Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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*****

”The launch requires exactly eight series at a bare minimum that can anchor readership,” Amy reminded him, her pen tapping the page. ”You’ve identified eight that you intend to fully produce yourself.”

”They are already planned, outlined, and in various stages of initial drafting,” he confirmed, gesturing to the stacks of wrapped boxes. ”The primary challenge is production velocity. Even with the elite team of assistants we are building in Tokyo, producing forty highly detailed pages a week across eight different series simultaneously is... aggressive.”

”It is near impossible,” Amy corrected firmly, with the cold precision of a woman reporting a fatal calculation rather than offering an opinion.

”For most normal people.” A smirk crossed his face. ”My production capacity is fundamentally different.”

He said this without any further elaboration. And Amy simply accepted it entirely without requiring elaboration. She didn’t ask how the magic trick worked; she just sold the tickets.

”The eight flagship launch series will be wholly, entirely owned by Meyers Media Japan, and published by Meyers Publishing House Japan,” Marvin outlined the upcoming steps. ”I would obviously be publicly credited as the ’genius author and illustrator’ under a pseudonym. But *Meyers Publishing House Japan*—the mid-sized manga printing facility we recently acquired and fully retrofitted with modern tech—would entirely handle the physical volume publishing, the national distribution, and the eventual animation licensing works of *Shōnen Blaze*. Once the very first sixty to eighty weekly issues publicly demonstrate consistent quality and early sales momentum...”

”Independent, established mangakas will finally consider it safe,” Amy completed the thought, nodding slowly.

”The first ones to jump ship will be the bitter ones with grievances against the existing, toxic platforms.” Marvin analyzed the trajectory of human greed. ”Authors who suffered editorial conflicts, who lost their IP in disputes, who craved creative latitude that *Jump’s* rigid, childish ancient production models refuse to accommodate. Those angry authors become our early adopters. Once they anchor safely in our harbor, and once their work performs while earning a higher payout, the platform achieves undeniable proof of concept for the next tier of superstar authors to safely evaluate.”

”And the *Cyberpunk* and *Witcher* IPs fit into this strategy exactly how?” Amy tilted her head, genuine curiosity driving the question.

”The *Cyberpunk* series functions as a flagship, in-house production.” Marvin leaned against the desk. ”Original characters, an original story, set perfectly in the *Cyberpunk 2047* world. It runs as one of the eight launch series and establishes the new magazine’s willingness to tackle dark, gritty genre work that *Jump* avoids—mature themes, moral ambiguity, and world-building density.”

He paused, a wicked smile crossing his face. ”The *Witcher* adaptation... if we successfully develop it in manga form before the film or television series even hits the screen—which is exactly the plan—launches in a later, second issue wave once the platform achieves stability. The pre-existing IP recognition in Europe drives entirely new readership to the magazine.”

Marvin leaned forward over the desk. ”We will also launch *Death Note* and *Bleach* with it in the first wave. As for the remaining slots... I’ll just casually pull extra ideas from this pile of boxes we are taking with us.”

Amy wrote the strategy down in rapid strokes, her hand cramping against the binding. ”And the exact timing against the upcoming Japan trip?”

”The *Meyers Publishing House Japan* needs to be fully operational before the end of August.” Marvin’s voice rang with command. ”The national distribution network agreement needs to be legally finalized by the end of August. I need to be in Tokyo to conduct and oversee those conversations directly—these are not polite negotiations that resolve through weak, corporate intermediaries.”

He held her gaze, his eyes locking onto hers.

”The first, historic issue of *Shōnen Blaze* is a Q1 of late 1998 event at the earliest. But the groundwork has to be laid right now.”

---

The family dinners at the San Marino estate slowly developed a comforting quality that Marvin understood as one of the few functional architectures of his current, chaotic life. The reliable, warm, regularly occurring event served deep purposes far beyond the mere intake of nutritional calories.

Linda Meyers loved to cook on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Grant Meyers, surprisingly adept with a grill, cooked on Saturdays. They ordered takeout on Sundays. The remaining evenings depended entirely on who arrived home before eight o’clock and what ingredients occupied the refrigerator.

July 8th fell on a Wednesday, which made it a Linda evening.

The marble-countered kitchen generated the rich, savory smell of her cooking long before Amy packed up her briefcases and left the estate. The warmth of roasting garlic and herbs moved slowly through the ground floor of the mansion. It carried the comfortable, domestic atmosphere of authentic home cooking produced, pushing back against the house’s colder associations with billion-dollar banking and Hollywood contracts.

The three of them sitting together at the round dining table mirrored the relaxed configuration family dinners achieved only when the family remained small, tight-knit, and intimately familiar. Zero performance of stiff formality existed.

”The Japan trip.” His father, Grant, took a sip of his wine.

He spoke after the plates of food arrived and the first few hungry minutes of eating settled the rhythm of the table.

He did not frame the statement as a question. It operated as a subject deliberately opened for examination.

”By July fifteenth, if nothing disrupts the markets.” Marvin cut a piece of chicken. ”Amy, Gordon, and I will fly out of LAX. The initial, ground-level meetings all sit on the schedule for Tokyo. We are finalizing the distribution partnerships, locking down the printing consortium, and conducting the preliminary, delicate conversations with the Kodansha and Shueisha contacts. The Tokyo advance team successfully arranged these to establish and expand my entertainment business using the debt I am securing.”

”How long?” His mother, Linda, kept her voice softer than usual.

Marvin paused, his fork hovering above his plate. He decoded the true nature of her question. She did not ask for the logistical, calendar duration of the business trip. She asked for the *felt* duration—the emotional gap between right now and the exact next time they would all sit together at this table.

”Eight to ten weeks, at a bare minimum.” Marvin met her gaze with complete honesty. ”Possibly longer. After all, I will also travel to South Korea and China while I am over there, depending on how the initial progress holds up.”

His parents exchanged a quiet look across the table. It carried the loaded weight veteran parents use when they hold a position already extensively discussed in private. They presented a unified front to their child, refusing to offer two separate, arguing opinions.

”That timeline takes us entirely through your birthday.” His father maintained a neutral but firm tone.

September 24th.

He would turn thirteen years old somewhere deep in Japan or South Korea. He would likely blow out candles in an anonymous luxury hotel suite, a sterile corporate meeting room, or wherever the production schedule stranded him on that particular Tuesday.

”Yes.” Marvin acknowledged the calendar truth. ”It does.”

His mother set her silver fork down on the porcelain plate with the careful, deliberate quietness of someone managing a rising feeling. In this intimate context, the direct presence of her son demanded its own exhausting form of emotional management.

”Marvin.” A slight waver caught in her voice.

”I know, Mom.” He kept his tone soft.

”You’re twelve.”

”I am aware of that fact.”

”You are twelve years old, and you are casually flying to Japan and China for eight weeks to conduct business negotiations with foreigners.”

The words landed factually accurate, but the trembling pitch delivered something else entirely. It held the heartbroken quality of a loving parent trying to reconcile what they know their child can accomplish with what a normal child is supposed to be.

”Yes.” He offered no defense because he held none in reserve.

His father picked up the thread where his mother left off. He moved with the seamless ease of a couple accustomed to relaying each other’s emotional arguments over decades without losing the core point.

”The question isn’t whether you can mentally or logistically handle the trip, Marvin. We know you can handle it. You handled Wall Street. You handled Hollywood.” Grant leaned forward, locking eyes with Marvin. ”The question we are struggling with is whether you *should* be handling it at twelve. Whether the loss of your childhood matters, regardless of your capacity to skip it entirely.”

Marvin slowly placed his cutlery beside his plate and met his father’s gaze.

This marked the unspoken conversation they had nervously circled for months. It did not center around a flight to Tokyo or the *Studio* project. It targeted the fundamental tension between what Marvin intellectually mastered, and what a twelve-year-old boy was societally supposed to do with the fleeting years of his youth.

His parents handled this impossible reality with far more composure and perspective than most ordinary parents ever could. While others might have panicked or tried to force control over every detail, they understood something people from powerful old-money families often learned early — happiness, loyalty, and stability mattered far more than appearances.

Both of them had grown up surrounded by immense wealth and influence. They understood that the lives of people at the top rarely followed normal standards, and trying to force them into ordinary expectations usually only created resentment and rebellion. As long as their children were genuinely happy, protected, and emotionally secure, they were willing to view the situation with a calmer, more pragmatic mindset.

This largely stemmed from who they were at their core—genuinely thoughtful, protective people who deeply loved their son. Over twelve years of loving this particular boy, they developed an unusual capacity for holding contradictions without trying to resolve them prematurely.

”Age matters to you.” Marvin’s soul bled through his boyish face. ”And I completely understand why. Age acts as a real, biological metric. The normal school year starts in September, and I will miss the first six weeks of it while I conduct business in Seoul.”

”The school year.” His mother scoffed lightly.

She offered the sad, slight smile of someone acknowledging that an eighth-grade classroom was not the most relevant or challenging institution in her billionaire son’s life.

”The school year represents a legal reality.” He corrected her gently. ”I secured an accredited tutor to travel with me. The academic, legal component is completely covered.”

”It’s not about the academics, kiddo.” His father sighed, rubbing his jaw.

”No.” His blue eyes softened. ”It’s the other thing.” He paused, studying the polished wood of the table before looking back up at his parents. ”The other thing is that you love me. And you want me to experience what twelve-year-olds are supposed to experience right now. You want me to have the lazy summer break. The birthday party with friends. The ordinary, boring texture of a life at this age.”

”Yes.” His mother spoke simply. A tear finally escaped, tracking down her cheek. ”That’s all I want.”

”I enjoyed a beautiful Saturday with my friends.” He thought of the roller coasters and the laughter. ”The birthday... the birthday will happen wherever I land. Amy will make sure there’s a cake and something ridiculous. I will call you both. We will arrange a real, proper celebration when I return home.”

His mother studied him for a long, painful moment. She wore the expression signaling a choice: deliver the raw truth she carried inside, or present the sanitized, managed version.

She bravely chose to deliver the truth.

”I miss you even when you’re just downstairs locked in that library, Marvin.” She wiped her eyes with a cloth napkin. ”I am going to miss you being in Japan in a way that I simply lack a reference point for yet. And I’m... I am not completely comfortable with that emptiness.”

Quiet settled over the dining room table for a long moment. The faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway measured the seconds.

”I know.” The Incubus registered a strange, sharp pang of human guilt in his chest. ”I am not blind to it. I don’t take it for granted that you are both here, anchoring me. I know exactly what this life costs you emotionally.”

He reached out, resting his small hands on the polished wood.

”But Mom... Dad... I hold towering dreams inside my head. And I want those dreams to become reality before the window closes. The new century is about to begin. I want my name written in golden letters, vastly bigger and more permanent than Rockefeller, Rothschild, or Carnegie.”

He looked between them, ambition burning in his eyes. ”I want history to document, ’Yes, this is the son of Linda and Grant Meyers, who built an untouchable empire with his own two hands.’ I am not doing this just to secure your pride. I already know you are proud of me, even if I just lay in bed and played video games all day. But I don’t want a normal life. I can’t accept one. I know how difficult it is for you to watch me skip the childhood you planned. I understand the grief of it. But please... please don’t ever mistake my distance for a lack of love. Sometimes I fail to show it properly because my mind is occupied elsewhere. But I love you both. More than anyone else in this world.”

*****

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