INT. PUBLISHING HOUSE. OFFICE.
Returning after the complete failure of her script presentation to Gleb, Lisa practically ran to work. She desperately needed to drown herself in work to forget her humiliation like a terrible dream. She dropped abruptly into her office chair, slamming her bag onto the desk. Lisa hadn't even managed to turn on her computer before Victoria darted over to her, beaming with curiosity.
"Soooo?" she drew out with genuine interest. "Tell me! How did it go? Did he take your script?"
Lisa crossed her arms across her chest in displeasure. "No. And don't even ask. He turned out to be a rare… how to put it mildly… jerk. Pompous, self-absorbed, and, as it turned out, not at all as nice as he looks on screen."
"I told you," Vika scoffed. "You shouldn't look for the perfect man in movie characters. Well, don't be so upset! In any case, luck will smile on you one day, and a wonderful film will be made based on your script. And people like Gleb… fate will surely punish them for thinking, with all their celebrity, that they can offend ordinary people, and even their fans."
Just then, Volodya entered the office. He was holding a huge bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates. He approached Lisa's desk.
"Here. As consolation. I take it, judging by your extinguished eyes, nothing worked out again? However, that was to be expected."
Lisa snapped her head up in indignation. "What do you mean, 'was to be expected'?"
"Quiet, quiet. I'm not talking about the quality of your script, Lisa. I'm talking about your romantic hero, Gleb."
"And what's wrong with that fake romantic?"
Volodya grinned, handing the flowers to Lisa. "He simply couldn't sense all of your charm, Lisa."
"Am I not good enough for him?" Lisa exclaimed indignantly.
"He's not good enough for you. He's gay."
The girls froze.
"What?"
"That can't be!"
"Didn't you watch the news? The discussion is already in full swing on Twitter. Gleb is involved in a serious scandal. Exposing articles scream that he is not just a guy of non-traditional orientation, but also a pervert who harasses men."
Lisa and Vika immediately grabbed their phones. Reading the loud headlines: "Gleb is a Pervert!", "Famous Actor Raped His Driver!", "Gleb is a Fake Romantic Hero!"... Lisa shook her head: "Now it makes sense why he acted so dismissively towards women."
"See! I told you, fate will punish him! And you know, Volodya," Vika turned to her colleague, "maybe if you had gone, Gleb would have been more amenable. You're such a cutie. And you have a nice butt."
Volodya grimaced with disgust. "Not funny," Volodya retorted.
EXT. GLEB'S HOUSE. DAY.
A crowd of journalists was swarming around Gleb's luxurious mansion. Cameras, microphones, loud voices—everyone was waiting for the actor, accused of homosexuality and sexual harassment of his limousine driver, to finally come out.
REPORTER 1 (to the camera): The actor, according to our information, is not answering calls and has completely isolated himself. We continue to follow the developments of the loudest scandal of the year!
REPORTER 2 (to the camera): Just yesterday he was dazzling on the red carpet, and today his career is already under threat.
One of the paparazzi, a plump man in a crumpled jacket, decided to take action. He spotted a slightly open basement window.
"To hell with permission!" he muttered.
Secretly climbing over the high fence, his shirt caught, and the fabric tore with a rip, leaving a small but bleeding scratch on his shoulder. The blood on his white shirt didn't stop him. He reached the basement window and began to squeeze through. The operation was difficult for him. The plump man was cramped. He went feet first, moving only by feel. Finally, his feet hit something.
"Stable," he decided, shifting his weight.
But it was not a reliable support, but merely the frame of an old bicycle. A dull thud was heard, and the journalist crashed to the floor. The frame ended up right between his legs. Clenching his teeth and holding his groin, he groaned, rolling on the cement floor. In his pain, he didn't notice that he had knocked over a shelf, from the top of which a cast-iron kettlebell fell onto his forehead. He received a severe blow, a bump instantly swelled up on his forehead, and a bruise appeared.
"Material... I need material," he wheezed, overcoming the pain, and, staggering, headed into the house. Entering the hallway, he hid in the closet, waiting for the right moment to take a suitable photo.
EXT. GLEB'S HOUSE. POLICE CAR INTERIOR. DAY.
While journalists were crowding and waiting for Gleb to come out, a patrol car pulled up to the mansion. The two police officers exchanged glances when they saw the commotion.
POLICE OFFICER 1 (older): What are they doing here?
POLICE OFFICER 2 (younger): What? What? Being gay is popular these days, Petrovich. The report has been accepted. Let's go, we'll take this... I don't even want to call him a man.
They got out of the car. The young police officer adjusted his uniform, clearly trying to get into the camera lenses that immediately focused on them. Approaching the door, they rang the doorbell.
INT. GLEB'S HOUSE. BEDROOM. DAY.
Gleb was lying on the bed, still in his tuxedo from the film festival. The room was in semi-darkness. The cell phone had been ringing for a long time. Then a persistent knock at the door was added. The actor finally woke up. He looked extremely dishevelled, and his head was spinning. Finding his phone with difficulty, he answered.
"Hello…"
ANATOLY PETROVICH'S VOICE (from the receiver): Gleb, damn it, where did you disappear to?! Why haven't you been answering all day?! What the hell is going on, why are all the media talking about you?!
Gleb, staggering, began to go down the stairs.
"Tolya, what's the panic? I won an award yesterday. Of course, they'll be talking about me."
INT. BUSINESS CENTER. ANATOLY PETROVICH'S OFFICE. DAY.
Anatoly Petrovich was sitting at his desk and continued his conversation with Gleb.
"Did you watch the news, laureate?! They're not talking about 'Best Actor' at all!"
INT. GLEB'S HOUSE. HALLWAY. DAY.
Gleb approached the front door, still not understanding what Anatoly Petrovich was talking about.
"What news? I don't understand…"
He opened the door. The police were standing in front of him, and behind them was an army of journalists with cameras. Gleb was stunned.
"Tolya, I'll call you back. Bye."
He hung up.
"How can I help you?" Gleb politely addressed the police.
"Gleb?"
"Yes, that's me."
"You are accused of sexual harassment. Please come with us to the precinct."
"Harassment? Are you out of your minds? There's some misunderstanding here! Let me grab my jacket, and we'll go figure this out."
Gleb approached the built-in closet where the plump journalist was hiding and threw open the door. At that moment, the shoe shelf the journalist was standing on broke, and the man in the torn shirt and with a huge bruise on his forehead collapsed right onto Gleb.
The media behind the police officers howled with delight, their cameras clicking, trying to capture this surreal picture.
"What... who is this man?!" Gleb wondered, dismissively removing the journalist from himself.
Before Gleb could recover, the young police officer quickly twisted his arms behind his back.
"Quiet! This is another one of his victims!"
"What do you mean, another one?! I'm the victim here! What is going on?!"
Without explaining anything, the police officers led Gleb and the journalist who had fallen on him to the car. The crowd of media immediately rushed towards them.
REPORTER 2: Gleb! Comment on the video! Are you gay?
REPORTER 3 (to the journalist): Are you his lover?! Or another victim?!
REPORTER 4: How long have you been together?! Does Gleb like sadistic sex?!
The plump journalist desperately tried to fight back: "I'm a journalist! I'm not… his lover." But no one believed him, thinking that he was covering for his "lover." Gleb, absolutely stunned, decided not to comment yet.
INT. POLICE PRECINCT. INVESTIGATOR'S OFFICE. DAY.
The investigator finally sorted out the journalist's identity and let him go, despite Gleb's protests.
"He had no right to enter my house!"
"You are not in a position to assert your rights right now, actor. Look."
The investigator turned the monitor and showed Gleb a video recording from the limousine's dashcam. Gleb saw himself, drunk, attacking the driver, harassing and beating him.
"I... I don't remember anything. I don't understand how…"
At that moment, the door opened, and a respectable man entered.
"Hello. I am Yevgeny Vladimirovich's lawyer. Gleb, don't answer any more questions."
He turned to the investigator. "My client no longer has the right to be detained. The limousine driver has withdrawn his statement. Yevgeny Vladimirovich asked me to bring you to him," he addressed Gleb.
EXT. POLICE PRECINCT. MAIN ENTRANCE. DAY.
A crowd of journalists was still buzzing near the precinct. As soon as Gleb and the lawyer came out, they were surrounded.
REPORTER 5: Why did the driver withdraw the statement?! Did he receive money?!
REPORTER 6: Tell us, are you gay?!
REPORTER 7: Why did you use violence?
Gleb listened silently, covering his face with his hand. When the noise subsided a little, he straightened up, looked at the cameras, and slowly, with a tragic pause, recited:
Not knowing the notes of another's soul,there's no need to touch its strings,do not rush to be the conductor,lest you turn out to be the executioner.
Without saying another word, he and the lawyer got into the waiting car, and they quickly drove away from the precinct.
INT. INSIDE THE CAR. DAY.
The lawyer silently watched for a while as Gleb looked through the slightly open window at the houses, streets, and people flashing past him.
"Why didn't you defend yourself?" the lawyer broke the silence.
"When you belong to the public, you must be ready for a cruel execution the moment you slip up. Public opinion is a terrible thing. If they have already hammered something into their heads, there is no point in trying to convince them otherwise, as it will only get worse. After all, if you defend yourself, it means you are guilty."