Cassius didn't have to wait long.
Four days after the meeting with Marvel, Rob called, barely containing his excitement. "It's official! Marvel sent the formal offer. Star-Lord is yours."
The email followed right after, with the initial contract draft and schedule attached.
Principal photography was set for two months out. They'd carved out time upfront for physical training, fight choreography workshops, and a deep dive into '80s pop culture.
The money talk was the real work.
Rob showed up with the draft and sat down with Cassius, frowning. "Marvel's opening offer is ten million. That's a big step down from the fifteen you just got on Hunger Games 2, but it tracks with how they're treating this as an experimental project. They're keeping actor salaries tight so the bulk of the budget goes to effects, alien sets, and post."
Cassius skimmed the budget breakdown and got it immediately. Guardians lived or died on cosmic spectacle and a crew of weird alien misfits—those all cost serious money in VFX. Blowing too much on cast fees would hurt the finished product.
"What do you think?" Rob asked. "We can probably push to twelve million. That feels like their ceiling. Any higher and they'll think we don't understand the project's special needs or their budget structure."
Cassius tapped the table, thinking.
Ten million before tax meant roughly six-point-something after everything. Compared to the fifteen million he'd just banked, the drop was real.
But he wasn't thinking about the number sitting in front of him right now.
He spoke calmly. "What if we don't fight for the highest base? What if we flip the script?"
"Flip it how?"
"Drop the base to eight million. But I want twenty percent of global net profits as backend."
Rob went quiet on the other end, running the numbers fast.
Net-profit participation was the kind of clause only top-tier stars usually got—and even then, only after a movie actually blew up. Hollywood accounting was famous for making "net profits" disappear on paper, so a lot of actors ended up with nothing. Cassius had cleared solid backend on his last few films because the grosses had been ridiculous. Hunger Games 2 had underperformed, and Lionsgate had gone silent on any bonus.
Marvel felt different. Especially under Kevin Feige—more transparent than most.
"You're gambling," Rob said finally, sitting back down and staring at him. "Betting the movie hits big and that Marvel's backend math actually pays out more than the fixed fee."
"Yeah, I'm betting," Cassius admitted. "But I'm not blind-betting. I read the script. I sat with Gunn and Feige. I can feel how much they believe in this thing. The character and the crew setup have breakout potential. If it works, the long-term value blows past a few million in base salary."
"And if it flops?" Rob asked.
"Then eight million is still eight million. Doesn't move the needle on my career either way. But using a lower guarantee to buy a real shot at something massive? I'll take that trade. Plus Marvel will love it. It tells them I'm not here to cash a check—I actually believe in the project and I'm willing to share the risk."
Rob stayed silent for a long beat, then sighed. "Sometimes I think you're better at this agent shit than I am. All right. I'm in. I'll go pitch it."
The negotiation went smoother than expected.
When Rob laid out the lower base in exchange for meaningful backend, Marvel—especially Kevin Feige—looked surprised and genuinely pleased. It saved them serious cash for production. More importantly, it sent a clear signal: one of Hollywood's hottest young actors actually believed in Guardians of the Galaxy enough to bet on it.
That kind of buy-in from the lead meant a lot to the creative team.
After two rounds of back-and-forth, they locked it in. Cassius's base salary: eight million dollars. Plus twenty percent of global net profits.
The contract spelled out the net-profit definition clearly and included audit rights to keep the Hollywood accounting games in check.
"This is the best backend structure I could get you," Rob said on the phone. "Feige privately promised they'll run the numbers straight. Take that with a grain of salt, but the contract and audit clause give us real protection. The important part is they felt your conviction. They respect it."
Meanwhile, Warner's start-of-production news was still bubbling online. They'd paid for extra heat, pushing the Nolan project and Matthew McConaughey's casting hard. McConaughey was suddenly everywhere—interviews, features—reintroducing the Oscar winner to a wider audience.
"Dust has settled! Nolan + McConaughey is the real power move. Certain people can stop riding coattails now. #RealArtHasNoColor"
"Hollywood's core creative circle has its own standards. Flash-in-the-pan hype never lasts. Interstellar is next year's Oscar frontrunner."
"Remember when Cassius's fans were fantasizing Warner would beg him back? Face hurt yet? Principal photography is rolling and the so-called 'discarded one' is stuck waiting for Fast 6 to carry him."
"Inside scoop: why did Fast 6 even cast him? Director Justin Lin ! Nepotism, plain and simple. Otherwise what does a guy with his résumé and that face bring to a Universal A-level core team? You really think it's talent?"
"Hunger Games 2 bombing already proved the point. Without a huge IP and A-list co-stars, he can't move the needle."
"Warner's door is closed. Lionsgate probably regrets ever touching him. Just wait for Fast 6 to flop and watch him go back to whatever he was before."
"Fans, stop coping. The main character is already washed. Time to unstan. Hollywood eats shooting stars like this every year. You really thought he'd stick?"
The comments were showing up on Twitter, film forums, and under entertainment articles—more organized than random hate.
Some accounts had clear patterns: long-term players in race-baiting threads who'd always been hostile to Asian, especially actors breaking into mainstream projects. They were thrilled to see Cassius take hits and framed Warner's greenlight as justice being served.
Cassius's own fan club and plenty of casual supporters fought back hard, listing his credits and shutting down the "he got in through connections" nonsense. But online arguments rarely have clean winners, and the noise just made the negativity louder.
Rob sent Cassius a curated screenshot thread with a note: "Standard playbook. Don't sweat it. Warner's probably enjoying the show—wouldn't be shocked if some of their people quietly fed the fire."
"Want me to have Justin Lin issue a statement?"
Cassius was in the gym, working a heavy bag with a hybrid street-fighting and dance-infused sequence he was developing for Star-Lord—something cocky, flashy, and personal.
He stopped, wiped sweat, and checked the message.
"No need," he typed back. "Everyone on the Fast 6 crew knows why Justin cast me—I can fight, I can act, I mesh with the team. That's fact. Saying it out loud just makes us look defensive. As for the rest—"
He paused, then added: "Wait for Fast 6 to drop or for the Guardians news to hit. That'll shut more mouths than any statement. Let them talk."
Cassius really wasn't rattled by the noise.
Hollywood rewarded results. The same people hyping you today could be stepping on you tomorrow. He had bigger things to focus on.
Once the Marvel contract was signed, a detailed prep packet landed in his inbox.
Besides regular conditioning, there were a few unique assignments.
An '80s pop-culture deep dive.
A long list of movies, TV shows, and albums—Star Wars to Ghostbusters, Michael Jackson's Thriller to Duran Duran. He had to watch, listen, and absorb the cultural shorthand and that specific brand of optimistic weirdness.
Gunn's note: "Peter Quill's humor and worldview are marinated in this stuff. You need to marinate too."
Marvel also paired him with the stunt team to build Star-Lord's signature fighting style—non-traditional, personal, mixing street-level brawling he might've picked up on Earth with whatever wild alien techniques he learned growing up.
Cassius's years of on-set action work plus the Jackie Chan skill orbs he'd absorbed made the collaboration smooth. He pitched ideas like using the environment for slippery, comedic dodges or treating the elemental gun as both a blaster and an occasional blunt-force or grappling tool. The stunt coordinator loved it.
[Action Creativity Fusion +7]
[Retro Culture Immersion +5]
[Character Trait Internalization +9]
Orbs kept dropping.
His [Reputation-Building] progress was already at 85 percent.
He could feel [Role Influence] edging toward its own upgrade.
Guardians hadn't even started filming and the panel was already about to level again.
The online attacks kept coming—more coordinated now.
Beyond the usual "flash in the pan," "got in through connections," "can't carry a movie" lines, new specifics started appearing.
Anonymous posts claimed he was difficult on the Fast 6 set, arrogant, hard to work with.
No one from the actual crew backed any of it, but the stories were vivid enough to fool casual readers.
Others dug up his early Thor background work and the old Kristen Stewart relationship rumors, painting him as calculating and opportunistic.
It had crossed from normal online snark into straight character assassination.
Rob monitored the sentiment daily, face getting darker.
"Warner's probably not officially involved, but they're definitely enjoying the show. Wouldn't be surprised if someone over there quietly passed along a knife or two."
On Cassius's domestic Weibo, his fans were losing their minds.
"These assholes ever gonna stop? Did Brother Cass eat their rice or what?"
"Not enough that he turned down Warner—they gotta bury him alive?"
"Obvious paid trolls. Same script every time."
"I'm so pissed. You can't reason with these people. They're just evil."
But venting in China didn't touch the source. The real fire was burning on Twitter, film forums, and comment sections outside the firewall.
Core members of his fan club were scrambling in group chats.
"We can't just yell in our own backyard. We have to go out there!"
"Right! Twitter, Instagram—hit them where they live!"
"In English! Facts only. Link his box office, ratings, quotes from Justin Lin and Vin Diesel."
"We've got numbers. Organize shifts. When a hit piece trends, we flood it with receipts and the #WeSupportCassius tag."
They built a quick English-language battle guide—templates, credit lists, platform rules, emphasis on staying calm, polite, and fact-based. No name-calling. No feeding the trolls.
Soon Twitter started seeing a very specific new presence.
Whenever a coordinated attack tweet gained traction, several detailed English replies would appear within minutes, complete with Green Lantern box-office screenshots, 2 Broke Girls ratings reports, and links to Justin Lin and Vin Diesel publicly praising Cassius—all tagged #WeSupportCassius.
At first the haters laughed it off as bot spam.
But the replies kept coming around the clock, clearly from real people, and the trolls started getting nervous.
This wasn't the usual fan echo chamber they were used to.
Some attackers lashed out with slurs and got reported and restricted. The fans stuck strictly to facts, sometimes ending with a polite "have a nice day" that left the other side seething.
The disciplined, fact-driven wave coming from the East started getting noticed by neutral users and entertainment accounts.
"These fans are actually organized."
"They're out here defending their guy with receipts and they're being civil about it."
"After reading the numbers they posted, Cassius doesn't seem nearly as bad as some people are claiming."
A buffer zone was forming.
It didn't kill the hate, but it made it a lot harder for smear campaigns to go unchallenged.
While the fans were fighting on the front lines, Cassius got a call from Justin Lin at Universal.
"Cass, you've seen the noise online, right?"
Justin's voice carried concern mixed with a director's practical worry about his project. "It's picking up steam. I know most of it's bullshit, but we're in the final stages of post on Fast 6. Universal's risk team is twitchy. They're worried if this keeps going it could hurt the international numbers—especially outside North America—when we launch."
Justin was being direct: Universal didn't want anything that could destabilize the box office. If needed, they were ready to deploy PR resources or even adjust marketing to protect the film.
"I get it, Director," Cassius said. "The source of all this is obvious to anyone paying attention. But rushing to shut it down now just makes us look guilty and gives them more oxygen."
"So what's your play?"
"Use the work. It beats any statement."
Justin paused. "You got something new cooking?"
"Yeah. Just signed. Marvel's new one—Guardians of the Galaxy. I'm playing Star-Lord. Peter Quill."
The line went quiet for two seconds, then Justin's laugh came through loud and clear. "Marvel? Damn, kid. That's a hell of a get. The team's not one of the A-list comic books, but Marvel's rolling hot right now and Feige doesn't greenlight junk. If they're making it, there's a plan."
He chuckled harder. "I see what you're doing. You're sitting on this and waiting for the perfect moment to drop it. Right after Warner started their little victory lap. That's cold. And brilliant."
"Way better than us at Universal trying to spin something. When that news hits, those clowns online are gonna choke. Perfect clapback."
Justin was still laughing when they hung up.