"You're in New York for the first time, right?"
Leon walked Anya around Apocalypse Music. Employees kept popping their heads up from their desks, staring curiously.
Word had spread fast: this 15-year-old had just beaten out Megan Fox and Amber Heard for the female lead in Ready Player One.
"She doesn't exactly look like the boss's usual type…" one guy muttered.
Anya was already 5'7", but her figure wasn't screaming "woman" yet. Her chest showed a lot of pale skin, but the cleavage was barely there—just a shallow line. The black skirt hid everything below the waist, leaving it to the imagination.
"You're an idiot," another guy whispered back with a sleazy grin. "Maybe she's got some special skills in the bedroom."
"Shut up, man—she's 15."
"I didn't say anything weird."
"Quiet! Boss is walking by!"
The second they spotted Leon, everyone snapped their heads back down and pretended to work.
"Yeah, three years ago my parents and I came back to the States once," Anya said. "We only went to Disney in Orlando, though. My dad's job pulled us right back to the UK."
"What do you think of New York?"
Anya blinked, caught off guard. She'd never really thought about it. "It's an incredible city. If London's the gateway to Europe, New York's the crossroads of the world."
"That's a very PR-approved answer. Can't argue it's a magnetic place." Leon gave a small smile, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looking out.
Manhattan's skyline looked like a steel cage stuffed full of capitalist dicks—every window broadcasting Wall Street guys refining cocaine from interns' souls.
He stayed quiet for a second, then added, "But it's also a dangerous city. The thugs in the subway and the Wall Street sharks on Fifth Avenue—they're both risky for a girl like you who just got here."
"I can take care of myself."
"No," Leon said, curling his lips and ruffling her hair. "I'll take care of you. You decided where you're staying yet? I can set you up somewhere right now."
Since landing in New York a couple days ago, Anya had been crashing at a hotel. Now that she'd landed the female lead in Ready Player One, she'd be stateside for a long time. This city would become the center of her career and life.
"How about Tribeca? I can rent you an apartment there—we'd be close." Leon paused. "Or, if you don't mind, you could just stay at my place."
"At your place?" Anya's cheeks flushed pink. The thought of living with a top-tier young male singer sent a bunch of wild images flashing through her head.
"I'm kidding." Leon laughed it off. Even if she said yes, he wouldn't actually do it.
The second Taylor walked in and saw a sweet-looking stranger girl in the house, chaos would erupt. Even setting Taylor aside, paparazzi catching him coming and going with a 15-year-old would be a PR nightmare.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Leon. My dad already had a friend rent me a place in Tribeca." Anya's face was still red.
Leon suddenly remembered: this girl was a legit rich kid. Her parents spoiled her rotten. Housing wasn't even on her worry list.
"Perfect. We'll be neighbors. Anything happens in New York, you call me right away." Leon sat in his swivel chair and lit a cigarette.
Right then Phil barged in. He'd clearly overheard the last part.
He ran a hand through his perfectly gelled hair, plopped onto the couch, and gave Anya a sleazy once-over. "That's right, kid. Any trouble in this city, call this asshole. He's basically Al Capone in New York—if some thug on the street keeps staring at you, he'll gouge their eyeballs out."
"Shut up." Leon rapped the desk. The old man reluctantly zipped it. "I'm already regretting handing her over to you. Tone it down around her."
"This is the smartest thing you've ever done," Phil grinned. "I'm the best at turning girls into real women. I mean helping them survive in this fake, cutthroat business."
He slid an agency contract across the table. Signing it would make Anya Apocalypse Agency's first fully exclusive actress.
Robbie was an actress too, but her agency contract was with CAA—Leon only got a cut of her music sales.
Thanks to protective regulations for new talent, her first agency deal could only be one year, with a maximum three-year renewal and no more than 10% commission.
So Anya's contract was just one year, with 10% commission on any commercial work within its scope.
"I already sent this to your parents. Anything you want changed?" Leon asked.
Ten percent was the industry ceiling, but Anya was a total unknown and her first movie was fully backed by Apocalypse Pictures. Her parents had hemmed and hawed but finally agreed.
"As long as my parents are okay with it."
Anya skimmed the contract—barely. It was hard to believe she'd actually read the fine print.
"Look at her—such a good girl for her parents. I'm starting to like this kid." Phil chuckled. "Don't worry, Miss Anya. You've got the best agent in the world now. You'll be bigger than Angelina Jolie in no time."
Anya was nothing like the women Leon and Phil usually dealt with. From every angle, she was a textbook good girl.
Strict private-school upbringing, friends vetted by her parents, even attended an all-girls school.
Queen's Gate School—the famous finishing school for future society ladies.
Her parents had raised her to be a proper young lady: probably marry some finance bro, spend her days walking dogs and sipping afternoon tea, flipping through luxury catalogs for fun.
Classic rich-lady life.
But one glance from Leon in a crowd changed everything. Now she was across the Atlantic, an actress—with a role that made every A-list actress drool.
Leon took the signed contract, gave it a satisfied once-over, and handed it to Bonnie. "Give me your account info. You'll get a $200,000 signing bonus."
"WTF?" Phil whipped his head around like he'd heard a ghost story. "Did I just hear that right?"
"I don't think that's necessary, Mr. Leon."
Even if Anya wasn't great with money, $200,000 still made her heart skip. She hesitated, then shook her head. She wasn't used to accepting big gifts from anyone except her parents.
"Look, Anya—I know you come from money and cash doesn't faze you much," Leon said. "But you earned this. I'm busy as hell. Most of the time you'll be handling things yourself."
"Take the money. Hire an assistant to handle your day-to-day. Sign up for acting classes, dance classes—whatever you need. This is all part of the job."
It finally clicked for Anya: the money wasn't just cash. It was the symbol of her shift from rich girl to working actress.
After getting Anya settled, Leon headed to Columbia Records the next morning to record Blinding Lights.
He and Max Martin had already hashed out the initial melody a week earlier.
The session went ridiculously smooth—mainly because Max was already on the MV credits as producer.
He was the original producer of the track.
"You finally showed up, busy man," Tim said, leaning against the studio wall with a sarcastic edge.
For a label exec, having an artist branch out and kill it in multiple fields should've been great news.
But Tim wasn't happy at all.
Leon was an investor, not an actor. Movies were just a cash machine for him—they only pulled focus from music.
He'd canceled a Manhattan promo event yesterday for the audition, and Columbia wasn't thrilled.
"Sorry. Everything's handled now. It won't happen again," Leon said.
"Better not. You need to refocus on music." Tim shrugged. "Will Smith spent 80% of his Hollywood Today interview shitting on you."
"And that actress—what's her name, Heard?—called you a pedo on some podcast."
"Look, I don't know what went down between you two, but you've got to stop this shit."
Tim kept venting until he'd dumped all his frustration.
The street persona was Leon's PR play, but beef with Hollywood didn't move the needle much for Tim. He'd rather see Leon clash with JAY-Z than flirt with movie people.
Heard's "pedophile" comment had blown up.
She hadn't explained it directly, but internet detectives quickly connected the dots.
Yesterday Apocalypse Agency announced they'd signed British teen actress Anya Taylor-Joy.
Her delicate, slightly baby-faced photo + the age 15 = the "pedophile" rumors practically wrote themselves.
This British girl was Street Jesus's new favorite.
"I get it, Tim. You don't need to keep going," Leon cut him off. "I don't want to keep Max waiting. This track's going to set the tone for the whole album."
Tim's face instantly switched. His eyes lit up.
On the Billboard chart, We Don't Talk Anymore was still neck-and-neck with Rihanna's We Found Love—but the momentum was shifting.
Three weeks in, We Don't Talk Anymore had sold 500,000 physical copies and over a million streams.
On Spotify's free tier, plays were closing in on We Found Love. Radio airplay had already passed it.
At this rate, We Don't Talk Anymore could take the #1 spot this week.
If it did, it would be Leon's first solo track to top the Hot 100—huge.
"Mr. Stringer's really looking forward to your new one," Tim said, glancing at his phone, then walking out.
Leon stepped into the booth, tossed his jacket on the couch, and asked, "Backing track ready?"
"I sent it to your email yesterday. You didn't even listen?" Max glared.
"Sorry, been slammed."
"Fine." Max rolled his eyes, then got excited. "It's perfect. I layered in a ton of 80s pop elements. The second the synths hit, people are gonna hear MJ vibes."
"How'd you even come up with this? I've wanted to do something like this forever. The 80s were America's real golden age… Did you put a camera in my head?"
Leon gave an awkward laugh and motioned for Max's assistant to play the track.
The drums slammed in—hard, hypnotic synths building that instant dreamy atmosphere.
Multiple synth layers made up the main melody, with a crystal-clear hook running through the whole song.
The arrangement used repetition and variation, throwing in short breaks and empty space between verses and choruses to create tension and rise.
It sounded exactly like the version he'd heard when the inspiration hit—perfect.
"I don't even know how to praise you, Max. 'Genius' isn't enough," Leon said.
Half of Apocalypse Music's hits came from this guy.
"It's not just me. Those complex synth patches aren't something one person can nail," Max said, grinning ear to ear. He pointed at the team behind him. "Thanks to these legends."
Recording started. Leon shook out his shoulders, stepped into the booth like it was nothing.
He didn't need warm-ups or breathing adjustments anymore.
He put on the headphones, gave Max a thumbs-up through the glass.
The track kicked in. He closed his eyes, leaned into the mic, swaying lightly, trying to channel the relaxed, wild energy of the original singer.
I've been trying to call
I've been on my own for long enough
Maybe you can show me how to love, maybe
Max bobbed his head to the beat in the control room, but the longer he listened, the more his brow furrowed.
"Hold up!"
The keyboardist stopped. Leon's voice cut off. "What's wrong, Max? Pitch issues?"
Max shook his head. "No, pitch is spot-on. Timing's perfect. But something's off."
"What specifically?" Leon was lost.
"It's the… feeling, you know?" Max's voice rose. "Your delivery's missing emotion. This isn't something we can fix in post!"
Normally Max would let it slide—live takes always carry different vibes.
Guns N' Roses had tons of classic live versions, but none topped Tokyo '92.
But Blinding Lights meant something special to Max. Twenty-plus years in the game told him this track could dominate Grammys and the charts.
So he had to push.
Leon got it. He felt the same way. "Let's run it again. Tell me what to do."
Max thought for almost a full minute. "The vibe should be lonely, manic, psychedelic… with a cyberpunk edge. Like drifting through Blade Runner in a car."
"Exactly what I was thinking when I wrote it." When the inspiration hit, Leon had been blackout drunk.
The first BMF title fight had just wrapped. He was the center of attention at the afterparty—rich people lining up to kiss his ass.
Under the booze and flashing neon, he'd had a moment of pure delusion: he'd reached the top, owned Vegas.
For the first time, he felt completely in sync with one of his inspired tracks.
"So find that feeling again," Max said. "Let me guess—you were high or hammered, drifting across the Brooklyn Bridge in your ride, thinking about an ex, right?"
He was guessing from the lyrics, trying to help Leon reconnect emotionally.
"Not really…" Leon tried to recall that night in Vegas.
Under the alcohol burn, his mind had been blank—no Robbie, no Taylor. Even Connor driving felt like background noise.
It was weightless—floating in space one second, plunging into the abyss the next.
When the clarity hit, it felt like he was completely alone.
An endless road stretched ahead. All he could do was floor it and never look back.