Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying insects. The clock on the wall ticked louder with every second, a cruel countdown past 12 afternoon. Time was running out—her youth, her window, her dignity. Somewhere down the alleyway, another pretty face was probably already on her knees, negotiating exactly how far she was willing to bend, how much of her soul she’d trade for a shot at the light.

Anne wondered how much longer she could keep pretending her integrity was worth more than the next girl’s. The darkness of this town wasn’t just around her anymore. It was starting to feel like it lived inside her too, whispering that maybe her mother had been right all along.

Maybe the only real audition in Hollywood was the one that happened behind closed doors, with the lights off and your pride on the floor with your clothes.

---

Across the land, in the glittering sprawl of New York City, Marvin remained blissfully unaware of Anne Hathaway’s deepening resentment. It had been simmering for weeks, a quiet poison she nursed in private, but to him it was just another shadow lost in the blinding glare of his ascent.

He stirred up envy in thousands these days—some earned, most irrational. His meteoric rise had shattered the fragile hierarchy of the industry like a wrecking ball through antique crystal. Veteran actors and seasoned musicians dismissed him as a fleeting anomaly, a lucky flash in the pan who would burn out before the next awards season. The younger generation, meanwhile, viewed him with a mix of awe and dread, seeing in him an unscalable wall, a new standard that made their own dreams feel suddenly small and obsolete.

What truly poured fuel on the fire for most men was the way women gravitated toward him. From the sweet girl next door to the wives, sisters, mothers, girlfriends, close friends, aunts, daughters, nieces, cousins, and roommates of his peers—women of every age, from wide-eyed starlets to sharp-eyed production assistants—they were drawn to him with an almost hypnotic intensity. Their eyes lingered too long. Their laughter came too easily. Their bodies leaned in as if pulled by invisible threads. On most occasions, they gushed over him. That magnetic pull only sharpened the blades of jealousy aimed at his back.

He rarely bothered to trace the source. Unless a rival had the nerve to step into his face and make their hatred plain, the whispers and sideways glances barely registered. He had movies to make, scenes to dominate, and an empire to build. The noise of other people’s insecurities was just background static.

Still, the recent night with Paris had been exactly what he needed. Their wild, passionate fuck had flooded fresh vitality into his recovering soul, soothing the raw edges of his hunger while expanding the depths of his mana pool in ways he hadn’t felt in days.

The soundstage in Queens was a cavern of shadows and artificial dampness. The air smelled of cold coffee, dust, and the ozone of high-powered Arri lights. They were shooting the climax of *Hide and Seek*—the revelation in the cave.

”Quiet on set!” the first AD bellowed.

The following silence was heavy. Marvin stood behind the monitors next to John Polson, eyes fixed on the screen. On the set, the atmosphere was suffocating. Robert De Niro sat slumped, his face a mask of fractured identity, while Marvin trembled in the corner at least in the cinema.

”Action,” Polson whispered.

De Niro didn’t just act; he curdled. He turned slowly toward the camera, his eyes vacant yet terrifyingly present. The dialogue was sparse, a chilling realization of the ”Charlie” persona.

”Come out, come out, wherever you are,” De Niro murmured. The cadence was wrong—intentionally, hauntingly wrong. It wasn’t the voice of a father; it was the voice of the thing that had eaten the father.

The crew held their breath. A scene that technical usually demanded a dozen takes, sometimes more. But when De Niro delivered the final, soft, guttural whisper—”Charlie’s here.”—the room fell silent. Nobody called cut. For a heartbeat, they simply stared. Then the director’s voice finally broke the spell.

”Cut!” John kept his eyes on the monitor for another few seconds.

Nobody moved. Finally, he broke into a grin. ”Print it.” He looked up at the cast and crew.

”That’s the one.”

A beat. ”We’re done.”

The room erupted.

It was a one-take wonder for a climax.

Cheers bounced off the soundstage walls as crew members hugged each other, clapped backs, and let out the kind of relieved laughter that only came after weeks of long days and impossible schedules.

They had wrapped four days ahead of schedule.

On most films, that almost never happened.

Between Marvin’s script, the detailed storyboards, and performances that rarely needed more than a take or two, the production had avoided the endless delays that usually swallowed most movies, especially thrillers alive.

John grabbed the nearest megaphone and climbed onto an apple box so everyone could see him.

”All right, everyone!”

The chatter gradually died down.

He smiled, looking around at the exhausted faces. ”That’s a wrap on principal photography!”

Another round of applause filled the stage.

”Seriously... thank you.”

He pointed toward the crew. ”Every department knocked it out of the park. Camera. Sound. Art. Light. Costume. Makeup. Everybody. Outstanding work.”

He shook his head with an amazed laugh.

”We came in under budget... ...and somehow finished four days early. I honestly didn’t think that was possible.”

A few crew members laughed. ”So here’s the good news.”

He pointed toward the warehouse next door.

”We’ll start striking the set now. Then in about two hours... ...we celebrate.”

Grins spread across the room. ”The wrap party’s next door. The producers are picking up the tab.”

He smirked. ”Apparently saving them money has made them unusually generous.”

That earned a bigger laugh.

”So eat. Have a drink. Get some sleep for once.”

He lowered the megaphone. ”You all earned it.”

---

The warehouse party was exactly what a crew needed after a psychological thriller—loud, informal, and devoid of the stiff glamour of a red carpet premiere. There were no press photographers, no studio executives in suits trying to synergize, just grip technicians drinking cold beer and makeup artists letting their hair down over plates of catered barbecue.

Marvin stood near the edge of the room, leaning against a brick pillar. He was dressed simply in dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that showed off a physique that shouldn’t belong to a teenager. His Incubus aura was dialed back to a low hum, a subtle pheromonal vibration that made people want to be near him without knowing why.

Beside him stood Amy.

She had flown in from Los Angeles to oversee the final week of logistics and catch the end of the shoot. She wore a simple, elegant navy blouse and dark slacks, her red hair caught in the low light of the industrial string lights.

Around her left wrist was a delicate, unadorned platinum bracelet—Marvin’s New Year’s gift to her.

”You’re remarkably calm for someone who just finished a multi-million-dollar project four days early,” Amy said, her voice holding that crystalline clarity. She took a sip of her drink, her eyes scanning the room with a mixture of professional observation and wonder. ”Most producers would be back in the office counting the pennies we saved.”

”The pennies are already counted, Amy,” Marvin replied, his voice a smooth baritone cutting through the music. He didn’t look like a boy; he looked like a man who happened to have a young face. ”Tonight is about the people who moved the lights and painted the blood on the walls. If they’re happy, the next project goes even faster.”

Robert De Niro, holding a plastic cup of beer and looking more relaxed than he had in two months, walked over. He nudged Marvin’s shoulder, a grin splitting his weathered face.

”Marvin,” De Niro said loudly. ”The movie’s done. The heavy lifting is over. Why don’t we all go to the bar across the street for real drinks? Oh, wait. I forgot. You can’t get in. You’re underage! Hahaha!”

A circle of grips nearby roared with laughter. It was the industry’s favorite joke: the most powerful mind in the room couldn’t legally buy a Budweiser.

Marvin didn’t flinch. He handed his bottle of water to Amy with a wink. ”Hold this. I think Mr. De Niro needs a reminder that wisdom doesn’t come from a bottle.”

Marvin stepped up onto a wooden equipment crate. The room noticed. It was that face and aura he possessed—the room tilted toward him.

”Alright, Bob wants to talk about drinking,” Marvin announced. The music died down as the crew circled up. ”One day, Mr. Bob walked into a bar and asked the bartender for a drink.”

De Niro crossed his arms, leaning against a craft services table with a comedic glint in his eye.

”He finished the drink in one gulp, looked down into his own shirt pocket, and then asked the bartender for another,” Marvin continued, his timing impeccable. ”He finished the second, looked into the pocket again, and asked for a third. Finally, the bartender asks, ’Bob, why do you look into your pocket every time before you order?’”

Marvin paused. He caught the eye of a lighting tech, then Amy, then De Niro.

”Bob looks at him and says: ’I keep a picture of my wife in there. I drink until she looks like a beauty, and then I know it’s time to go home!’”

The warehouse erupted. It wasn’t just a laugh; it was a release of two months of tension. De Niro was doubled over, slapping his thigh.

”Thank you, Marvin!” De Niro shouted. ”I’ll tell my ex-wife that one—she’ll probably sue you for the royalties!”

As the crowd moved back toward the food and music, Marvin stepped down. He was met by Amy, who looked at him with an expression sitting somewhere between professional pride and something deeper.

”You have excellent timing,” she murmured, stepping closer. The warehouse was drafty, and she instinctively sought the warmth radiating off him. ”And you’re surprisingly good at handling Bob. Most people are too intimidated to joke back.”

”Intimidation is just a lack of perspective,” Marvin said, his voice dropping to a private register. He reached out, his thumb lightly brushing the platinum bracelet on her wrist. The metal was cool, but her skin was warm. ”You look beautiful tonight, Amy. The New York air suits you.”

Amy’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. She was a girl trying to find her footing, but here, in Marvin’s orbit, she felt like a pillar of an empire.

”Thank you, Marvin,” she said, her voice a bit breathy. ”I’m just glad we survived the schedule. I was worried about the cave scenes.”

”We always survive,” Marvin promised, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the party around them feel miles away. ”In this industry, people will try to bury you. But they forget—we’re the ones who know how to play hide and seek in the dark.”

He took his water back from her, his fingers lingering against hers for a second too long to be accidental. Amy didn’t pull away. In the dim light of a New York warehouse, amidst the smell of cheap beer and expensive dreams.

....

...

..

.

Once the filming of *Hide and Seek* officially wrapped and the warehouse party ended, Marvin didn’t rush back to Los Angeles.

Instead, he booked a midnight session at

Maratone Studios in New York. He needed to record a new single. He recycled. *That Girl.*

His fans had been waiting long enough, and Tommy had been on his neck for nearly a year. It had been more than two years since his last EP. If he hadn’t released three singles and a demo during that stretch, people would already be calling him arrogant, convinced he’d let success go to his head and would have been drawing resentment from others every day.

The complaints were already starting to creep in.

Another single would quiet them down for a while and buy him a few more months before everyone started demanding a full album again.

....

...

..

.

The session finally wrapped a little after two in the morning.

No one had bothered checking the time.

Once the red recording light came on, hours stopped meaning much. There was always another take to hear, another harmony to try, another tiny detail that could turn a good record into one people remembered.

The engineer, a lean, careful man named Richie Torres who had worked out of the Maratone New York facility since its opening, had stopped logging digital timestamps around midnight. At some point, he’d pushed his chair back, folded his arms, and simply listened.

Engineers rarely did that.

****

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