Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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Linda paused her meticulous restructuring of the evening’s dinner menu, handing her clipboard to the head housekeeper. She walked over, resting her hands on the back of the leather sofa. ”What do you mean, Grant? Who is talking about him?”

”Everyone,” Grant breathed, staring at the faxed transcripts and magazine clippings. ”The absolute titans of the industry. The people who have defined music for the last twenty years.”

Marvin didn’t look up from his advanced resume, but his ocean-blue eyes gleamed. He slowly turned a page, the Incubus perfectly tuning his senses to absorb the incoming wave of elite validation.

”Listen to this,” Grant said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet disbelief. ”They managed to get a quote from Michael Jackson. Michael never gives impromptu quotes. But a reporter from Rolling Stone caught him outside a studio in New York, and asked him if he had heard the boy who just knocked everyone off the Billboard charts.”

”What did Michael say?” Linda asked, her eyes widening.

Grant adjusted his glasses, reading the text verbatim. ”Michael stopped, smiled, and said: ’I have had Marvin’s EP playing on a loop in my home. It is pure, unfiltered magic. To convey such profound sorrow and towering triumph without using a single word... it is healing. The boy possesses a magical soul. He is a true gift to the world of music.’”

Marvin allowed a soft, invisible smirk to touch his lips. A magical soul, the demon thought. If only the King of Pop knew just how terrifyingly accurate his assessment was.

”And it’s not just Michael,” Grant continued, practically vibrating with excitement. He shuffled the papers. ”Here’s a transcript from an MTV News interview with Mariah Carey. She was asked about the vocal techniques on Battle Hymn. She said: ’I was honestly in tears the first time I heard it. The breath control, the raw resonance... he doesn’t need lyrics to break your heart. As a vocalist, listening to him is both incredibly inspiring and deeply terrifying. He set an entirely new standard.’”

”My goodness,” Linda whispered, bringing a hand to her chest. ”Mariah Carey said that about our Marvin?”

”Wait, there’s more. The Brits are weighing in,” Grant laughed, pulling up a clipping from a London paper. ”Elton John was asked about the composition on BBC Radio. Elton said: ’It’s bloody brilliant, isn’t it? Stripping away the synthesizers, the heavy production, the noise... and just leaving the raw, architectural power of the human voice. The kid has the soul of a maestro.’”

Grant shook his head, looking over at his son, who was casually taking a sip of iced water as if they were discussing the weather.

”But what really gets me,” Grant grinned, pulling out the latest issue of Vibe magazine, ”is that you completely disrupted the hip-hop scene. In the late 90s, the charts are heavily dominated by rap and R&B. You just hijacked their entire kingdom with an instrumental choir.”

Grant tapped the glossy page. ”Listen to what Jay-Z told the reporters at Roc-A-Fella studios. ’I heard this kid Meyers on the radio the other day. Man, the kid doesn’t even use words, but he’s got a flow that hits harder than a heavy 808 beat. I’ll give him that absolute respect. It’s pure, raw emotion. The game is usually a marathon, but this kid just sprinted past everyone on the first lap. I’m looking forward to seeing what he builds.’”

”Even Dr. Dre is analyzing your audio engineering!” Grant laughed, reading the next quote. ”Dre told MTV: ’He’s got that raw, untouchable energy. That hunger and precision that reminds me of the absolute greats when they first touch a mic. The kid has a vocal frequency that I haven’t heard since the prime days of Motown. He doesn’t need a beat; he is the beat. The industry usually chews kids up, but honestly? I think this kid is about to chew up the industry.’ ”

Grant lowered the stack of papers, letting out a long, heavy exhale.

The reactions from the old guard were a vivid, intoxicating mix of profound admiration, absolute awe, and a healthy dose of professional fear. Marvin had violently disrupted the established order, and the reigning titans of the globe were officially taking notes. He was no longer just a talented child actor or a lucky author; he was a new, impossibly powerful player in the highest echelons of the music game, and he had instantly proven himself completely worthy of their highest respect.

”Well,” Linda smiled, a fierce, protective pride radiating from her posture. ”It seems the world is finally realizing exactly who they are dealing with.”

”Linda,” Grant called out, folding the magazines and looking proudly at his son. ”Is Frank bringing that Australian girl and her sister over at seven?”

The pressure from the media was astronomical, but Marvin didn’t feel it. Sitting in his velvet armchair, Incubus wasn’t studying a standard Asian macroeconomics textbook. He had long since mastered the mundane theories of human finance. Instead, he simply closed a thick, leather-bound resume dossier, his mind already calculating his next, devastating move in the impending collapse of the Asian markets.

Over the past few weeks, while the world was entirely distracted by his blockbuster movie and his chart-hijacking music, Marvin had been ruthlessly filtering through hundreds of high-level executive profiles sourced by Amy. He was building an army.

He had meticulously selected a highly specific, elite vanguard from the massive pile of applicants. He had earmarked a terrifyingly capable roster of talent: Gregg Araki, Carrie Ann Inaba, Kiana Tom, Vera Wang, Jim Lee, Margaret Cho, K.W. Lee, Jay Kim, Angela Oh, Lily Chang, S.B. Woo, Jerry Yang, Tony Hsieh, Irene Hirano, Lance Ito, Michael Woo, Norman Mineta, Kristine Kahanamoku-Tchen, and Do Won Chang.

To the untrained eye, it looked like a random assortment of lawyers, tech innovators, fashion designers, politicians, and creatives. But to Marvin, they were the perfect, interlocking puzzle pieces of an eastern builtup.

They flawlessly fit his non-negotiable criteria: Asian-American professionals of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean descent, strictly between the ages of 20 and 40. They were intelligent, highly educated, and—most crucially—entirely willing to immediately relocate to Japan, China, Korea, or Taiwan respectively. They possessed native fluency in their ancestral languages alongside perfect English.

They wielded pre-existing, vital connections with local governments and trade ministries—a necessity for the corporate warfare Marvin was planning. Furthermore, they all possessed a razor-sharp foundational knowledge of the entertainment sectors and the volatile share markets of their respective countries, coupled with an ability to learn how to dominate them.

Now that he had made his selections, the administrative phase would begin. Amy would execute the final sweep—fully verifying their identities and criminal records, conducting aggressive second-round interviews to weed out any hidden weaknesses, and clearing the logistical pathways for their transatlantic relocation.

These people represent the top leadership: the President and Vice Presidents. They plan to recruit additional staff in the cities where they have been reassigned.

But before a single drop of ink touched a contract, Marvin would meet every single one of them personally. He needed to look directly into their eyes. He needed to deploy his Incubus senses to read their desires, map their ambitions, and ensure loyalty to the empire he was building before he handed them the keys to the Asian continent.

”Well,” Linda smiled, a fierce, protective pride radiating from her posture. ”It seems the world is finally realizing exactly who they are dealing with.”

”Linda,” Grant called out, folding the Billboard magazine and looking proudly at his son. ”Is Frank bringing that Australian girl and her sister over at seven?”

”Seven sharp,” Linda confirmed, smoothing the front of her designer dress, her mind pivoting instantly from global music dominance to high-society hosting. ”And Grant, please. Try not to intimidate the poor girl with all this chart-topping talk. They are normal people. We do not want to overwhelm them.”

Marvin stood up, slipping his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. He placed the heavy resume file neatly on the side table. His ocean-blue eyes flashed with a predatory delight. The board was set. His vanguard was chosen. The Asian markets were quietly bleeding, waiting for him to swoop in. And tonight, his uncle was hand-delivering a future supermodel directly into his web.

He had overcome the initial hurdles of human obscurity. He wasn’t about to back down now. He was determined to stay on top, to prove that he was not just a multi-talented prodigy, but the absolute sovereign of the entertainment world.

He was Marvin Meyers. He was the apex predator of Entertainment. And he was officially here to stay.

The sheer perfection of his existence sent a phantom shiver of electricity rippling through the sunlit room.

”Don’t worry, Mom,” Marvin purred, his charm radiating a warm, deceptive innocence that completely masked the dark, thrilling anticipation currently burning in his chest. ”I will make absolutely sure our guests feel entirely, completely welcome.”

---

It was exactly 9:30 PM on that same, life-altering Saturday night.

High above the sprawling, neon-lit grid of Los Angeles, the Ritz-Carlton luxury suite was draped in tense silence. Kris Kerr and her fourteen-year-old sister, Miranda, were snuggled together on the plush, oversized velvet sofa. The television was playing a muted late-night talk show, but neither of them was actually watching the screen. Kris was staring blankly at the door, her nerves frayed to the absolute limit.

Click. The heavy brass lock of the suite’s door turned. Both sisters stood up simultaneously, their eyes locked on the entryway.

The door swung open, and Frank walked in. The billionaire playboy looked slightly exhausted, his designer tie loosened, but a massive, beaming smile was plastered across his handsome face.

”Hey, Kris,” Frank said softly, tossing his room key onto the marble console. ”Hey, Miranda.”

He opened his arms. ”Were you waiting up for me?”

Kris didn’t say a word. She practically ran across the thick carpet to meet him, her eyes wide with a desperate, questioning panic.

Frank caught her easily, wrapping his arms around her soft waist and pulling her flush against his chest. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her perfume. ”Breathe, sweetheart,” Frank murmured with a reassuring laugh. ”Don’t worry. I told you there wouldn’t be any problems. I survived the dragon’s den. Linda is expecting us for a formal dinner tomorrow night.”

The crushing weight of anxiety that had been suffocating Kris all evening instantly evaporated. She let out a soft, shaky sob of relief, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him down into a deep, passionate kiss.

”Ahem,” a dry, thoroughly unimpressed voice echoed from the living room. ”Have you two completely forgotten that there is an innocent, highly impressionable child in the room?”

The couple separated. Kris’s face instantly flushed a brilliant, embarrassed red, and she quickly stepped back, smoothing her blouse.

Frank, however, was a seasoned playboy entirely immune to embarrassment. He looked over at his future sister-in-law with a nonchalant smirk. ”Miranda, considering you are currently ruining a very cinematic, romantic moment, shouldn’t you go back to your room?”

Miranda crossed her arms, leaning against the back of the sofa with a sly, knowing smile. ”I can absolutely go back to my room and leave you two gross lovebirds alone. But Frank... what about the bribe you promised me?”

”Haha! I knew it,” Frank laughed, walking over to his discarded leather duffel bag. ”So this is what you were actually waiting up for. You didn’t care about my survival at all. Don’t worry, kid. It’s all taken care of.”

Frank reached into the bag and pulled out a pristine, shrink-wrapped CD jewel case. He tossed it through the air.

Miranda caught it flawlessly. She looked down at the cover of Marvin 1. But it wasn’t just a standard retail copy. The plastic wrap had been carefully sliced open along the edge, and right across the sleek, minimalist cover art was a sprawling, impossibly elegant signature in silver ink.

”A personally signed album by Marvin Meyers himself, pulled directly from his private collection,” Frank announced, tapping his temple. ”See? I always keep my word.”

The idea of bringing a signed album back to the hotel was clearly a highly strategic move on Frank’s part—a perfect, thoughtful gesture designed to completely win over his future sister-in-law.

”Oh, and by the way,” Frank added casually, unbuttoning his cuffs. ”I already spoke with Marvin. Tomorrow night, make sure you bring that expensive, limited-edition copy of Kung Fu Panda with you to the estate. He explicitly said he would sign it for you.”