Before he was Alex, before he became someone known, he was just an ordinary boy who learned early how to remain silent.
At the age of seven, Alex already understood something many people only realize far too late: not every home is a safe place. There were no constant arguments, no explicit violence. And yet, there was an invisible weight,an environment where words were scarce and attention even scarcer. Nothing that left marks on the body, only an emotional exhaustion difficult to explain, especially for a child.
He was not isolated by choice. He simply spoke very little.
While other children ran, argued, and fought for space, Alex observed. He paid attention to gestures, tones of voice, subtle shifts in mood. He learned early that staying quiet was an efficient way to adapt.
It was within that silence that he found anime.
At first, they were merely cartoons different from what aired on ordinary television,stronger colors, striking soundtracks, exaggerated characters. Over time, it became a habit. Then, part of his routine. Without realizing it, it became necessary.
The characters said things he never heard around him. They spoke of loss, failure, and persistence. They suffered, made mistakes, fell,and kept moving forward. Not because everything turned out fine, but because giving up was never presented as an option.
Alex watched the same episodes again and again. Not for lack of novelty, but for the comfort of repetition. Every familiar line, every anticipated scene, brought a sense of control,something predictable in a world that rarely was.
While reality demanded that he fit in, those worlds asked for nothing in return. They simply existed.
There, he could feel things he never put into words: anger, loneliness, fear, ambition. None of it was treated as wrong. None of it needed to be hidden.
Over time, Alex realized that it wasn't always the heroes who held his attention. Often, it was the antagonists. Not those cruel for the sake of cruelty, but those with clear reasons. Characters who believed deeply in what they were doing, even knowing they would be hated for it. Those who moved forward alone, without seeking approval.
There was one in particular.
A man who spoke calmly, with a controlled smile, always several steps ahead of everyone else. Someone who didn't need to raise his voice to command presence. Someone who didn't want to destroy the world,only surpass it.
Alex never spoke about this to anyone. But on quiet nights, he sometimes wondered why he understood that character so well. Not because he agreed with him, but because he understood the logic behind his choices.
Adulthood arrived without ceremony.
Work followed. Responsibilities. Days that all looked the same. Alex functioned. He met schedules, paid bills, answered when spoken to. He smiled when necessary. From the outside, nothing seemed wrong.
Inside, that old sensation lingered,as if something essential had been left behind, lost at a point he could no longer identify.
Then, on an ordinary day, without omens or dramatization, everything ended.
The sudden screech of brakes.
A dull impact.
And darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, the world that had shaped him was gone.
And there was an irony he couldn't ignore.
In this new world…
anime did not exist.
The absence did not come as despair, but as a quiet void. There was no sharp sense of longing,only the realization that something which had accompanied him for so long was simply no longer part of reality. What remained were ideas, archetypes, and narrative structures he had absorbed without noticing.
After arriving in this world, Alex chose a clear path.
Acting was the most stable option.
He entered the industry through its fastest-growing sector: fantasy films. Large-scale productions, heavy visual effects, fictional worlds. Projects that required more screen presence than emotional depth. Alex fit that profile well.
Good looks.
A suitable physique.
Discipline on set.
Acting did not require him to expose himself emotionally. It only required performance.
Before long, his name began appearing frequently in that type of production. Not as an award-winning actor, but as a safe choice,a face the audience recognized and accepted.
The studios didn't expect ideas from him. They expected consistency.
Alex delivered.
Over time, he became a fixed presence in franchises and serialized universes. In promotional campaigns, his face was prominently featured. Within the films, he carried important scenes, even when he wasn't the protagonist.
At the same time, Alex wrote.
Not for cinema. For himself.
He published books steadily. Without aggressive marketing, he built a loyal readership. Sales grew gradually, and the financial return granted him something he valued above all else: autonomy.
That was the point.
With his own money, Alex didn't need to accept just any role. Even so, he maintained the same strategy. He chose fantasy projects that ensured constant exposure. He wasn't chasing awards. He was chasing permanence.
Within the industry, his image became clearly defined.
A fantasy actor.
The face of a new generation.
A successful author outside the screen.
Nothing more.
Alex knew more than he showed. He understood script structure, adaptation, and narrative rhythm. On set, he watched poor decisions being made,characters stripped of identity, conflicts cut short, changes imposed to satisfy executives. He never commented. He observed and stored everything away.
He was not a screenwriter.
And he never tried to be recognized as one.
Relationships emerged during that period. People from the industry, intense coexistence, long projects. Some lasted years. Others ended quickly. None left public scars.
His career always came first.
While acting, he continued writing. Each book expanded his space outside the audiovisual world. It didn't grant him creative control over films, but it strengthened his overall position.
It was enough.
For now.
Alex was in no hurry.
He was building something,something that did not require immediate approval.
When the time came, he wouldn't need to ask for space.
He would already be there.