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For Sony, the final move was to strike from the technical front. Beyond ramping up its own R&D efforts, the most direct tactic was to poach key technical personnel from competitors—ideally bringing over some crucial know-how in the process. Even better if that knowledge involved technology still under development and not yet patented.
After exhausting every possible avenue of investigation, everyone had to admit one thing: the person truly driving Stark Pictures' digital transformation was not Tony Stark, as initially assumed, but the utterly overlooked Henry Brown.
As a result, invitations aimed specifically at the CEO of Stark Pictures began to increase. Head-hunting firms quietly reaching out multiplied to an absurd degree.
At first, Henry still made an effort to deal with some of them. But eventually, these "interviews" felt less like genuine recruitment and more like attempts to waste his time and stall his progress. There were so many that his patience finally ran out, and he simply rejected them all outright.
Or perhaps his initial willingness to meet had made them think he was persuadable?
As Henry gradually adapted to the ecosystem of different social circles, he also adjusted his attitude and methods of response.
As for banquet invitations, these were entirely different from the networking events J.J. Harris arranged for Charlize Theron to expand her contacts. The meat-market parties beneath Hollywood's surface now began to reveal themselves clearly before this newcomer.
Naturally, they didn't start by showing their final form. At first, these gatherings involved nothing illegal—at most, some illicit substances used to "enhance the mood."
Young men and women, like livestock displayed at auction before slaughter, eagerly showed off the capital of their youth, completely unaware of what awaited them.
The host would even openly hint that anything was allowed—that there would always be someone to "handle things" afterward.
If Henry hadn't promised Tony Stark that he would keep an eye on this ugliness and remember who was involved, he truly wouldn't have wanted to attend such parties.
Never assume that everyone invited could let loose without worry.
Through his enhanced senses, Henry detected hidden cameras and recording devices everywhere. Worse still, judging by appearance alone, some of the boys and girls present were clearly underage.
These parties were traps from start to finish. Every suggestive brush of the arm, every deliberate provocation, was an invitation into hell.
Henry had every reason to believe that falling for it wouldn't result in someone knocking on his door the next day to negotiate or compensate him. Instead, the dirt would be carefully stored—until the day it became valuable leverage.
Did the attendees really not know this?
From Henry's observations, not necessarily.
Excluding staff and escorts, most guests fell into three categories:
1. The clueless fools, who genuinely knew nothing, indulged freely, and ended up with leverage held over them.
2. The willing participants, who knew exactly what was happening and cooperated deliberately—offering themselves as a pledge of loyalty.
3. The cautious veterans, who understood the nature of the party, had their reasons for attending, but had no intention of leaving behind any exploitable weakness.
The third group tended to be older, more experienced. The moment they saw the setup, they understood the filth beneath it.
Some of the more clear-headed ones even regretted coming.
After all, if something like this ever surfaced later, simply having your name on the guest list would be impossible to explain. There would be no proof of innocence—only room for unscrupulous reporters to spin their stories.
Henry himself was among those who regretted coming, though he never showed it on his face. He simply behaved as if it were a normal social function, chatting casually with people in public areas.
If a girl tried to lure him somewhere private, he would politely deflect her—but he would never foolishly follow. Instead, he stayed put, chatting openly with industry insiders, talking dirty if needed—but never crossing the line.
The rule was simple: verbal indulgence only. Nothing more.
Henry had seen this kind of setup before when dealing with people from South L.A.—they were experts at framing others with petty tricks. Combined with the lesson from Water Margin, where Lin Chong was framed by bringing his sword into the White Tiger Hall, wandering off with strangers was just asking to be ruined.
Another reason for Henry's restraint was the imbalance in status.
The invited guests were mostly second- and third-tier directors and producers—no top directors, no heavyweight producers. And no one else present was a studio CEO like him.
He wasn't a guest of honor, nor had anyone introduced him with fanfare. He had simply been tossed into the crowd to fend for himself—a clear sign of disrespect. Under such circumstances, leaving outright would have been perfectly reasonable.
A small number of attendees, uninterested in indulgence, instead approached Henry to talk about projects.
Although Stark Pictures rarely produced films, rarely did not mean never. Every year, there was still a fixed budget for supporting quality independent films—an industry-wide fact.
So some people tried their luck, hoping to secure backing.
Henry took advantage of this. By engaging with them, he made himself look busy and popular, conveniently dodging the advances of the girls. At the same time, he used these conversations to leak a message.
With Tony Stark's approval, Stark Pictures—under his leadership—had slightly increased its annual production budget. Any strong projects were welcome to approach him.
This news made directors holding scripts or plans even more enthusiastic.
Even producers already tied to other studios were willing to talk with Stark Pictures. Riskier projects that a single studio wouldn't dare greenlight could suddenly become viable if multiple investors shared the risk.
Late into the night, some guests stumbled out drunk. Others passed out completely, waking only the next morning beside their companions.
Seeing the night had run its course, Henry prepared to leave.
At that moment, a white man who appeared to be the event host approached him, holding a low-alcohol champagne flute.
"Mr. Brown doesn't seem very satisfied with tonight's party."
Henry gave a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"How could that be? Seeing so many producers, directors, and those lovely ladies all coming up to talk to me made me feel like the sun surrounded by stars.
"For a young man who's suddenly risen to a high position, this was an unprecedented experience. I practically felt myself floating. A few more times like this, and I might truly fall into decadence."
The host laughed.
"Then it seems Mr. Brown really is unimpressed by gatherings of this level. My boss asking me to arrange this was indeed… careless."
"Oh?" Henry raised an eyebrow. "And your boss is…?"
"The President and CEO of Sony America—Mickey Schulhof."
"Ah." Henry nodded.
"If it's Mr. Schulhof, he could've just invited me to a bar. One bottle of whiskey would've been enough. A party like this—well, I wouldn't dare attend a second time."
"There will be opportunities. I hope next time, we'll still have the honor of your presence."
Henry returned the handshake politely.
"If the opportunity arises."
And with that, he left.
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