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****
Marvin let him finish writing before moving on. There was still one matter he wanted on the table, even if nothing would come of it immediately.
"I want to understand what an animated Avatar series has done with—production costs, studio capacity, broadcast partnerships. Japan first. That means a relationship with a Japanese broadcast partner who can put it on a channel where the existing readership will find it."
"I have some initial contacts in the Tokyo animation space from the editorial relationships we've built," Gregg said carefully. "Nothing formal. But names I can reach out to for an exploratory conversation."
"Start the conversation. No commitments, no terms, just information gathering." Marvin paused. "And the broadcast side—I want to understand what NHK and TV Tokyo's appetite is for a new property versus established properties. The answer will tell us how to position the pitch."
"I'll put together a briefing document by the end of the month."
"Good." Marvin looked at the distribution maps, then back at Gregg. "The Europe timeline. Two months. What keeps you up at night?"
Gregg didn't hesitate. He had been waiting for this question. It cut through the presentation and asked what was actually true beneath the prepared optimism.
"Localization quality at speed," he said. "The German edition has been done correctly. The French edition is being done correctly, but the timeline is tighter and I have less visibility into the day-to-day progress than I'd like. If the localization quality slips on the French launch, we don't get a second first impression in that market." He paused. "I want to fly to Paris next week and sit in the room with the localization team for two days."
"Do it."
"And the second thing," Gregg said. "Retail support post-launch. Getting the product on the shelf is half the problem. The other half is making sure the retail staff know what it is, know how to talk about it to a parent or a kid who's never seen it before, and know where to re-order when they sell through. I want to put together a retailer training pack for the WH Smith staff—something simple, one page. It explains the format, explains the properties, and gives them a sentence or two they can say to a customer. It's a small thing, but the person at the till is the last moment before the sale happens or doesn't happen. That moment should be in our control."
"Write the training pack," Marvin said. "Have it ready for the Smith account meeting."
Gregg made the note. He looked at the spread of materials across Marvin's desk—the Japan circulation report, the European distribution maps, the merchandise mock-ups, the animation briefing framework that was still theoretical but had been named and therefore begun to exist. He felt the specific gravity of a man who had started a journey at a point that now looked very far away.
"When I flew to Japan for the first time for this," he said, "the print run for the first issue of Blaze was three hundred thousand. I thought that was ambitious. Our printer thought it was ambitious." He paused. "Now I'm looking at a 1.1 million weekly circulation and a European launch, and I'm having a conversation about merchandising."
"Yes," Marvin said simply.
"I remember the first conversation we had about the European market. You said to build the Japan foundation first. Don't reach for Europe before Japan is proven. The proof of concept has to come before the expansion, or the expansion is just expensive optimism." Gregg looked at him. "You were right about that."
"I know," Marvin said.
It landed without arrogance. It was a plain statement of a fact, delivered in the same tone one might observe the weather changing. Gregg, who had worked with enough people to know the difference between confidence, arrogance, and simple accuracy about one's own track record, received it as what it was.
"Get some sleep," Marvin said in the same register. "You've been running on nothing since Tokyo."
"I'll sleep on the weekend."
"Tonight," Marvin said. "The Paris trip is next week. You want to be sharp when you're sitting with the localization team."
Gregg gathered the folders from the desk and stacked them into his bag with the organized efficiency of a man already reordering his priorities for what came next. He stood, straightening the jacket that had gone beyond salvage somewhere over the Atlantic. It would need to be replaced before any meeting that required him to look like he hadn't just circled the globe.
"The Tanaka dinner when you're in Tokyo next," he said at the door.
"Schedule it," Marvin said.
"He'll be pleased. He doesn't say it, but he respects your opinion on the editorial side more than anyone else's."
Marvin looked at him. "He built the school program. Tell him that counts."
Gregg nodded once. Then he was gone—back through the outer office, past Dana's desk, carrying 1.1 million copies per week in a slim folder under his arm. He headed for the elevator, then the street, and eventually a hotel room where he would intend to review his notes but fall asleep with the light on before finishing the first page.
Marvin sat for a moment in the quiet of the office.
He looked at the circulation figure on the open page of the audit: 1,100,000.
Eleven months.
He closed the report and went back to work.
---
The building didn't look like much from the street.
VIVO occupied a converted warehouse off 21st Street in Long Island City, a few blocks from the river. The place had about twenty-eight thousand square feet spread across 8 floors, with a loading dock at the back and enough room inside to move equipment without having to fight the walls.
There was no grand entrance. Just a wide metal door, a small brass plate beside it that read Meyers Visual Productions, MVP, and a few windows high enough up the brick facade that they were useless for anyone trying to see inside. Trucks came and went through the rear lot. Cables, lighting cases, camera equipment and set pieces passed through the loading doors every day.
From the outside, it looked like what it was—a warehouse.
Inside, it was another story.
Max Martin had spent enough time in recording studios to know the difference between a room that had been made to look expensive and one that had actually been built for work. He had seen them in Stockholm, London, Los Angeles and New York. Good studios weren't necessarily pretty. They were quiet where they needed to be, open where they needed to be, and built around the people who had to use them.
VIVO had that same feeling.
The main floor had a large shooting stage, rehearsal space, dressing rooms and storage along the walls. Upstairs were the production offices, editing rooms and a recording studio built into the quieter end of the building. Nothing felt ornamental. Everything had a purpose.
Max looked around as they walked.
He had expected a production company.
What Marvin had built looked more like a place where they could actually make things.
"It's been a month," Marvin said beside him, his hands in the pockets of a jacket that somehow still looked fresh despite the fact that it was eleven in the morning and they'd been here since nine. "I wanted to wait until there was something worth showing you."
"Smart."
Max tipped his head back and looked at the lighting grid hanging over Stage One.
The ceiling was high, higher than most studios he had worked in, and the old warehouse structure had made that possible. There was room above the stage for the lights, trusses and whatever else a production might need without everything feeling crammed together.
He walked a few steps farther, studying the grid.
"How many stages?"
"Three running. Fourth is being finished now." Marvin pointed across the floor. "One and Two can handle full productions. Lighting, camera, rigging, whatever the director needs. Stage One has the cyclorama."
Max glanced toward the curved white wall at the far end of the stage. It ran smoothly from the floor into the wall without a hard corner.
"That's useful."
"That's the idea."
"And Three?"
"Smaller. Mostly performance shoots, interviews, anything that doesn't need this much space."
Max nodded and kept walking.
There were camera cases stacked along one wall, lighting equipment on carts, cables running where they needed to run and crew moving around without getting in each other's way. It wasn't finished in the sense that everything was polished. It didn't need to be.
"What about editing?"
"Upstairs. Eight suites. Four are in use."
"Already?"
"Already."
That got another look from Max.
He wandered toward the edge of the stage, taking in the room again. He wasn't looking at it like a visitor. He was already thinking about what he could shoot here, how quickly a crew could move, where a camera could go, how much time would be lost changing one setup for another.
"And directors?"
"David's handling it. Six on contract. Two more he's talking to."
"Good."
Marvin looked at him. "That's all?"
"If you hire twelve people because you've got twelve rooms to fill, you'll regret it." Max shrugged. "Get the wrong people in early and they'll teach everyone else how things are supposed to be done."
He looked back at the stage. "Better to take your time."
Marvin gave a small nod. "That's what I told him."
They turned into the corridor connecting Stage One and Stage Two. Before they reached the doors, they could hear the crew inside. Not music yet. Just the noise of a working set—voices, equipment moving, someone calling for a light to be shifted.
Stage Two was busy.
A set filled most of the far side of the stage. It was meant to look like a city, though only in pieces: raised platforms, steel, glass, hard surfaces catching the light. A woman was halfway up a scissor lift, adjusting a fixture while talking into her headset.
Four cameras were set around the floor.
The operators waited beside them, talking quietly between takes.
In the middle of it stood the Backstreet Boys.
AJ, Howie, Nick, Kevin and Brian wore coordinated futuristic outfits, similar enough to make them look like a group without making them look like five copies of the same man. The wardrobe had a metallic, military edge to it, with sharp lines, dark fabrics and armored-looking details, each member's outfit carrying its own touches.
Around them, the soundstage had been transformed into something that barely resembled an ordinary industrial building anymore.
Black cables ran across the concrete floor, taped down wherever they crossed the paths of the crew. Steel scaffolding climbed toward the high ceiling, supporting rows of lights that cut through the artificial haze. Camera tracks stretched across the floor, while technicians adjusted equipment, checked monitors and shouted measurements back and forth.
The place still looked like a warehouse beneath all of it—the exposed beams, concrete walls and vast empty space hadn't disappeared—but the production had buried most of that beneath metal platforms, machinery, cables and enormous pieces of futuristic set dressing.
A camera sat on a long track several feet away, aimed directly at the group. Another was mounted higher up, ready for a sweeping shot. Crew members moved around them with practiced urgency, carrying equipment and making last-second adjustments while assistants checked costumes and makeup.
Then the speakers came alive.
The opening song rolled through the warehouse, deep enough that the bass seemed to travel through the concrete beneath their feet.
The chatter died.
The boys took their positions.
For a moment, all that remained was the music, the hum of equipment and the white glare of the lights cutting through the haze.
Ryan Cassidy stood in front of them, talking through the next setup.
Cassidy was young, but he didn't have the nervousness Max had come to expect from young directors. He moved his hands as he explained the blocking, then walked the path himself so the five could see what he wanted.
They listened.
None of them needed much explanation. They had been doing this together long enough that when one of them moved, the others already knew where they needed to be.
"Which song?" Max asked.
He already knew.
"*Larger Than Life*," Marvin said. "Third setup today. They've been here since eight."
Max looked toward the nearest monitor.
The camera feed showed the stage from the main position. The frame was clean. The lighting wasn't trying to show off, and the camera wasn't either.
"He's got the right idea," Max said. "Keep it simple."
"That was the brief."
"From who?"
"Me."
Marvin kept his eyes on the monitor.
****
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