The next day, one of the three largest newspapers in the country of the lighthouse splashed an impossible-to-ignore headline across its front page:
"The Satan from the East - Sosuke Aizen."
The series had been officially released on the platform the night before, and in less than twenty-four hours it was already dominating the front page of a national paper. Even for a market accustomed to manufacturing sensational headlines, that kind of speed was absurd.
Centered on the first page was the image that had already become iconic: Sosuke Aizen removing his glasses, the calm smile fading as his true face emerged against the ominous backdrop of a towering Menos Grande. The composition was almost artistic-light and shadow in perfect contrast, serenity and terror coexisting within the same frame.
Alex stared at the photo for several seconds in silence.
Deep down, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
This wasn't just commercial success. It was aesthetic validation. Proof that this presence, this villain, could cross cultural boundaries without losing any of its impact.
The news spread like wildfire. International portals reposted the cover, influencers reacted in hastily recorded videos, and critics began writing analyses far longer than anyone pretending not to care should have bothered with. Within hours, Alex's name was circulating in circles where it had never been spoken before.
Back home, the reaction was even more intense.
For decades, domestic productions had been enthusiastically consumed locally, yet treated as exotic curiosities abroad. Now, for the first time, a work wasn't merely being accepted-it was being celebrated.
Then came the final blow.
Netfi officially announced its participation in funding the next two seasons of Bleach, along with full investment in Alex's new project, DEATH NOTE.
Total investment: 643 million dollars.
Converted, that amounted to 44.4 billion in local currency.
The internet simply froze.
Comments, memes, improvised financial analyses, conspiracy theories, and unrestrained worship exploded all at once. It didn't matter whether people understood audiovisual production or not-everyone understood numbers.
[He stood over there and ripped money out of the foreigners' hands without even blinking.]
[44 billion… that's not an investment, that's an economic invasion.]
[Did Aizen just become a cultural asset?]
[What even is DEATH NOTE? Is he only making stuff about death now?]
[Call him whatever you want, but the guy is making history.]
Meanwhile, far from the digital uproar, the filming set moved to a completely different rhythm.
"CEEESAR!!!"
Mark's scream cut through the icy air like a blade. The echo reverberated off the shattered walls of the abandoned alpine hotel, returning the pain in layers.
The scene demanded it. Nothing less.
When Alex raised his hand, it took the crew a few seconds to react.
"Cut. That's a take."
Mark remained bent forward, his face hidden. The tears were no longer part of the performance. They were what remained after it.
Bruce Walts approached carefully.
"Hey… I'm still here," he said, placing a hand on Mark's shoulder.
The response was immediate. Mark grabbed him and held on far too tightly, as if letting go would mean accepting the loss.
The atmosphere grew heavy.
Not awkward-human.
Alex watched in silence. This was exactly why he pushed so hard. He wasn't chasing pretty images, but something real. That pain would stay in the frame. The audience would feel it.
Some crew members turned their faces away. Others pretended to adjust cables that didn't exist. No one walked away from that scene untouched.
"If this sequence doesn't make people cry when it airs, nothing will," someone muttered.
Alex simply nodded.
Later, while adjusting the schedule, he noticed something curious: no one seemed eager to leave.
Bruce asked to stay on set a few extra days. Geórgia, who had already wrapped her scenes, kept showing up at breakfast with a different excuse each time. Even the extras lingered longer than necessary.
The reason was obvious.
Everyone knew something big was being built there.
That night, Alex finally relaxed in the hotel room. Yasmim was leaning against him-distracted, yet far too attentive for someone who didn't care.
"You noticed, right?" she said. "Everyone's trying to get closer. It's not just about work."
Alex smiled faintly.
"That never changes."
Money attracted eyes. Creative power attracted even more.
She hesitated for a moment before continuing.
"But you're not going to give in, are you?"
"Never have," he replied. "Not about to start now."
At that moment, the phone vibrated.
Reed.
"Alex, we're getting requests from Western actors every day. Some very big names."
Alex listened calmly.
"Some roles will need that," he said. "But only if it makes sense."
"Including… Scarlett. She's interested."
Alex asked for the number.
He listened.
"Pass."
No anger. No hesitation.
He'd seen this movie before-bloated budgets, stars draining resources, stories sacrificed at the altar of oversized names.
Alex hung up and placed the phone on the table.
Outside, the night wind swept through the mountains.
He knew this was only the beginning.
The world was finally watching.
But the one who decided the path forward… was still him.
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