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Chapter - 150
🕑 Added 2025-06-05 15:48:18 +0000 UTC[Title : Training. Chance. Payback]
….
While Regal remained neck-deep in the whirlwind of his Harry Potter production - shuttling between stages, studios, and script meetings -
Elsewhere in the city, lives he had touched, people he had pulled into his orbit, were spinning in their own strange directions.
One such tale was unfolding in the shadowed corners of an old downtown rehearsal hall, between a grizzled actor-turned-mentor and a student who never quite expected to find himself here.
"Tell me the truth." Ross said, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he leaned forward. "Just before that party... you had your first heartbreak, didn't you?"
Andrew looked up, confused and dripping sweat, his limbs awkwardly frozen in mid-motion.
"Or something even worse?" Ross continued, narrowing his eyes, trying to piece together a certain memory, a certain night. “And because you didn’t have the guts to jump off the cliff, you used me... provoked me. Wanted me to do it for you.”
That last line - there was no doubt in his tone now.
Ross wasn’t asking anymore. He believed it. That the drunken chaos Andrew had created during that infamous party months ago, the erratic self-sabotage, wasn’t just immaturity.
It was a cry for something more dangerous.
“That wasn’t the case, sir…” Andrew’s voice broke, half-exhausted, half-stammering. “It was just... a mistake. I wasn’t in my senses.”
He wasn’t lying. Not completely. But neither was Ross wrong.
At the moment, Andrew was in the middle of a rather bizarre training method.
He stood with his back arched, left leg balanced on a stool, arms frozen mid-air, holding the weight of a brick tied inside a canvas bag.
Sweat dripped down his temple, collecting under his jaw. His breathing was sharp, uneven.
This wasn’t a normal acting class.
“Sir... are you su—" He tried to protest again.
But Ross cut him off for the tenth time. “Shut up and do as I say. One more hour.”
Andrew groaned.
Another hour? His muscles were burning.
His thighs were shaking.
And yet, this same torment had become his routine.
Two months ago, he had accepted Ross’s offer to be trained.
At first, it was weekly sessions, usually filled with monologue breakdowns and breathing drills.
But from the second month onward, things... evolved.
The training turned physical. Philosophical. Punishing.
Ross was an old-school actor from a time when stage meant life - where you bled into the role until your mind and body no longer separated from character.
He didn’t teach you how to act.
He broke the walls between you and your performance.
This specific method, Ross called ‘The Collapse Point’.
The idea was simple: push your body past comfort, past logic, until your mind no longer tried to act - it simply reacted.
When your limbs ached, when your breath faltered, when your instinct cried for rest but the scene demanded life, that’s where truth happened.
It was brutal.
Another technique involved something Ross termed ‘Memory Substitution’.
Andrew had to take real-life trauma - losses, heartbreaks, fears - and lock them to emotional triggers inside a role.
Once, Ross made him read the same five-line eulogy for an imaginary sister for thirty minutes while slowly dimming the lights.
By the end, Andrew was on the floor, sobbing - not because of the lines, but because somewhere deep in his past, he had nearly lost someone he loved.
Then there was the ‘Silent Watch’.
Standing in front of a mirror for an hour every day, saying nothing. Just watching his face. Watching how emotion flickered.
Learning what a lie looked like in his own eyes.
When Ross first asked him to do all this - especially balancing bricks and reciting Shakespeare - Andrew had thought the man was insane.
He had laughed. Out loud.
And Ross had slapped a cold rag across his face and said, “That’s why your performances feel like homework. You don’t know how to suffer right.”
It had pissed Andrew off. But he had come back the next day.
And the next.
And now, weeks later, his body was tired - but something was shifting.
Lines came faster. Emotions were more realistic. The stage no longer felt like a performance - it felt like a trigger.
Still holding his position, Andrew blinked through sweat.
Ross was watching him in silence, arms crossed. He asked suddenly. “You think you’re becoming a better actor?”
Andrew, panting, nodded. “Yes, sir. I… I think I am.”
Ross didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Just stepped forward and fixed the strap of the canvas bag on Andrew’s arm.
“Good.” He said. “…Because the pain’s just starting.”
….
And Ross meant every word.
For the next hour, he said almost nothing.
The room was filled only with the shuffle of strained limbs, the occasional grunt of discomfort, and the sharp corrections Ross barked out when Andrew’s posture slipped even a fraction.
By the end, Andrew could barely stand. His shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, soaked through. His spine ached. His arms trembled.
Then, at long last—
“That is enough for today.” Ross signalled, without fanfare or praise.
Andrew collapsed into a nearby chair like a sandbag dropping from a hook, head rolling back, breath ragged and shallow.
From the far corner of the room, a quiet figure stirred.
Idande - Ross’s new assistant.
He had been standing there the whole time.
As soon as Andrew slumped down, Idande approached without a word, holding a towel in one hand and a sealed water bottle in the other.
He is the same person that almost dragged out a person from a car at the instruction of Ross.
Idande handed over the towel first.
Andrew accepted it with something just short of reverence. He wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes, then pressed the fabric to the back of his neck, groaning softly in relief.
His shoulders slumped even further. In moments like these, Idande felt less like a human and more like some celestial trainer sent to pull the broken pieces of him back together.
Andrew had once joked, half-delirious after a particularly brutal night - that Idande looked like an angel.
A broad-shouldered one, sure. Maybe a bit too sharp in the jaw. But an angel nonetheless.
The kind with wings the size of a minivan and no tolerance for laziness.
Though in his mind, nothing quite compared to that towering figure he had glimpsed just once beside Regal… Rock.
“Thanks.” Andrew said, voice hoarse.
Idande gave a faint nod, already unscrewing the water bottle and holding it out like a ritual offering. Andrew took it with both hands and drank deeply, each swallow a reprieve from the fire in his chest.
Minutes passed like that. Silent recovery.
Then, gradually, Andrew straightened in the chair.
The burn was still there, but his mind had steadied. His soul, for whatever reason, felt lighter.
He grabbed his duffel bag and slung it over one shoulder, joints stiff but obedient now.
“I will be taking my leave for today, sir. So tomorrow at that same time?” He called.
As expected, Ross didn’t answer. He never did when class was over.
Andrew didn’t wait. He turned and walked out, limping only slightly, the sweat already drying on his skin.
Behind him, in the lingering silence of the room, Ross stared at the empty space where he had just been.
“Tomorrow, huh…” He muttered to himself, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, not kind, but not cruel either.
He had been certain the boy would quit after today. That the pain, the heat, the confusion, the weirdly spiritual violence of the training would push him out the door forever.
He had been through that few decades ago, pushing himself, and hoping to cover up his lack of talent compared to his fellow colleagues.
So, he was surprised to witness the brat keep coming back.
That was something else, it required a real goal.
Ross lit a cigarette from a match that flared brighter than needed in the dim space.
“Let’s see how long you last, kid.” He said under his breath, and the smoke curled upward, soft and slow.
.
…..
Japan.
Nanami Kento hadn’t expected much the day he met Regal, and how his life of no ambition after retirement from his work would change.
It was supposed to be a simple trip in Maldives, his all time favourite holiday spot.
But that's when he met a random Hollywood director working for some film called, [The Hangover].
That was months before, even the filming was completed and was halted due to some reason, and there is no sign [Harry Potter].
Right. He did hear about that name a few times, as it also translated in Japan, and some people actually loved it.
However, nothing could define that exact moment - quiet, quick, simple question - from Regal that had changed everything.
From then on, Nanami had been pulled into things that didn’t even exist back home in Japan.
One of the earliest? A short promotional dub for [Solo Leveling] - for a concept video.
It was English. Foreign language. And just like many Japanese he sucked at it.
Still he somehow got entangled in it, unable to refuse Regal.
And the actual dubbing session? It was awkward as hell.
Nanami had walked into the sound booth, met some professionals with decades of experience - he felt like a rat in front of a dragon.
He didn’t understand all the directions at first. His accent was too strong. His pitch was too soft. And his throat wasn’t used to punching out syllables in a language that fought back.
After one particularly embarrassing line stumble, the engineer gave him a sympathetic nod.
But Nanami didn’t quit. He kept practicing.
A few days later, he was back on a plane to Tokyo.
But something had shifted inside him.
He wasn’t just an ex bodyguard or an aimless man hoping simply to get by in life anymore. He was chasing something now.
There was a spark - small, yes - but real.
….
Regal would check in with him sometimes.
A text here.
…and he would do the same.
Nanami texted Regal the last time when [The Hangover] blew up.
Now, months later, he was standing in a cramped Tokyo studio, lined up with nine other men for an open voice acting audition.
The role was a tough one.
A war general in an upcoming anime.
However, it was a - Chance.
The character required the kind of voice that needed to rumble like a storm - base-heavy, firm, and measured.
Nanami had practiced for nights.
Alone.
And here he was, last in line.
The studio was quiet.
No curtains to hide behind. Just ten hopefuls, each stepping forward one by one and delivering the exact same line:
"Retreat is not failure. It is the blade being drawn before the final strike."
One by one, the line moved forward.
The director rejected them even for the slightest of mishap, mispronouncement and loss of pitch.
Nanami didn't expect such harsh standards, or he somehow imagined it would be the same as Regal's easy going attitude, allowing him to make mistakes.
Alas, that wasn't the case…. not just here anywhere.
….
After ten or so minutes, it was his turn–
Nanami stepped forward.
He inhaled, remembering everything he learned, and remembered over the past couple of months. Immediately he felt relaxed.
His throat felt - and just like that - He became the line.
"Retreat is not failure. It is the blade being drawn before the final strike."
Silence. It’s the same voice not imitating but the real - Kenjiro Tsuda.
Then, heads turned. Every single one of them.
One of the judges, a veteran voice director known for being cynical to a fault, burst out laughing.
Not mockingly, but with genuine surprise. His shoulders shook.
Nanami didn’t move.
But in his chest, he felt the warmth.
That laugh. That quick, reactive bark of surprise. That was what Regal did when someone exceeded his expectations.
Not the long laughs of a fan or polite laughter. The sound of approval.
That was the same laugh Regal had given months ago in a recording studio.
And Nanami knew.
He was in.
….
.
Los Angeles.
Somewhere in a pub.
Stephen Jr. sat slouched at the far end of the bar counter, his fingers loosely curled staring at who knows the number of glass brimmed in whiskey.
His appearance is anything that could be called sophisticated - with untamed hair, black eyes, and slight shivering.
The pub was nearly empty, except for the low hum of the refrigerator behind the bar and a few tired staff cleaning up in the background.
Next to him, Liam leaned over and slid a freshly poured drink toward him.
“Come on, Stephen.” Liam Bethell, said with a casual grin. “You are taking this too seriously. It’s just a couple of movies.”
Despite his cheering there is some hidden smile in his voice - just so similar to his nephew, Henry Bethell.
“......” Stephen didn’t respond, feeling the energy had drained completely.
The naive, ever-cheerful smile he wore like second skin was nowhere to be found. His eyes stared down into the amber liquid like it might give him answers.
Liam didn't care and nudged almost mockingly. “Besides, you weren’t even the lead.”
Stephen again didn't respond… actually he didn't even know what he was doing sharing the company with the dog of Brad Carter - of Pixy Studio - whom Regal had warned to be wary of.
However, he is too tired to note that.
Liam raised his glass. “Cheers to flops and comebacks, huh?”
Stephen, not wanting to hear his voice anymore, simply clinked his glass against Liam’s and tipped it back in one go - feeling his consciousness drip away.
Seconds later, he was slumped over the counter, head resting on his folded arms.
He mumbled something, voice thick and barely coherent. “You can leave…. Don't touch me… I will be fine….. by myself.”
Liam stared at him in silence, his easygoing smile fading.
“Tsk, arrogant bastard!" He cursed, his expression now fully shifted to irritation. Then he turned slightly and waved in some instructions. “Hey. Make Get him out of here unnoticed until you hand him over to that bitch.”
A couple of men in black suits moved in, gently lifting Stephen by the arms and helping him toward the back exit.
As they disappeared, a new figure stepped through the entrance - confident, calm, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Planning something with him, dear uncle?” the young man asked, voice smooth with a teasing edge.
It is none other than - Henry Bethell - himself.
Liam turned back to the bar, swirling the remaining liquid in his glass.
“Me? No, nothing like that.” He said, smiling thinly. “The punk is just... a little lost. Needs some cheering up. And what better way to help him find direction - than letting him have 'some' fun.”
Henry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Do you want to end his career?"
End his career? Well, it is feasible if Liam could throw away a few more cash and file a false case on him with the bitch he set Stephen up with. But -
“Nah, that would be too much.” Liam waved his hand. He didn’t elaborate and just pointed out to a guy carrying a camera. “Just some scandal maybe?”
Right. It was time for the pay back from their side.
.
….
[To be continued…]
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Comments
A P
This feels like the first outright villainous action in this story. I mean there's been some petty bullshit but nothing like this. Regal has been fairly mild mannered so far but no one has targeted one of his friends like this before. Curious how he'll respond
David Morehouse
Seems like Stephan Jr is going to be set up, maybe even go through an early RDJ-esq arc where he falls to vices but emerges with a revamped career later down the line?
