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🕑 Added 2025-05-23 17:53:28 +0000 UTCChapter 1456: Starting from Scratch
Lucas: …
“Anson Wood! This isn’t funny.” Lucas’s voice was dripping with exasperation.
Anson, doubled over laughing, clutched his stomach. “Lucas, come on, you’ve got to admit—it’s a little funny. Haha!”
Lucas gave up on the conversation entirely.
Anson caught on to Lucas’s seriousness and toned down the laughter. “Lucas, what I mean is, this is just part of the Hollywood game. It’s inevitable.”
“Maybe it’s not a coffee shop next time—maybe it’s a Grammy after-party, a box-office bash, a charity gala, or front row at Fall/Winter Fashion Week. All kinds of social scenes can turn into deal-making and networking.”
“I get your concern. If this starts happening, it could spiral into a bad habit—more and more people hunting me down any way they can.”
“But I think it’s a good thing. Or at least, not a bad thing.”
“People wanting to reach out, trusting me with their ideas—it’s a big middle finger to the ‘pretty boy’ label, and it’s a boost for Forest Films too.”
“Otherwise, when’s the last time you heard of writers sneaking onto a Bora Bora beach to ambush Leonardo DiCaprio with a script?”
Even over the phone, Anson could picture Lucas rolling his eyes.
Lucas’s tone stayed stiff and unyielding, not softening an inch. “So you’re just cool with anyone waltzing up, bothering you, ambushing you, threatening you, wrecking your vacation, invading your life, and stomping all over your privacy?”
Anson chuckled, caught off guard. “So that’s why you set up the security team?”
Lucas: “You already know the answer.”
Anson: “No, of course not, Lucas. I’m just an actor—I’m not about to put my whole life on display for everyone to gawk at.”
“What I’m saying is, crack open a window. No need to lock myself in a castle. Besides, there’s no such thing as a truly isolated castle anymore.”
“If I don’t like it, I’ll tell them to talk to Edgar or you. Or I’ll leave Noah behind to hold the fort while I pull a lizard-tail escape and bolt.”
Lucas: “If you’re hinting I should ditch the security team, forget it. That’s non-negotiable.”
Anson’s ploy got sniffed out in seconds. He let out a dramatic, defeated sigh. “Ugh, Lucas…”
Lucas ignored the whining and steered the conversation back on track. “So, what’s the deal with this project? I thought you were on vacation, not planning to work. How long did that last—two weeks?”
Anson took a deep breath, shrugged, and slumped his shoulders. “No, I’m still on vacation. No plans to act in it. I think Forest Films should take it on.”
Lucas: “Again?”
The Sin City talks weren’t even finalized, and now Anson was tossing another project at Forest Films?
Anson: “Yep, again.”
“This one’s in the same ballpark—around $30 million or so. For Forest Films’ early stages, it’s a smart move.”
In some ways, Sin City and The Hangover were polar opposites. But for Forest Films’ fledgling days, they played similar roles:
On one hand, they’d show off the company’s willingness to take risks and embrace new possibilities. On the other, modest budgets with quick turnarounds could rack up profits fast, building a foundation with back-to-back hits to stake a claim in Hollywood.
“Like you said, I’m on vacation. I haven’t decided if I’ll act in it yet, but for now, I’m just enjoying the downtime.”
“That said, it’s a comedy script. The story and characters are a blast—filming would probably be a chaotic, hilarious mess. I’m kind of excited just thinking about it.”
“Plus, I’ve always wanted to do a real comedy—a pure one. Shake off the idol baggage with some laughs and show a different side of myself.”
All of that was true. Sure, The Princess Diaries, Catch Me If You Can, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind had comedic elements, but they weren’t comedies in the strict sense. Anson had never fully tackled comedy acting. Still, he hadn’t forgotten where it all began:
Friends. That was pure comedy gold.
While people kept pinning him as a heartthrob, they forgot his first role in front of the world was a comedic one—and he loved it. Anson didn’t mind ditching the idol image or breaking free of typecasting to explore more.
There was another big reason too: a comedy was the total opposite of Walk the Line. Miles apart.
If Anson wanted to shake off Johnny Cash’s shadow, sitting around in his apartment waiting for it to fade wasn’t the move. Better to jump in headfirst—take on a new role, use acting to shed the last one’s weight.
It’s like love: the best way to get over a breakup is to dive into a new fling.
Or, put another way, the trick to stop overthinking is… pile on more homework.
So, Anson wasn’t dodging it.
“I think starring in this could be a solid idea. Just not right now—I need a little more time. Let’s wait and see.”
“But whether I act in it or not isn’t the point. Even if I don’t, that’s fine. The real key is, I think Forest Films should grab it.”
“This one’s a bit different, though.”
“With Sin City, the director, writers, even the cast—Robert and Quentin probably have it all figured out. We just cut a check, and everyone’s happy. They’d probably love us staying hands-off, giving them creative freedom.”
“But this project? I say buy the script outright. It’ll need rewrites—we can pay for that separately. Keep the original writers on or bring in new ones, whatever works. Point is, we own it, and we call the shots.”
“Script, director, cast, shooting locations, budget—all of it. We decide everything. Start from zero and build a movie from the ground up.”
Up until now, with Walk the Line and the ongoing Sin City talks, Forest Films had been the check-signing partner, not meddling in the creative side.
No doubt, that’s a legit model. Even Hollywood’s top dogs did it—especially with big shots like James Cameron or Steven Spielberg. It’s standard.
But it’s the exception, not the rule. Most projects are controlled top-to-bottom by the studio—built from nothing, touching every corner of the Hollywood machine.
Take Spider-Man. Sony Columbia Pictures micromanaged every detail.
If Forest Films wanted a real seat at the Hollywood table, just signing checks wouldn’t cut it. They’d be a piggy bank—zero influence, easily replaced, forgotten in a heartbeat.
Clearly, Lucas had bigger ambitions than that.
So, Forest Films needed to dive into the nitty-gritty of “making” a movie—every single step.
Chapter 1457: Talking Business
With just a few simple words, Anson effortlessly hooked Lucas’s attention.
Lucas caught on quick, instantly grasping Anson’s angle. “So you’re planning to get Forest Films deeper into Hollywood’s gears—start infiltrating the system?”
Anson: “Exactly.”
As expected, their communication was smooth—one spark, and it clicked.
Lucas didn’t reply right away. He mulled it over carefully for a moment, and when he spoke again, he hit the nail on the head.
“What’s the status of these two writers?”
Anson: “Newbies. This is their second project. Their first just started shooting not long ago, and this one’s been bouncing around Hollywood, hitting walls.”
“My take? The rejections are partly because they don’t have any clout yet, but mostly because the script itself isn’t strong enough. Rewrites are inevitable—whether it’s them doing it or someone else stepping in. Either way, that’s an extra cost.”
In Hollywood’s writing game, the real money’s in “polishing”—script revisions.
The workload varies. Big changes might earn the polisher a credit; small tweaks, and they stay anonymous.
But here’s the kicker: polishing gigs pay well. Anywhere from $30,000 to $100,000, sometimes spiking as high as $300,000. Compare that to the average screenwriter salary—hovering between $300,000 and $500,000—and you see why polishing is such a cash cow.
For studios, though, constant rewrites add up to a hefty expense they can’t ignore.
There’s a key difference, though.
If a studio sets up a project and hires writers, it’s like a custom job. Pay follows the standard range—outline writers, dialogue specialists, character script folks all earn differently.
But if writers bring their own spec script to sell, it’s a negotiation free-for-all. Could be $100,000, could be $3 or $4 million—anything’s possible. Rewrites still cost extra, though.
The first is like a steady gig—stability’s the perk. The second’s a gamble—no ceiling, no floor.
Right now, The Hangover script was the latter.
It had a flashy hook, but the quality wasn’t there yet. Polishing and rewrite costs had to be factored in. Bring in a big-name writer for the touch-up, and that’s another fat check. Before the project even gets greenlit, the studio’s already cutting a stack of them.
For major studios, this is routine—they’re used to it. But it also means they’ve got options and can afford to take their time picking.
That’s where luck comes in—an unpredictable but critical X-factor. Some projects gather dust in a manager’s office for months; others get snatched up in days.
It’s all a crapshoot.
Right now, Miramax wasn’t a worry. They were a mess, and even if Disney noticed, an R-rated project like this wouldn’t fly. Disney split with the Weinsteins partly because Miramax kept churning out stuff that clashed with their wholesome image.
20th Century Fox? No sweat there either. Jon and Scott had no pull, and with Rebound just starting production, the studio wasn’t likely itching to buy another script from them. If they were, Rebound wouldn’t have cast Martin Lawrence—a cheap, low-draw lead.
The real wildcard might be New Line Cinema, where Tripp had ties.
If Anson remembered right, in his past life, The Hangover ended up with Warner Bros.
On paper, New Line fit the bill for The Hangover. It mirrored The Butterfly Effect—similar scale, similar vibe. New Line making it would’ve made total sense.
But in that past life, New Line didn’t bite. The project sat dormant for years until Warner Bros. dusted it off. Known for big-budget blockbusters, Warner taking a swing at this little comedy was a rare move.
Weird twist.
Anson didn’t know the behind-the-scenes story, and he couldn’t guarantee this timeline would follow the same path.
He added, “Still, I don’t think this project’s going to stay buried for long. New Line’s probably weighing it right now.”
A small chuckle came through the line. “Oh, old friends,” Lucas teased.
Then he pivoted.
“If these writers have zero pull, the project might not draw much interest—from directors, actors, crew. We’ve always got you as producer for hype, but beyond that, what’s your vision?”
“Thirty million bucks? Since when does a comedy cost that much? Sin City needed heavy CGI, so the budget makes sense. But a comedy?”
All business—Lucas showed his sharp side.
Anson snickered. “You’re asking me like I’ve got the answers. Honestly, this is your wheelhouse—I’m counting on you for all of it.”
“But I’ve got some thoughts.”
“First, the director. This project looks simple, but the director’s control is everything. One slip, and it’s a sloppy mess—total disaster.”
“Second, location. We need to shoot on-site. The movie’s realness is key. It’s gotta feel so absurd it couldn’t possibly happen, yet so real it’s terrifying. That contrast is clutch. I’m thinking we shoot in Vegas.”
“So I’m guessing the budget’s tied up in stuff like that.”
Truth be told, Anson had no clue how Warner Bros. dropped $30 million on The Hangover. It didn’t scream big spending like Sin City did. Robert and Quentin squeezed every penny for Sin City out of passion—how did The Hangover burn through cash?
Lucas nodded lightly but didn’t rush to conclusions. Either way, he’d need to read the script and map out a framework before nailing down a budget.
Then: “From your tone, sounds like you’ve already got a director in mind?”
Anson: “Todd Phillips. I think he’s perfect. Not sure if he’s tied up with anything else, though. If it comes to it, I can head to LA and help convince him.”
Lucas: “You stay on vacation. No Bora Bora beaches for you, fine—but at least kick back in New York a while longer. I’ll handle this. Didn’t you say it yourself? Forest Films can’t just run on you alone.”
“Todd Phillips, right? I’ll meet with him.”
Chapter 1458: Chaos Unleashed
Monday mornings—a combo straight from hell.
Who invented Mondays? Who came up with the nine-to-five grind? And most importantly, who the heck invented work?
At 9 a.m. on a Monday, it’s like a death knell. People drag themselves to the office—head pounding, soul crushed—after surviving New York’s rush-hour subway, where the packed crowds slowly suck the life out of you. By the time your body shuffles into the office, your spirit’s long gone.
Creak.
The lobby finally caught a breather after the morning chaos, but it didn’t last. The front door swung open again, and footsteps paused at the reception desk.
“Morning.”
The receptionist, looking like a zombie—pale, lifeless, utterly defeated—mustered a weak smile and rattled off the script: “Welcome to Warner Records. Do you have an appointment?”
“Nope. I was just passing by and thought I’d pop in. Could you check with Mr. Mike Donovan, see if he’s free? If not, no biggie—I’ll swing by another day.”
“Sir, that’s not how it works. All visits need an appointment. I can’t just buzz up without one. If you need to, you can call Mr. Donovan’s assistant yourself.”
“I don’t have his assistant’s extension. How about this: give the assistant a quick call, see what’s up. Just say Anson Wood is here to visit. Cool? I’ll wait over there in the lounge. Thanks for the trouble.”
Polite, charming, polished.
You didn’t even need to look up to catch the faint smile in his voice—infuriatingly calm and carefree.
While everyone else was drowning in Monday misery, this guy was just… strolling around.
Still, the receptionist couldn’t say no. It was within protocol, part of the job. She had to make the call.
Ugh, seriously?
Mike Donovan—promoted earlier this year to General Manager of the Artist Division for North America—was swamped. No time to even sip water. Anyone with half a brain knew an unscheduled drop-in wouldn’t get through. His assistant? A no-nonsense fireball—especially on Monday mornings.
Nobody sane would poke that bear right now.
With a deep breath, the receptionist dialed the internal line. Before she could even say hi, the assistant’s voice cut through like a whip.
“General Manager’s office.”
Skipping pleasantries, she jumped in: “Someone’s here to see Mr. Mike Donovan. No appointment. Says he’s just passing by.”
A dry laugh crackled through the phone. “Heh, are you asking my opinion?”
Was this some kind of ridiculous prank?
The assistant didn’t wait for an answer. The laugh vanished. “No, Mr. Donovan’s not free.”
Next step: hang up. But something made him pause and toss out a casual, “Who is it? Did he give a name?”
The receptionist faltered. “Uh…” She hadn’t caught it—barely registered the name. Gripping the receiver, she shouted across to the guy, “Sir, who’s here for Mr. Donovan?”
“Wood. Anson Wood.”
She nodded and relayed it into the phone. “Anson Wood.”
The line went quiet. A half-second pause hung in the air.
The assistant blinked. “Wait, who? Anson Wood?”
Still not clicking, she answered, “Yeah.” Then she glanced up at the guy and froze, jolted like she’d locked eyes with Medusa.
Light blue hoodie, navy shorts, black-and-white skate shoes—simple, unassuming, but brimming with youthful energy. A blue-and-white Yankees cap sat low, no frills, shading half his face. Hard to see clearly, but when your eyes crossed his, you couldn’t help but double-take.
Nothing flashy, yet somehow he snagged your attention. On the street, you might miss him before getting a good look.
But this wasn’t the street.
He seemed to sense her stare, lifting his head. Their eyes met, and he flashed a smile—lips curving just enough to light up the room.
The receptionist turned to stone. Brain offline. Thinking capacity: zero.
On the other end of the line, chaos erupted. “You mean the Anson Wood? The one-and-only Anson Wood?”
“Shit!”
“Damn it!”
The assistant shot up, bolting for Mike Donovan’s office—then skidded to a stop, lunging back for the phone.
“Keep him there.”
He dashed off again, slamming into his desk, slipping, and crashing into the wall. Total pandemonium.
Every eye on the floor snapped over, jaws dropping.
He didn’t care—bursting through the office door.
Mike Donovan, mid-conference call, flinched at the commotion and barked, “What the hell are you doing? Circus tricks? I’m in a meeting—”
“Get out! Scram!”
The assistant knew interrupting was a cardinal sin, but missing this? That could cost him his job.
Despite Mike’s fury, he powered through. “Mr. Donovan, Anson—Anson’s downstairs.”
Mike blinked. “Who?”
“Anson Wood, sir.”
A beat. Eyes locked. Gears turned.
“Shit!”
Upstairs: a total mess, pandemonium in full swing.
Downstairs: calm as a breeze, perfectly chill.
Anson was unfazed—laid-back as ever.
His vacation was still rolling, no agenda, no pressure. He was soaking up the freedom, maybe with a loose goal of exploring New York and tinkering with new music along the way.
No question, it was a good time.
Not just music—he’d picked up painting again too. Every day felt relaxed, unhurried.
Today’s stop at Warner Records? Pure whim. He was walking by, remembered something, and figured, why not?
He’d been meaning to talk to them about a new album. No rush—plenty of time to hash it out once the songs were ready. But since he was here, he thought he’d check in.
If Mike Donovan was busy, no sweat. He’d come back later.
That’s how casual, how spontaneous it was.
Anson loved this vibe—finally letting himself unwind, with time to gaze at the sky, the sea, and the nooks of Manhattan. Even the most familiar neighborhoods held hidden corners he’d never noticed, like he was seeing the city for the first time.
He plopped into a chair, flipping through a magazine, unrushed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure pacing nervously up ahead. He glanced up—the receptionist had stepped out.
Anson stood. “Mr. Donovan’s tied up? No worries, I’ll swing by another day.”
He started to turn.
The receptionist nearly yelped, “No—wait!”
Chapter 1459: Priorities in Order
“No… stop!”
The receptionist practically shrieked like her life depended on it, her piercing cry slicing through the air. Eyes squeezed shut, she looked like she was drowning in despair.
Her dramatic outburst yanked Anson to a halt. He stared at her, caught between amusement and disbelief. “So, do I need some kind of exit paperwork? I didn’t realize Warner Records was a one-way ticket.”
A little jab to lighten the mood.
But the receptionist wasn’t laughing. She was lost in her own head, stammering, “Uh, uh…” She suddenly pinched her thigh hard. “Uh, do you have any messages for Mr. Donovan?”
Anson watched her, chuckling softly. “You okay? Don’t torture yourself.”
Her cheeks flushed red—half embarrassment, half panic. She stared at him, too flustered to speak.
Anson shook his head with a helpless smile. “No, no messages. No need to stress. I’ll swing by another time. But seriously, you sure you’re alright? I get that Mondays are rough—need a black coffee?”
Her heart felt like it might explode. Anson got the Monday struggle—tears nearly spilled out—but she still couldn’t get a word out, just dumbly shaking and nodding her head.
Honestly, she had no idea what she was doing.
“Heh.”
Anson let out a soft laugh. It felt like he was talking to a wall. At least a wall might echo back—here, he got nothing.
Still, he kind of got it. He figured he’d better leave so she could breathe again.
Without another word, he waved goodbye. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
With that, he turned and walked off—clean, crisp, and… just like that… gone.
The receptionist stood frozen, her mind blank. Inside, she was screaming, “Stop him, stop him!” But her body wouldn’t budge.
And so, she watched helplessly as Anson strolled out of the building.
Ding!
The elevator doors slid open, and two figures burst out, panting hard. No time to catch their breath, they scanned the lobby—empty except for one dazed figure staring at the entrance.
“Where’s Anson?”
The voice snapped her out of it. She pointed at the door, mumbling incoherently.
Mike Donovan didn’t have time to dig deeper—or even curse. He bolted straight out.
Shoving the revolving door, he stumbled into the roaring chaos of Manhattan—howling wind, engine rumbles crashing over him like a storm. His ears rang, the world spinning like a kaleidoscope. The streets teemed with cars and people, overwhelming.
Mike sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, steadying his racing heart. He scanned the crowd—
There!
Amid the swarm, that tall, lean silhouette stood out like a beacon. Even with a baseball cap, the back of him was unmistakable.
Go. Run. Chase.
Weaving ahead, Mike swung around to face him, and under the cap’s shadow, that handsome face came into view. He broke into a grin.
“Hey, Anson. Morning!”
Now it was Anson’s turn to blink. “Hey, Mike. What… what are you doing here?”
He glanced back—another guy in a suit, hunched over, hands on knees, gasping, face red and twisted.
Anson turned back to Mike. “I figured you were swamped. Thought I’d come back later. It’s no big deal—you didn’t need to rush out.”
Mike’s breathing was still ragged. “No, not busy. I’ve got the whole morning free. Tons of time.”
A lie.
A blatant lie.
Mike’s day was packed—his desk buried under a mountain of work. But all that could wait. Had to wait. Nothing trumped Anson.
He flashed a smile. “You’re not just passing by, are you?”
Anson: “I really was just dropping in to say hi. Mike, if you’ve got stuff to do, go handle it. Don’t worry about me.”
Mike didn’t care. “Ha, I’m serious—morning’s wide open. I was just thinking about grabbing breakfast somewhere. You eaten yet? There’s a bagel spot two blocks over—best bacon bagels in Manhattan.”
“So, do I get the honor of treating Mr. Wood to breakfast?”
Anson sized Mike up—
His gut said Mike was fibbing. That schedule was probably slammed. But on the surface? Nothing. Mike’s eyes and expression radiated sincerity, not a crack in the facade.
Anson shrugged lightly. “Early summer mornings in New York are too nice to waste. We could walk over.”
Mike’s eyes lit up. “That’s what I was thinking.”
As he spoke, he subtly waved his assistant off, signaling him to head back and deal with things.
Mike gestured to Anson. “So, you’ve just been wandering around New York like this? No paparazzi hassling you?”
Anson: “It’s a big city. My ego doesn’t stand out here—blink, and I’m lost in the crowd. Paparazzi don’t even notice.”
A little quip to keep things light.
Mike was itching to get to the point, but he reined himself in, forcing a calm vibe. He chatted with Anson like they were old buddies.
Ever since August 31st’s band split, Warner Records had been on lockdown, doing everything to keep the bombshell under wraps.
But you can’t hide fire in paper.
For one, Miles and the crew had been touring Europe’s underground music scene without Anson. Bits of news trickled online.
For another, Anson’s acting career was soaring. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind blindsided everyone with its success, and he didn’t seem ready to rejoin the band anytime soon.
Warner knew the truth would leak eventually. They were just buying time to brace for the fallout and minimize damage.
Two months back, they’d locked in a deal with Miles and the new lineup. Signed and sealed—three albums minimum with Warner, plus a world tour across the U.S. and Europe. Plans were already rolling.
But Mike knew that was just step one, a tiny step. The real game-changer, the one that’d shift the whole board, was Anson.
Warner had to lock him down. No wiggle room.
If they missed this shot, their dream of overtaking Universal Music for global market share? Might as well pack it up and slink away.
The issue wasn’t Warner—they had the will, the grit, the intent. It all hinged on Anson—the Anson everyone in Hollywood was eyeing but no one could pin down.
Chapter 1460: Overjoyed Beyond Belief
Warner Records needs the band August 31st, but more than anything else, they need Anson.
Whether it’s market appeal or industry influence, what matters most is Warner Records’ corporate image—their attitude toward music, their stance, and the value they place on their artists. This is the key to winning over more musicians and gaining market recognition.
So, it all boils down to this: they need Anson.
The Anson who turned the entire music industry upside down with Midsummer Midnight. The Anson who swept four Grammy awards the first time he stepped onto that stage. And most importantly, the Anson who stood up there shouting “Don’t be so uptight!” and blew everyone away with a jaw-dropping performance that shook the music world to its core.
In Hollywood, the old-school critics and stubborn gatekeepers still grumble about Anson being just a pretty face. But in the music scene? They’ve got their arms and legs up in the air, cheering for a young force like him to smash the status quo and kick off a whole new era.
Warner Records can’t afford to miss this chance. They seized the first opportunity, and there’s no way they’re letting the second one slip through their fingers to someone else.
Sure, some might argue that the success of Midsummer Midnight came from a mix of factors, and there’s no guarantee Anson’s second album will hit the same heights. Plus, August 31st is done—without Miles and his cello, that bold, unique musical color they had is gone. Can Anson’s solo album really pull off something special on its own?
Yeah, it’s possible. But Mike would say that’s too narrow a view.
History shows that the true megastars don’t just rely on music alone.
Music is the foundation, the heart of it all—that’s a fact. But breaking free to become a superstar? That takes more than just tunes. It’s about an image, a symbol, something that leaves a deep mark on pop culture and trends.
Think Madonna and Michael Jackson back in the day. Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys in their prime. Later, Taylor Swift and Beyoncé. Every single one of them, without exception!
And now, Anson’s got that kind of influence. He’s at the top of the pyramid, with fashion, trends, and crazed fandom swirling around him like a storm. As long as his music isn’t total garbage, Warner Records shouldn’t let this slip away.
Because if they do, they’re basically handing Anson back to the market—and their hungry competitors won’t hesitate to pounce. Even if it’s just to keep him away from Universal or Sony, Warner has to go all in.
Besides, take a look at “Another Ray of Light.” Does anyone seriously think Anson’s music quality is going to tank? The soul of August 31st was Anson all along. His solo album isn’t something to worry about—it’s something to get excited for.
Warner Records has a hundred reasons to lock Anson down at any cost. There’s no need to even think twice.
But here’s the catch: it all hinges on Anson.
After the Grammys, he dove headfirst into filming Walk with the Song, completely focused and locked in. Mike doesn’t know much about how the shoot’s going, but he’s talked to Edgar a few times, trying to get a record deal signed with Anson. No dice so far, and it’s driving Mike up the wall.
Worse still, he can’t even get a hold of Anson.
Calls to Anson’s private phone? Almost always picked up by that assistant, Noah. Messages he asks to be passed along? Lucas takes those. It’s like an airtight wall—Anson’s totally cut off in that film crew bubble.
On the surface, it all seems fine. Anson’s pouring everything into the shoot, and Walk with the Song is obviously a big deal. Even the music industry’s heard the Hollywood gossip buzzing around.
But deep down, Mike’s gut is screaming that something’s off. He can’t put his finger on it, though. Could Universal have swooped in already?
If you think about it, the idea of Universal sneaking in doesn’t quite hold up—too many holes in that theory. And Anson’s had a good run with Warner; he wouldn’t just ditch them for someone else without giving them a shot.
Mike’s been racking his brain over the past few months, turning everything over and over, but he’s still got no answers.
Right now, the ball’s entirely in Anson’s court. Whether it’s Universal, Warner, or any other label, they’re all stuck waiting on him. Because Anson’s got a hundred reasons to walk away from music altogether if he wants to.
His acting career’s climbing to new heights anyway. And history’s full of one-hit wonders who drop a chart-topping album and then fade away. Anson doesn’t need to force himself to make a second solo album and risk tarnishing the reputation he’s built.
Of course, saying Warner Records’ whole future rides on Anson alone would be an overstatement. Saying he’s their only shot at overtaking Universal? That’s blowing it out of proportion too. Even without Anson, Warner will keep moving forward.
But there’s no denying it: Anson’s presence could be a game-changer for a ton of their big goals.
And more than that—Anson’s already a huge deal to Warner Records. For Mike personally, his career, his future, his job? It’s all tied up in Anson.
He needs Anson.
That’s why the nerves, the unease, the tension—it’s all eating at him.
Mike’s been waiting, weighing his moves, but there’s been no opening.
Who could’ve guessed Anson would show up on his own today?
Mike’s over the moon—everything else gets shoved aside, and it’s all about Anson now. This could be the moment that shapes the company’s entire future strategy.
But the more desperate he feels, the more anxious he gets, and the calmer he knows he has to stay. He can’t risk spooking Anson with his eagerness.
So, he keeps it cool, chatting casually with Anson as they grab bagels, then strolling back to the office with them in hand.
When the moment feels right, Mike tosses out a laid-back question: “So, you just swinging by today to pop upstairs and say hi?”
The whole vibe’s relaxed, and Anson answers offhandedly, “Oh, I was just walking by and thought of you. I’m working on my solo album lately—been pretty busy with it. Wanted to see if you guys might be interested.”
“It’s still in the writing stage, though, so it’ll be a while. No rush.”
“Oh, and how’s Miles and the crew? Last time I talked to Connor, he said you guys offered them a solid deal. They might sign again, but they’re pushing for a world tour. So, how’d that go?”
Mike: …
He blinks, swallowing hard. “Wait, what did you just say?”
Anson thinks for a sec. “That Miles and them are about to sign with you? Why do you look so shocked?”
Mike: “…No, before that.”
Anson: “Oh, you mean me working on my album? That’s what you’re asking about?”
Mike: Ha.
In that instant, his breath catches.
