Inside the house known as Mushroom House, Teacher Heleno - who had never followed JOJO - found himself staring at that rough-bearded old man named Joseph as if he'd stumbled, out of nowhere, upon a rare kind of truth. Maybe it was age catching up, maybe it was that unsettling feeling of recognizing in someone a courage you're no longer sure you could still carry. Either way, something about it held his gaze. It wasn't just the character on the screen. It was the way the scene breathed, as if it carried - hidden in the subtext - the weight of entire decades.
The room glowed under soft amber light, and the audio from the show spilled into the corners like it was filling every crack. The cups left on the table had gone cold. No one seemed to notice. Even the ones who weren't true fans had been pulled into that atmosphere, as if the story had quietly found a way to coil itself around their nerves.
Teacher Heleno let out a low sigh and almost laughed at himself. He'd seen plenty on television - handled difficult guests, improvised live when chaos came knocking. But there was a certain kind of emotion only a truly well-told story could draw out: the kind that doesn't arrive with loud music or easy tears - it comes like a mirror.
Because Joseph's life wasn't merely "interesting." It was absurd. In his youth, he'd saved the world. Now, old, he spoke with the casual ease of someone who carried a story far too big for his chest and still made it through time to the other side - family, grandchildren, a home full of voices. And for Teacher Heleno, that tasted bittersweet: a reminder that time moves for everyone, yet some people seem to pass through it with a deeper mark, as if they lived not just "years," but "eras."
Beside him, Teacher Hugo leaned forward slightly, attentive. He had that kind of focus that pretended to be casual - but wasn't. His eyes moved between the screen and the faces around the room, as if he were taking the temperature of every reaction. He understood audiences. He understood collective emotion. And there was something almost mesmerizing about watching an animated character build, right there on that couch, a real chain of empathy.
Alex sat the way he always did - steady posture, calm hands, an expression that suggested he wasn't only watching the episode, but watching the episode's impact. He didn't need to speak to be in control. He was a quiet, solid presence, as if he carried the responsibility of an entire project without turning it into a performance.
Now and then, when the on-screen camera focused on Joseph and he muttered his thoughts out loud, the crew behind the cameras of the real broadcast held back laughter, held their breath. The microphone picked up tiny sounds: someone adjusting a pillow, the brush of a sleeve against the couch, a laugh that died before it was born. Small things - yet they made the moment feel more human. More alive.
And in the middle of Joseph's grumbling, as if he were talking to himself, the audience caught what he let slip: his daughter had married someone on the other side of the world, and now he was preparing to travel east to visit her.
Teacher Heleno blinked slowly. The detail was simple, but it carried a quiet melancholy. A father traveling far just to see his daughter. A father who had once faced monsters and wars, now having to face what might be harder than all of it: distance.
Joseph's voice suddenly rose, wounded with pride and paternal jealousy, as if the miles themselves were a personal insult.
"Unforgivable! That damn guy who took my daughter so far away…!"
Teacher Hugo couldn't hold it in. The laugh slipped out before he could stop it.
"I get it. If someone took my daughter to a country on the other side of the planet, I'd be even angrier than him."
Laughter spread through the room as if it relieved the tension that had been quietly piling up, and for a few seconds the atmosphere turned light, intimate. The broadcast camera caught the moment, and the chat responded in the same rhythm: emojis, jokes, people relating. It was funny how the audience wasn't only watching the anime - they were watching the room, the couch, the way those people reacted. It was almost a story inside the story.
Online, comments grew like foam - about the episode and the cultural effect it was having. People quoting old scenes, posting clips, making comparisons, building inside jokes that only existed because everyone was living the same moment at the same time. Some accounts were already talking like this was a landmark, a "return" of something that had stayed away from the mainstream for too long.
In the room, someone joked - half laughing, half amazed - that the family now had mixed blood, half one world and half the other. It was a simple idea, but it carried the taste of "continuation," of a future.
Then the ending began. The credits music drifted in slowly, wrapping the house in that feeling of a well-made epilogue, a story closing its door with elegance. The sound seemed to glide over conversations and tie everything into a neat, satisfying knot. And for a few seconds, the fans who'd been following along felt a relief that was almost physical. In the comments, the energy shifted: instead of complaints, it seemed like everyone loosened at once, as if the universe had repaid an old debt.
Outside that house, though, the real world kept turning. All it took was a glance at the feed: clips from the episode popping up on huge accounts, critics praising the "perfect timing," people in the industry pointing out it wasn't luck - it was planning and execution. The phrase "don't send blades anymore" appeared everywhere, like a pact between creator and audience. It was exaggerated, sure, but it held a kernel of truth: the story had delivered what it promised.
Alex didn't celebrate. He simply observed. There was something almost cold about it, but also mature - like someone who knows the real victory is being able to plan the next move.
But… there was one thing the fans shouldn't stop expecting.
The music ended - and then the screen lit up again.
The silence in the room sharpened into a kind of electric attention. It was almost instinctive: people stopped moving. Even the air felt heavier. The screen showed a ship, and two operators with steady hands on the crane controls hauled something up from the seabed. A massive crate, heavy enough to make the metal groan and tremble. Water streamed off it in sheets, and the object rose slowly, as if it were being torn out of oblivion itself.
"It's so heavy… what is that?" one of them said, eyes shining. "What if it's pirate treasure?"
"We're rich!" the other replied, already drunk on the fantasy before seeing what was inside.
In the room, Teacher Heleno let out a quiet laugh - but it didn't come out fully. Because the scene had a strange texture. Like an omen. The camera moved in as if it already knew this wasn't a joke. The frame tightened on the center of the lid - and there, carved in gold, three simple letters, cold and unmistakable.
DIO.
Time seemed to take a step backward.
In the same instant, anyone who'd been following from the start felt their stomach drop. It wasn't an ordinary shock. It was the kind that hits when a story suddenly opens its mouth and shows teeth. The chat exploded before the room even reacted - like millions of people had swallowed the same scream at once.
In the house, someone stood up so fast it felt as if the scene itself had shoved them.
"DIO…?!"
And the questions came, inevitable, as if the whole audience were thinking in chorus: how?
Was he coming back?
But why?
In the first part, they hadn't shown his exact death on screen… but the outcome seemed obvious. He'd gone down with Jonathan. The sea had swallowed them both. How could something like that rise to the surface without breaking the world's logic?
Teacher Hugo ran a hand along his chin, thoughtful, and for a second his expression lost the host's polish and became simply that of a man - genuinely hooked.
Alex said nothing. But the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly, as if he respected that moment - not as a fan, but as someone who recognizes a perfect hook when he sees one.
And before the mind could fully arrange the panic, the image cut.
A prison.
It wasn't just the place - it was the atmosphere. A heavy, hostile silence, almost physical, as if even the light was afraid to make noise. The camera moved deeper down the corridor, slow, and every step felt like it promised a revelation. The sound was minimal: a distant echo, the scrape of a door, a low creak. It felt as if the entire world had held its breath to look inside that cell.
Inside it, a man alone.
A black trench coat. A military cap shadowing most of his face, leaving only the outline of his jaw and the darkness where his eyes should be. His posture looked lazy on the surface: one leg braced against the edge of the bed, a hand resting on his knee - yet his entire body radiated that contained danger, like a blade sheathed, calm, but ready.
It was the kind of presence that could take a room's attention without needing to try.
In Mushroom House, the couch creaked as someone leaned forward, trying to see more clearly, as if stubbornness could solve the mystery.
And just as the audience's eyes tried to snatch one more detail, one more clue… the screen went dark.
This time, it stayed dark.
A strange silence took the room for a second. It was as if that last image had left a mark, and now each person was trying to figure out where it hurt.
Then the noise returned - not from the television, but from the people. Questions, nervous laughs, theories tumbling over one another. The chat on the other side was already a storm, impossible to follow.
The episode had ended well. It had delivered satisfaction, left the taste of a mission accomplished. But those final two scenes ripped that comfort out of the audience's hands and flung it away, carving a hollow of anticipation into every fan's chest. It was as if the story had closed a book - and then dropped a note that read: you still haven't seen anything.
The comments detonated, every theory striking the next like sparks.
DIO returning? Is this setting up the third part?
And who is that guy in the prison?
He looks like a subordinate. Just looking at him, you can tell he's insanely strong.
What if he's Joseph's grandson? Joseph just said he already has a grandchild…
No way. That aura doesn't belong to a hero. He feels like a villain.
The discussion turned into wildfire. And as always, when a story hits the right nerve, the conversation stopped being only about "what will happen." It became about feeling. About the return of an old fear. About the promise that something enormous was on its way.
And while the internet burned with speculation, the Penguim TV live broadcast kept rolling.
The real camera showed Alex sitting for a few more moments, listening, letting the chaos organize itself. In that gap between the episode's end and whatever came next, you could feel the weight of a historic moment being shaped. And it was curious: it didn't feel like he was merely "riding the popularity." It felt like he was guiding a tide - and he knew exactly when to pull the rope.
Then, with a simple motion, he stood up. And the room, instinctively, quieted. Not because anyone ordered it, but because his presence carried a kind of silent authority. Alex turned to the camera, dipped his head in thanks, and spoke with a calm that only made the announcement feel bigger.
"Thank you all for supporting the first two arcs of JOJO's Bizarre Adventure. Now… wait for it. Bleach is coming back."
It was like pouring gasoline on a fire.
The reaction was immediate. The chat, already packed, became a living wall - frenzied, impossible to track. It felt like the audience had been pulled by an undertow.
"Sosuke Aizen! I've waited so long!"
"Sorry, JOJO… I love you, but I want to see Aizen flex on everyone!"
"DIO, stop calling. I'm afraid Aizen will get the wrong idea."
And amid the jokes came comments with real weight: people talking about grand locations, massive investment, a production that smelled like an "event," not merely a "continuation." The expectation wasn't only emotional - it was industrial. It was the audience realizing this was coming big, coming expensive, coming ambitious.
Madness. Everyone lost in the same delirium, completely and together. The line "when Bleach shows up, nobody competes" no longer sounded like exaggeration - it sounded like a natural law. It was the kind of announcement that didn't just ignite fandom; it moved the market. And behind every message in the chat, you could feel the same thing: that old hunger, that anxiety to see the return of a character who, for many people, had been their first taste of a villain larger than life.
Inside Mushroom House, while the digital world went up in flames, Alex already had his suitcase packed. His movements were practical, direct - like someone who doesn't live on promises, but on execution. He closed the zipper calmly, as if it were as natural as breathing.
Teacher Hugo looked at him, curious, trying to hide that he felt that same bright kind of anticipation.
"Alex… where to next?"
Alex answered with a light smile, almost casual, as if what he was about to do were just another step - when, in truth, it was the beginning of another era.
"The United States. I'm running casting over there."
Teacher Heleno tilted his head, genuinely intrigued.
"So the next season will have foreign actors? A co-production?"
Alex held the camera's gaze with a calm that bordered on provocation. The confidence there wasn't arrogance - it was something built, layered, earned. Like he'd seen the final result so many times in his mind that the real world was simply catching up.
"Relax. Nobody's going to be disappointed."
And it wasn't just words. It was posture. It was the way he carried his own name without raising his voice. If, in that moment, he decided to slick his hair back and take on that clean, dominant silhouette, it would be far too easy to understand why so many people linked his image to Sosuke Aizen himself - not because of looks alone, but because of the control, the cold magnetism, the sense that everything had been calculated long before you even realized you were playing.
It was in that atmosphere - part farewell, part expectation, part promise - that Violet Grant, who had been silent for far too long, finally found the courage. She pressed her lips together, hesitated, and then the question slipped out - small, almost fragile, but carrying everything she hadn't said before.
"Alex… I… is there a role that would fit me?"
For a moment, the air seemed to hang. The question wasn't only about a character. It was about belonging. About being seen. About not being left behind when the story accelerates.
Alex didn't answer right away. It wasn't cruelty - it was care. Like he was weighing what to say so he wouldn't turn hope into a lie.
"If something right for you comes up… I'll let you know to audition."
His hand touched the top of her head lightly - a simple, almost brotherly gesture, yet full of quiet kindness. Violet lowered her eyes, holding her emotion the way you hold water in your hands, trying not to spill anything in front of the cameras, trying to pretend it was all just "normal."
Then Alex turned his back and walked out, taking with him the sound of luggage, the feeling of departure, and that inevitable premonition: the world had just turned a page… and the next one would begin with an explosion.
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