the redhead, smirking. "More intimate. Fewer interruptions."
"And our best work has been... private," the blonde added. "With very select audiences."
Tony raised his glass theatrically.
"Ah, intimate productions. The best performances come when there are no limits."
The blonde placed her hand over Anton's.
"It's always better to rehearse key scenes in private. Helps build... chemistry."
The redhead leaned toward Tony, lowering her voice.
"And you, producer? Do you prefer private suites or closed sets?"
Tony smiled like he'd already won.
"Where there are fewer eyes... and more creative freedom."
Anton tried to maintain a professional tone.
"Sure, that way we can go over the script thoroughly, although... something tells me you two have a very... unique interpr—"
Another pat on the shoulder. Tony had given up pretending.
"Anton, please! Art is also about improvisation. Isn't that right, ladies?"
Both nodded in sync.
"Exactly," said the blonde, linking her arm with Anton's. "Take us wherever you want, director. It's going to be an unforgettable audition."
The redhead looked at Tony with a raised brow.
"Are you coming too? To supervise the casting?"
Tony winked at Anton.
"Hey, sure you don't want to rewrite the script into something more... interactive?"
Anton took a deep breath. A crooked smile started to form.
"You know what, Tony? Tonight we might... explore new possibilities."
And so, between smirks, double meanings, and increasingly ambiguous "auditions," the four of them disappeared into the lights of the Atlantis Club, as if they truly knew what kind of movie they were about to be part of.
Anton exited the hotel like he'd just escaped a horror movie. Which, technically, wasn't far off.
The dark circles under his eyes gave him away. A night that began with budget talks had ended with the blonde giving him practical lessons in... method acting. No cameras. No script. Just a king-size bed and the confirmation that "private audition" meant exactly what everyone knew it meant.
Tony, the pervert, had insisted on adjoining rooms. "To supervise the creative process," he said. Right. Very creative, the process he had with the redhead on the other side of the wall. The moaning lasted till three a.m.
Anton adjusted his wrinkled shirt and checked his phone. Three calls from the old man. A message from Tony: "Hope you enjoyed the... creative process 😏"
Idiot.
The pink card from the blonde read, "call me when you need another... rehearsal ;)" Straight to the trash.
"To the Excelsior," he told the driver.
He wasn't going to show up at the Bugle in last night's clothes. He'd had enough humiliation for one morning.
The cab pulled away. Manhattan passed by the window. Anton looked at his reflection: same miracle hair, same magazine face.
At least something survived intact.
The Daily Bugle newsroom buzzed as usual: phones at war, keyboards choreographing chaos, cold lights that forgave neither mistakes nor wrinkles. No one expected to see him early. Or sober. Or dressed like he knew what he was doing.
An intern choked on coffee.
Betty Brant didn't even look up. She was reviewing reports with the deadly calm of someone who'd survived more headlines than therapists.
Anton stopped in front of her desk.
"Miss me?"
Silence was only broken by the lift of an eyebrow. Then, without looking:
"You have three missed calls from Mr. Jameson. He's in his office. And no, it's not miracle Monday yet."
Anton sat on the edge of her desk, like it was his place. They both knew it wasn't.
"Always this direct... or only when you like someone?"
"Only with those who smell like expensive whiskey and worse decisions before lunch." She looked up briefly. "Though today you smell different. Less... combustible."
He smiled. This time, genuinely.
"I showered. Even combed my hair. A miracle without Monday."
"Noted for the Bugle archives."
Anton glanced around the newsroom. He knew every corner. Every face. But something felt different. Like it wasn't his anymore.
"I'm not here to play boss."
Betty stopped typing.
"This place needs someone who knows what they're doing. Not a guy with a famous last name and too much free time."
The silence that followed was heavier than any headline. Betty looked at him like she was reading between the lines, searching for the catch, the escape, the hidden joke.
"Was that a resignation or a dramatic monologue?"
Anton shrugged.
"I'm going to talk to the old man. But I wanted to tell you first."
He leaned in slightly. Lowered his voice, not for secrecy, but out of respect.
"This place needs someone who stands firm when everything else falls apart. And that someone... is you."
Betty blinked once.
"And that's how you tell me you're leaving?"
"I call it recognition. The good kind. The kind that counts."
She tilted her head slightly, weighing whether it was a scene worth remembering or just another twist in the Anton Jameson soap opera.
"Recognition accepted. Now go, before your grandfather starts yelling headlines with your name."
Anton nodded, already standing, turning to leave. But before crossing the door, he paused.
"When all this changes... I want to be among those who said you already knew."
This time, Betty did look at him.
"Good line. Gonna put it in your movie?"
"Maybe." He opened the exit door without looking back. "Though you said the best line."
The Bugle's side staircase was nearly empty at that hour. Anton descended with firm steps, unrushed, like he hadn't just left something behind.
The black car waited at the curb, same driver, same protocol.
He got in without a word.
The silence lasted just a few seconds.
"Take me to my grandfather's office," he said.
The driver nodded and started the engine.
Anton closed his eyes. Just for a moment.