Chapter 874: The Criminal and the Last Survivor!

Beverly Hills, Nolan's Mansion

The opulent mansion in Beverly Hills was alive with the buzz of A-listers mingling and exchanging pleasantries. In the grand foyer, Emma Thomas and her assistant gracefully moved through the crowd, distributing gifts with practiced ease. Each guest received a chic handbag, the kind that whispered luxury, containing a beautifully wrapped gift box inside.

Even Martin received one, though he knew better than to believe it was a guarantee of anything more than a temporary favor. In the Oscar race, where the stakes were higher than ever, gifts like these had become a subtle currency. While they couldn't outright buy votes, they certainly nudged the odds in your favor, if only by keeping you in the good graces of those who mattered.

Jack Nicholson, ever the blunt and shameless veteran of Hollywood's games, sidled up to Martin with a wry grin. "You know, I can't remember who gave me what gift during Oscar season," he said, his voice tinged with mischief. "But I can damn well remember who didn't bother to give me one."

Martin chuckled, handing his own bag to Bruce, his assistant. "Jack, you're a true artist. Are all old white men this shameless?"

Nicholson waved his hand dismissively, a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, don't sweat the small stuff. You'll see, when you become an old white man, you'll be just the same."

Martin shot back with a grin, "I don't need to be an old white man to know that anyone who skips the gift-giving won't be getting our 'fair and impartial' votes."

Nicholson raised an eyebrow, curious. "Got any fresh ideas for how we're voting this year?"

Martin shook his head, smirking. "I'm waiting for you and Leo to come up with something creative."

Just as he finished speaking, Leonardo DiCaprio strode over, a charismatic grin on his face, accompanied by a rotund Asian man sporting rimless glasses. Leonardo wasted no time with introductions. "Martin, Jack, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine." He gestured to the man beside him. "This is John Liu, an investor from Malaysia. He's been backing my projects at Open Road Pictures for a few years now. John, I don't think these two need any introduction."

John Liu extended his hand to Martin and Nicholson, his smile polished and professional. "It's a pleasure to finally meet both of you. Leo's spoken highly of you for years, and it's an honor to make your acquaintance."

Martin returned the smile, ever the diplomat. "The pleasure's ours."

Nicholson, more detached in his retirement, gave a polite nod. "Nice to meet you."

It was clear, though, that Liu's focus wasn't on Nicholson. Turning to Martin, he said with an air of respect, "Mr. Davis, I've always admired your eye for film investments. Should you ever need financial support, I can mobilize funds at a moment's notice."

Martin nodded, accepting the offer with the poise of a seasoned player in this game. "I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Liu."

John Liu handed Martin a gold-plated business card, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then gracefully excused himself from the conversation.

As Liu walked away, Nicholson, never one to miss a beat, leaned in toward Leonardo. "An investor from Malaysia, huh? Is this your new financial backer?"

Leonardo, quick to catch the insinuation, chuckled and shook his head. "Backer? More like I gave him a golden ticket to Hollywood."

Martin, intrigued, asked, "So, you've been working with him for a while?"

Leonardo nodded, his voice tinged with pride. "Since 2010. He's been involved in several of my projects, including 'Shutter Island.' He's got deep pockets and a keen interest in Hollywood."

He paused before adding, "If you're ever in need of funds, John's your guy. He's been spending big in North America lately."

Martin nodded thoughtfully. He'd crossed paths with Liu before, strictly in business dealings. "Yeah, I know. I sold a few properties to him, ones I picked up from Depp, actually. Liu paid top dollar for them."

Leonardo's eyes widened with recognition. "The villa in Paris, the penthouse in the Columbia Tower, and the beachfront place in Malibu?"

Martin nodded again. "That's right. He forked over $100 million for them, in cash. The guy's got a serious cash flow."

Nicholson, always the sage, offered a word of caution. "Just be careful. Some investors come with baggage, money that isn't as clean as it should be. That can lead to trouble down the line."

Leonardo laughed, a bit ruefully. "Martin, you and I both know that Hollywood's been funded by questionable money for decades. It's practically a tradition at this point."

Martin and Nicholson exchanged a knowing glance. Leonardo was right. The film industry had long been a playground for the rich and the unscrupulous, a place where fortunes were made, lost, and laundered under the bright lights of the silver screen.

Leonardo chuckled, brushing off any concerns with a casual wave. "Relax, Martin. This is America, not Malaysia."

But Martin, remembering certain things from his past life, couldn't shake off a nagging concern. He leaned in slightly, his tone more serious. "Leo, listen. I've got some connections in Asia, and a few of my investors have warned me about John Liu. They say he's got a complicated relationship with the Malaysian authorities, probably acting as a front for some high-ranking officials. If anything goes south, it's not just him that could be in trouble; the Malaysian government might get involved, especially if things need to be negotiated through unofficial channels."

Leonardo, always one to take a friend's advice seriously, nodded thoughtfully. "I get it, Martin. I'll keep an eye on things."

Martin knew that Leonardo, with his years of experience and solid footing in the North American market, didn't need much more than a heads-up. Leo had navigated plenty of tricky situations before, and this was just another one to manage.

As the evening wore on, the party began to wind down. Before ten o'clock, the room that had been full of energy and conversation started to empty out.

The three of them had originally planned to continue the night out, joking about "washing their faces" a euphemism for hitting the town and enjoying themselves. But Nicholson, feeling the effects of age and the evening's alcohol, was clearly running out of steam. His energy was fading, and the sparkle in his eyes had dimmed.

Seeing this, Martin decided to do the gentlemanly thing. "Let me take you home, Jack," he offered, knowing that Nicholson would appreciate the gesture.

Leonardo, however, had a sudden change of plans. He'd lined up a last-minute rendezvous with a model and, true to his reputation, couldn't resist. "Sorry, guys," he said with a grin. "I've got a date I can't miss."

Martin laughed, shaking his head as Leo dashed off, ever the ladies' man. Left to his own devices, Martin thought about heading home himself, but then another idea struck him. He considered calling Louise, but before he could, his phone buzzed. It was Anya Taylor-Joy.

"Hey, Martin," she said, her voice light and playful. "How about a midnight snack? My treat."

Intrigued, Martin turned his car around and headed for Wilshire Street, where they'd agreed to meet at a cozy little restaurant. When he walked in, he spotted Anya right away. She was dressed in a white sweater, a black miniskirt, and fishnet stockings, a quirky combination that somehow worked for her. Her outfit might have been a little eccentric, but her figure was striking, and she carried herself with confidence.

As he approached, Martin couldn't help but reflect on how Hollywood's beauty standards had shifted over the years. So many actresses these days seemed to push the limits with plastic surgery, often ending up looking unnatural. In his past life, he'd watched as global aesthetics declined, and the new generation of Hollywood stars, including Anya's peers, often fell short of the classic beauty seen around the early 2000s.

But Anya, sitting across from him now, seemed different. Despite her unconventional look, she hadn't yet succumbed to the surgeon's knife, and Martin appreciated that.

He pulled out a chair and sat opposite her, taking in her fresh, unaltered face. It was a refreshing change.

Anya handed him the menu with a playful smile. "Order whatever you want. Tonight's on me."

Martin grinned as he took the menu. "I won't hold back then," he teased, quickly choosing a few light, easy-to-digest dishes before sliding the menu back to her.

Anya picked out a few more items, and before long, the food arrived. They began to eat, the conversation flowing easily between them.

"So," Anya began, her tone a mix of curiosity and a bit of insecurity, "how's my performance been lately? Did I really nail the role?"

Martin paused, giving her question the thought it deserved. "Out of all the actresses on set, you've definitely stood out. You've captured the essence of the character, and there were a few scenes where you really shined."

Anya's face lit up at his praise, her earlier anxiety melting away. "I've been so worried that I wasn't doing the character justice, that maybe I couldn't handle this role. But hearing that from you gives me so much more confidence."

Martin, always honest, reassured her. "You're talented, Anya. You've got something special, more so than Anna or Sophia."

At the mention of Ana de Armas, Anya's expression shifted slightly. She'd noticed how Ana spent her lunch breaks, slipping into Martin's trailer. It didn't take much to imagine what was going on, but Anya wasn't one to dwell on it. She knew her strengths and her place.

After all, her opportunity to audition had come through a strong recommendation from WMA, and she'd been lucky enough to catch Martin's eye. Now, with his encouragement, she felt more confident than ever in her abilities.

Anya leaned in slightly, her eyes reflecting the intensity of her thoughts. "You know, the scene between you and me at the end, it feels like it's the most crucial moment in the entire film."

Martin nodded thoughtfully, recognizing the weight of her words. "It is. That scene marks the hero's complete transformation, the moment his new, fractured personality takes over."

Anya's expression was serious, her determination evident. "I've gone over the script for this scene countless times, trying to dig deeper into the character, but I still feel like there's something missing. It's as if the essence of the moment is just out of reach. I think the only way to really grasp it is to rehearse it together, several times, if needed. What do you think?"

Martin paused, considering her suggestion. During the initial rehearsals, he had deliberately avoided practicing the final scene with Anya. It was a pivotal and sensitive sequence, involving not just intense, large-scale shots but also violent, disturbing moments. The scene's complexity required a certain spontaneity, an emotional rawness that he feared might be dulled by over-rehearsal.

Still, he understood her desire to get it right. "I'm open to rehearsing it," he said, carefully. "But it really depends on your schedule. I'm free whenever you are."

Anya, sharp and calculating, sensed the opportunity. She leaned in just a bit closer, her voice carrying a subtle edge of persuasion. "How about tonight? This scene is so intricate and challenging, I really believe we need to go over it multiple times to be fully prepared for the shoot."

Martin thought for a moment, glancing at his watch. The studio lot was closed at this hour, and privacy would be essential for such a scene. "The studios are all shut down for the night. But the Ritz-Carlton is nearby. We could go there after supper and work through the scene."

Anya smiled, a gleam of determination in her eyes. "That works perfectly for me." She patted the backpack beside her. "I've got everything we might need."

Since the day she first saw Ana de Armas slipping into Martin's trailer, Anya had been planning for this moment. She knew the significance of the final scenes and was determined to seize her opportunity to leave an indelible mark.

After their late-night meal, Martin left the restaurant first, making his way to the Ritz-Carlton. He checked into a private suite on the top floor, a place he knew well from previous encounters. After a brief wait, Anya arrived, her presence bringing a focused energy to the room.

They began by discussing the script in detail, dissecting the characters' motivations, the subtleties of their final confrontation. It was a serious, intense exchange, one that would lay the foundation for their rehearsal.

When the discussion ended, it was time to bring the scene to life.

"Something's missing," Martin said, ever the professional. He looked around the suite. "We need a rope to make this work. There should be something soft enough around here."

This was a room Martin had used before, often in the company of others like Jolie, Aniston, and Alexandra. The suite was well-stocked with various props left behind from their 'rehearsals'—tools that could now serve a different purpose.

But Anya was one step ahead. She stood up, unzipped her backpack, and pulled out a rope and a pair of cold, metallic handcuffs. "No need to worry," she said with a confident smile. "I'm ready."

Martin took the rope from her and retrieved a prop knife from his own bag. In an instant, his demeanor shifted. The easygoing, charming man was gone, replaced by a character with a dark, twisted edge, a criminal with cold, calculating eyes.

Anya responded in kind, slipping seamlessly into her role. She became the final survivor, a woman who would battle wits and strength against the hero's split personality, only to be ultimately overpowered. Her performance was raw, charged with emotion, as she pushed the hero to his limits, forcing his most terrifying personality to emerge fully.

This scene was crucial, not just for the film, but for their performances. They both knew that one rehearsal wouldn't be enough. The complexity of the roles required them to dig deeper, to explore every nuance, every possible interpretation, to elevate the scene to something extraordinary.

They rehearsed late into the night, the intensity of their work leaving them exhausted but satisfied. The next day was a weekend, giving Anya a chance to rest, though Martin suspected she would've powered through even if she had to be on set the next morning.

Anya was young, but she was also fiercely dedicated. True to her professionalism, after a brief rest the following day, she reached out to Martin, eager to continue rehearsing the difficult scene. The two of them spent the entire weekend in relentless pursuit of perfection, running through thirty-six different interpretations of the scene, experimenting with various methods and approaches.

By Sunday night, both of them were thoroughly spent. They had pushed their performances to new heights, readying themselves for the cameras to roll.

As Martin descended to the hotel's underground parking lot, he slipped into the car driven by Bruce, his trusted chauffeur. Leaning back into the seat, he let out a long breath. "Let's head back," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. The weekend had been exhausting, but he knew their hard work would pay off when they stepped onto the set the next day.

Bruce hesitated for a moment before starting the car, his tone grave as he spoke. "We've got new intel from Kiev. Alexandrovich has solidified his power base and is ready to make his move."

Martin, sensing the weight of the situation, leaned in slightly. "What's his plan?"

Bruce laid it out succinctly. "Alexandrovich intends to nationalize Ukraine's major media outlets and TV stations. His goal is to flush out the oligarchs backing 1+1 TV. Once they're exposed, he'll leverage the security bureau and the military under his command, working in tandem with the U.S., to take down Igor. After that, he plans to auction off the Privas Group at a rock-bottom price."

Martin nodded, processing the implications. "I see. Take the lead on this, assemble the team and handle it."

Bruce, always efficient, confirmed the next steps. "I'll be heading to Europe next week. I've already arranged for your security detail here."

Satisfied, Martin leaned back in his seat. "Good. I'm staying in North America until 'The Shallows' premieres at the end of January next year."

With that, Bruce started the car, and they drove off into the night, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air.

---

The next morning, the set of "Split" buzzed with activity as the crew prepared for another day of filming. After a good night's rest, Martin arrived on set, fully energized and ready to dive into his role.

The scenes focusing on the female personality had been completed, and today, they were moving on to a different aspect of the character's fragmented mind, a ten-year-old boy, innocent yet deeply flawed.

Martin stepped out of his trailer, now dressed in sneakers and casual sportswear. The transformation was immediate; his entire demeanor shifted. He wasn't just playing a man with a boyish charm, he was embodying a child trapped in an adult's body. His posture, the way his eyes lit up with a mix of curiosity and naïveté, all pointed to a child who hadn't yet fully grown up. But this wasn't the endearing kind of immaturity; it was the dangerous kind, where curiosity about women collided with a weak, easily manipulated character.

As Martin prepared for the scene, the set was quiet, everyone keenly aware of the delicate balance this role required. But when the cameras rolled, something didn't sit right. David Fincher, ever the perfectionist, called a halt. He motioned for Martin to come over.

Martin approached him, already anticipating a critique. "What's the issue?"

Fincher didn't mince words. "It's the kissing scene. Something's off."

Martin frowned, considering the sequence in question. His character, a boy curious about women, was supposed to kiss the heroine, his first, awkward attempt at intimacy. "Wasn't it supposed to be awkward, like he's inexperienced?"

Fincher circled Martin, scrutinizing his performance. "Awkward, yes, but your approach was all wrong. Even before you leaned in to kiss Anya, you were radiating this... overconfidence. Instead of innocence, you came off as a seasoned creep pretending to be innocent."

Martin couldn't help but laugh, though a bit embarrassed. "Was it really that bad?"

Fincher's tone was serious, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Worse. Martin, you're playing a ten-year-old boy who's curious about women, seduced by the heroine, trying to kiss for the first time. You need to channel the uncertainty, the nervousness of a first kiss. Think back to how that felt."

Martin furrowed his brow, trying to recall the memory, but nothing came to mind, not from his past life or his current one.

They reset the scene, and after several takes, Martin finally found that awkward, stumbling nervousness that fit the character's experience or lack thereof.

Once they nailed the kiss, the rest of the scenes fell into place. Dressed in his childish attire, Martin portrayed the boy's innocence with rich facial expressions, his emotions laid bare for everyone to see. He was playful, eager to please, chatting with the girls with a wide-eyed simplicity that was hard to resist. Yet, when he realized the heroine had tricked him, his face crumpled with hurt, his eyes welling up with the genuine pain of a child betrayed.

Determined to add layers to this complex personality, Martin experimented with different accents, subtle changes in his speech patterns, and varying gestures. He worked tirelessly to portray a character who was, on the surface, trying to act mature but was, at his core, deeply naive and childlike.

The day's work was grueling, but Martin was relentless, determined to get it right. By the time they wrapped, he had explored every nuance, every possible interpretation of the character, ensuring that his performance would resonate with the audience in all its unsettling depth.