The steam from the morning coffee still rose from the mug Jameson was clutching when Anton pushed open the office door. Upon seeing him enter, he gripped his mug like a life preserver in the middle of a shipwreck.
A stack of crumpled papers trembled in his other hand—not from age, but from the barely contained fury that made his knuckles go white against the printed pages.
"A porn musical, Anton?" Jameson's voice came out like a strangled roar, the kind of sound an engine makes right before it explodes. "Is that the legacy you're leaving this family?"
Anton walked in adjusting his sunglasses like he had just stepped off a red carpet.
"Wow. That's what the rumors say?" he asked, inspecting his nails with fake nonchalance. "That would explain a lot about yesterday..."
Jameson jumped up, pointing the wrinkled papers at his grandson.
"Forty years building a real empire, and my grandson ends up making movies where people get naked singing!"
Anton looked up at the ceiling, as if pondering a complex equation.
"Okay... but what if they sing while undressing, instead of the other way around? More artistic that way," he suggested.
Jameson's face turned from red to purple.
"Don't make me picture that, you bastard!"
Anton sat down with casual grace.
"It's not what you think. No porn. No orgies with a soundtrack. It's a real movie. With plot. With heart."
"With triple X ratings and a musical number, from what I've heard!" Jameson shook the papers like a war flag.
"What if I told you there are stunt doubles, chase scenes, drama, and yeah... maybe a couple of shirtless moments? Isn't that cinema?"
"That's Friday night on HBO at eleven!"
Anton leaned forward. For the first time, his mask cracked.
"Old man, breathe. It's a story about... a guy who changes. Who finds out who he really is when everything falls apart. And yes, maybe there's a rain-soaked shirt moment. But who doesn't love that?"
Jameson leaned on his desk with both hands, breathing through his nose like a bull about to charge.
"And the part about Tony Stark producing it—true, or just another rumor?"
He looked at Anton, clinging to the hope that it was all a lie.
"No, that part's real. Tony's funding it."
The silence that followed had the weight of an incoming earthquake. Jameson stood frozen, mouth slightly open.
Anton stood up. His posture had shifted, more vulnerable now.
"I know it sounds ridiculous, but this isn't some whim. Not another party or scandal. This is mine. For the first time, something of mine."
Jameson stared at him in silence. Finally, he sighed and collapsed into his chair.
"And the Bugle?"
"I don't want to run it. And you know that."
"And who should, according to you? Betty?" Jameson scoffed, as if just saying it out loud was absurd.
"Yes. And you know it too. But your prehistoric ego still refuses to accept it."
Jameson narrowed his eyes, annoyed... though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a dry smile.
"That girl's got talent... but she's twenty. Twenty! Since when does that qualify you to be editor-in-chief?"
"Since she does your job with fewer screams and more brain cells," said Anton, unmoving.
Jameson let out a sound between a growl and a sardonic laugh, like he wasn't sure whether to punch him or agree. Anton took the opportunity to stand and head for the door.
"You know what..." Jameson stopped him just before he reached the threshold. "Bring your 'masterpiece' tomorrow."
Anton turned, surprised.
"What?"
"The script. Bring it tomorrow," Jameson repeated, his tone a mix of annoyance and condescension. "I'll read it."
"Seriously?"
Jameson leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk.
"I've read thousands of scripts in my life. Good ones, bad ones, and those that should be burned for the good of humanity," he said, like a man who'd seen too much. "I'll make you a deal."
Anton eyed him carefully.
"If your script is good... genuinely good... I'll help you. I'll connect you with people, open doors, make calls," Jameson continued, drumming. "But if it's garbage like I suspect, you drop this charade and come back to the Bugle. Deal?"
The air thickened. All or nothing.
"Deal," Anton said, extending his hand.
"Good," he replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Tomorrow at nine."
"Eight. And I expect fresh coffee. If I'm wasting time reading your 'masterpiece,' I want decent caffeine."
Anton nodded and walked out. Jameson stayed behind, staring at the crumpled papers.
"Forty years publishing... to end up editing a porn musical," he muttered, shaking his head. "At least tomorrow I'll shut him down."
The elevator descended in silence. Anton leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. His smile was gone. The weight of the deal hit him like a ton of bricks: all or nothing. Success or tail-between-legs back to the Bugle.
Anton dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and collapsed into the swivel chair at his desk. The monitor flickered on. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of the hours ahead.
Tomorrow at eight. Jameson with forty years of editorial experience waiting with coffee and probably claws sharp enough to shred his work.
He typed the title on the screen: "BATMAN: BEGINS"
The system hadn't just given him the body of a spoiled rich kid with zero responsibilities. It had handed him a ticking bomb of potential. Heroes. Templates. Justice Points. Fan Points. And most importantly: total access to the most valuable IP on Earth.
A Batman movie. The Batman movie. Not a cheap reboot. Not a musical erotic parody—thanks, Stark. Something bigger. Something that could convince a hardened veteran that he was worth the bet.
He opened a blank document.
"Okay, Anton," he whispered, cracking his neck. "You've got twelve hours to prove you're not an idiot."
The system didn't come with a screenwriting tutorial, but it gave him one cheat: perfect photographic memory. Every scene. Every line. Every damn shot he'd seen in both his lives... was there.
He could quote The Dark Knight like scripture. Hum Zimmer's soundtrack with his mouth closed.
What he needed now was structure—something Jameson couldn't rip apart in five minutes.
He typed a few lines. Deleted them. Typed again. Cursed under his breath. Checked the clock: 11:47 PM.
"Come on, steroid-Nolan… make something that doesn't suck."
His gaze drifted to the lower right of his vision, where the system's interface still floated as if nothing had changed: [Fan Points: 375] [Template: BATMAN (delayed activation)] [Progress: 0.08%]
375 out of 9,980,000. A cosmic joke.
Anton leaned back, feeling the weight of those numbers. It wasn't just about impressing Jameson or making a good movie. It was about survival.
He knew this universe. Knew what was coming. And without that suit, he was just another civilian when the world went to hell.
A hit movie might get him the points he needed. But first, he had to convince the most jaded man in the industry.
He finally wrote a synopsis. Took the core of the myth—the fear, the shadow, the vengeance—and wrapped it in a more human story. A less perfect Bruce Wayne. More real. More in line with what this world needed.
"A man with no powers facing a world full of them."
That was the hook. The idea he had to sell. And hopefully, the first step toward those ten million points.
He read it. Didn't delete it this time—but didn't feel satisfied either.
He looked around. The mess was still there, a reminder of how pathetic he had been.
Anton stretched in his chair, shoulder muscles tight.
"Forty years reading scripts," he muttered, echoing Jameson. "This better not suck."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
He turned back to the screen.
He had a night ahead of him. And a deal to honor.
All or nothing, like he said.
He started writing for real.