Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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****

At some point, he’d pushed his chair back, folded his arms, and simply listened.

Engineers rarely did that.

Normally they were too busy watching levels, catching pops and clicks, punching artists in and out of takes, making sure every vocal landed exactly where it belonged. Their ears never got a break.

Tonight, Richie’s job had become unusually easy.

*That Girl* was finished in four hours.

Not just the lead vocal.

Everything.

The instrumental tracks, the bass, the layered harmonies, the ad-libs, the doubles, the fixes, the final vocal, and even the rough mix were already sitting on the console.

In another studio, that process could have stretched across days.

Sometimes weeks.

A singer might spend an entire afternoon chasing a single verse. Producers argued over tempos, rewrote melodies, swapped instruments, threw away half-finished arrangements, and recorded the same chorus fifty times before everyone finally agreed it was good enough.

Songs weren’t usually found.

They were carved out of frustration, compromise, and exhaustion. Most pop songs needed to be argued into existence. They required dozens of takes, endless revisions, and a grinding process of elimination that eventually turned a rough idea into something a listener could hold onto.

This one never fought back.

This song never felt like it was being discovered.

It felt like it already existed.

Marvin moved through every decision without hesitation, as though he could already hear the finished record long before anyone else. The melodies, the harmonies, the arrangement, even the smallest details came from him with quiet certainty. To everyone in the room, it looked less like someone creating a song and more like someone uncovering one that had always been there.

The rest of the session naturally fell into step behind him.

There were still suggestions, a few minor tweaks, and the occasional adjustment, but none of the usual tug-of-war that came with making a record. Marvin always seemed to know exactly where the next piece belonged, and before anyone realized it, the final version was playing back through the studio monitors.

It wasn’t normal.

Even Max Martin knew that.

He sat behind the mixing console, staring through the glass at the now-empty vocal booth.

For nearly three minutes, he didn’t say a word after the final playback ended.

This was, for Max, exceptional behavior. He was not a silent man in the studio. He was a precise, blunt architect, incapable of the diplomatic vagueness lesser producers used to avoid committing to a strong opinion. He had feelings about everything that came out of the studio monitors, and he expressed them with the directness of someone who had stopped worrying about whether his directness was comfortable for the artist.

So, when he sat in silence for three minutes, the room noticed.

Then: ”Wow.” A long pause followed. Max was still looking at the illuminated board rather than at Marvin, staring at the flashing equalizers in the way people sometimes looked away from things they were trying to process. ”This song... this song is really special.”

It was not the most sophisticated piece of technical criticism Max had ever offered. But it was undeniably honest.

Marvin, sitting on the edge of the leather couch in the recording booth with his sleeves rolled up, received the praise with a slight inclination of his head.

Torres, sitting next to Max, wore the dazed expression of a man who had accidentally witnessed a historical event he hadn’t expected his Tuesday evening to contain.

”The melody,” Max said, finally swiveling his chair to face the booth. He was working through the composition in real-time, which was how he processed music he respected—tracing the structural architecture rather than reaching for a quick verdict. ”It’s gentle, but it doesn’t apologize for itself. That is hard to do. Most pop songs that attempt to sound like this either push too hard and become aggressive, or they disappear into background noise. This one just... stays. It anchors the room.”

”That was the intention,” Marvin said quietly.

”A girl,” Max stated. His Swedish accent sharpened slightly on the word, the way it did when making a confident psychological observation. ”You wrote this for someone specific.”

Marvin’s expression didn’t change. The mask remained perfectly smooth. ”Not exactly.”

Max looked at him, waiting for elaboration.

Marvin offered nothing further. After a moment, Max let it go. Over the past three years, the producer had learned that the things Marvin Meyers refused to explain were usually explained by the work itself. Pushing the teenager for emotional elaboration was an exercise that only produced more mystification.

What Marvin did not say—and would never say out loud in a studio—was that the song was not written for one specific girl.

It was Incubus voice magic broadcast over a radio frequency. It was for all of them. It was for the girls who would hear it at sixteen, crying in their bedrooms. It was for the women who would hear it at twenty-three in cramped apartments they weren’t sure they could afford. It was for the mothers who would hear it at thirty, feeling a sharp ache they couldn’t name because the name for it was a version of themselves they hadn’t visited in a long time.

The magic woven into the lyrics was specific enough to feel deeply personal, yet universal enough to belong to anyone who reached for it. It was the only kind of love song worth writing, pretending to be an intimate confession for one person, but actually designed to bind whoever needed to hear it.

This song also served as a reminder to both his current and future partners that they are beautiful just as they are, without the need for enhancements. It emphasized self-acceptance and encouraged them to recognize their own worth. As they drew nearer to him and developed more connections and emotions towards him, whenever they listened to the song, they would perceive it as if it were meant specifically for them. That was the true magic of the song.

This message not only uplifted their spirits but fostered a deeper connection based on genuine appreciation.

Marvin did not explain the mechanics of the magic. He stood up and picked up his jacket. ”I’m leaving in the morning.”

”Flying back to Los Angeles?” Max asked, turning back to the board to save the stems.

”For two days,” Marvin replied. ”Then I fly to New Zealand.”

Max blinked, his hand pausing over the keyboard. ”New Zealand?”

”I need a vacation.”

The word landed in the quiet studio with a jarring wrongness. Max had known Marvin for nearly three years. He had never observed the boy taking a vacation in any recognizable human sense. He observed him changing locations—moving seamlessly between New York, Los Angeles, Stockholm, London, and Asia with the efficiency of a corporate system executing a programmed sequence.

The idea of Marvin sitting on a beach in a place without work, an agenda, a production timeline, or a corporate deal being structured in the background was difficult to visualize.

”You’re going to New Zealand to rest,” Max repeated, testing the phrase.

”I have *Let the Right One In* beginning production soon,” Marvin said, adjusting his collar. ”I want to be ready for the hustle.”

”Marvin, you’re always ready,” Max pointed out.

”I want to be rested and ready,” Marvin countered, stating it with a finality that closed the subject. Almost as an afterthought, he added: ”The full board meeting. When I am back from Los Angeles. I want everyone in the same room.”

Max understood exactly what this meant. He had been waiting for this meeting for months. ”Do you want to host it in New York or LA?”

”New York. Here at Maratone. Book the large executive conference room,” Marvin ordered, pausing at the door of the booth. ”Make sure Voss is there. I want Hendricks flown in from the publishing division. The Wolf Cousins A&R team can dial in via conference call from LA. Björn and Per must be on the line from Stockholm.”

”That’s a lot of people,” Max noted, mentally calculating logistics.

”It’s a lot of business,” Marvin said. He opened the soundproof door and walked out into the hallway, leaving Amy to follow closely behind.

Instead of staying in New York to manage the press release for the new single, Marvin flew straight back to Los Angeles for a brief, two-day stay. He reviewed the latest architectural plans for the European retail stores, signed off on the marketing for *Hide and Seek*, and then headed off to New Zealand for a much-needed break.

He had been working relentlessly for the last four years, building the foundation of the business non-stop. He would soon be consumed by the production schedule of *Let the Right One In*, and he wanted a brief moment of peace.

What was the point of building a new human life if you couldn’t pause to actually rest?

This time, he traveled light. He flew alone, accompanied only by Gordon.

---

Meanwhile, half a world away in Wellington, New Zealand, Peter Jackson was wearing a path through the floor of his cramped production office.

Concept art covered every wall. A battered map of Middle-earth hung behind his desk. Models, sketches, coffee mugs, and stacks of books competed for every inch of space.

He held the phone against his ear with one hand while rubbing tiredly at the bridge of his nose.

”Harvey,” Peter said, trying to keep his voice even, ”I sent over the treatment last week. I was hoping you’d had a chance to read it.”

”I read it,” Harvey Weinstein replied. His voice filled the receiver with the confidence of a man used to ending arguments before they began. ”I know what you’re trying to do.”

Peter stopped pacing. ”And?”

”And I don’t get why you’re starting with The Hobbit.”

”It’s the foundation,” Peter said immediately. ”It introduces the audience to Middle-earth, Bilbo, the Shire—the whole world. Then The Lord of the Rings builds naturally from there.”

Harvey let out an impatient breath. ”Peter, The Hobbit is a kids story.”

”It starts lighter,” Peter corrected. ”That’s the point.”

”I’m looking at orcs, armies, the Ring, the Dark Lord...” Harvey said. ”That’s what people are going to buy tickets for.”

”They’ll care a lot more if they know the world first.”

”Maybe.” A pause. ”But that’s not the movie I’m trying to finance.”

Peter leaned against the desk. ”I’m not talking about one film.”

”I know.”

”I’m talking about telling the whole story in order. First The Hobbit... ...then The Lord of the Rings.”

Harvey didn’t hesitate. ”No.”

Peter closed his eyes for a second.

”Harvey—”

”No.”

The word landed like a hammer.

”We’re not making four movies.”

”We don’t have the time.”

”We don’t have that kind of budget.”

”And I’m not asking an audience to wait years before they get to the story everybody actually knows.”

Peter chose his next words carefully. ”I really think we’d be setting ourselves up for something special if we built the world first.”

”And I think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Silence settled between them.

Finally Harvey spoke again, slower this time.

”Here’s where we are. If we’re making this picture...we’re making The Lord of the Rings.”

”That’s the movie.”

”So I need you focused on that script.” Peter looked across the room at the map pinned to the wall.

His eyes drifted from the Shire...

...to Rivendell...

...to Mordor.

He already knew the conversation was over.

”...All right,” he said quietly.

”I’ll rework it.”

”Good.” Harvey pressed the advantage before Peter could formulate a defense. ”Remember the mandate, Peter. There is no *The Hobbit*. We are skipping it entirely. There is only *The Lord of the Rings*. Focus on the script.”

Harvey’s tone softened just enough to signal the meeting was finished. ”Get me the new draft.”

”We’ll take it from there.”

The line went dead.

Peter lowered the receiver slowly.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the map of Middle-earth.

Then he let out a long breath.

”Right,” he murmured to the empty office.

”Back to work.”

---

Bang!

The wooden door slammed against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame.

A wave of stale air spilled into the hallway.

Richard Taylor immediately recoiled. ”Cough... Jesus, Peter.”

”Cough... cough...” Richard Taylor waved a hand in front of his face, hacking as the fumes hit the back of his throat. He stepped into the dimly lit room, boots crunching over discarded wrappers and crumpled script drafts.

He surveyed the disaster area, eyes widening in disbelief.

He covered his nose with the sleeve of his jacket as he stepped inside, boots crunching over empty coffee cups, crumpled script pages, and fast-food wrappers, weeks of unwashed laundry, and the sweat of a man losing his grip on reality.

The office looked less like a workplace and more like a bunker after a siege.

****

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