[A few days later] [Titan HQ] [NY]
The upper floors had been turned into controlled chaos. Tape measures dangled from shoulders like strange necklaces. Clipboards passed from hand to hand. Assistants moved with the practiced efficiency of people who had already learned not to ask who needed what first. Somewhere below, another costume team was measuring the rest of the cast.
This floor belonged to legends and one very nervous man trying not to hyperventilate.
Andrew Garfield stood near the center of the room, shoulders slightly stiff, hands folded and unfolded at his sides as if they could not agree on a final position. He wore a plain T-shirt and jeans, which suddenly felt like the wrong uniform for the moment. His heart had been racing since he stepped out of the elevator, and it had not slowed once.
Across from him stood Willem Dafoe, relaxed and barefoot on a raised platform while a designer adjusted measurement points along his shoulders. Willem looked perfectly at ease, like he had wandered into the room by accident and decided to stay. His posture was loose, his expression attentive, eyes sharp with interest as he chatted with the crew.
Nearby, Alfred Molina sat on a chair while a tailor knelt to measure his arm length. Alfred laughed softly at something one of the designers said. He radiated a calm that suggested he had done this exact thing dozens of times before, possibly while discussing dinner plans.
Andrew swallowed.
He was in a room with Willem Dafoe and Alfred Molina.
The fact refused to settle properly in his brain.
A costume designer approached him with a clipboard and a professional smile. "Andrew, we will start with your base measurements."
Andrew nodded a little too quickly. "Of course. Yes. Absolutely."
His voice cracked just enough to notice.
Willem glanced over, eyes flicking toward him with a spark of amusement. "First time?" he asked kindly.
Andrew laughed, a short, breathless sound. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to people who remember what it felt like," Willem replied. "You are doing fine."
That helped. A little.
Andrew stepped onto the platform as the designer began working, tape measure cool against his skin. He stared straight ahead, acutely aware of every movement he made. He tried to stand naturally and immediately became unsure what natural even meant.
Alfred watched him with a gentle smile. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, "I once stood so stiff during a fitting that they thought I had injured my back."
Andrew blinked. "Really?"
"Oh yes," Alfred replied. "They offered me a chair and a cup of tea."
Andrew laughed properly this time, tension easing just a fraction.
The designer adjusted Andrew's shoulders. "Relax your arms," she said softly.
Andrew nodded and immediately overcorrected, arms going slack in a way that felt medically incorrect.
Willem chuckled. "Careful," he said. "You do not want to go fully noodle on your first day."
Andrew grinned, cheeks warm. "Noted."
As measurements continued, the designers spoke in quiet shorthand, calling out numbers and scribbling them down. Andrew listened, trying not to imagine what those numbers would eventually become. A suit that clung like a second skin. A mask that would erase his face. A silhouette that people already loved before it existed in this form.
Across the room, Alfred finished his measurements and stood, stretching his arms slightly. "So," he said conversationally, "have they told you how much time you will spend upside down?"
Andrew hesitated. "Not… specifically."
Alfred nodded. "They never do."
Willem stepped down from his platform, robe draped loosely over his shoulders now that the measurements were complete. He looked at Andrew with a thoughtful expression. "You seem like a good choice," he said simply.
Andrew froze. "I… thank you."
The designer stepped back at last. "All done."
"You know, you seem kinda familiar. Were you performing at the Kendricks Theater in LA last year?" Alfred asked, trying to remember. "What was that scene again? Ah! You played the role of Preston, the young assistant of the private investigator."
Andrew blinked, the question landing like a small, unexpected spotlight.
"Yes," he said, a little too quickly. "That was me. It was just a small part, really. Two scenes. Mostly standing near a desk and trying not to trip over my own lines."
Alfred's face brightened with recognition, his eyes narrowing slightly as memory clicked into place. "Yes. That is it. You were quiet, but very present," he said, tapping one finger lightly against his arm as if replaying it in his head. "You did not push the moment. You let it breathe. That is harder than it looks."
Andrew felt heat rush to his ears. "Thank you," he said, then immediately wondered if he should have said more, or less, or something smarter. "I mean, I was just doing what felt right for the scene."
"That is exactly what I mean," Alfred replied warmly. "Most young actors try to prove themselves. You listened instead. I remember thinking at the time that someone was paying attention to you."
Andrew swallowed. "You think so?"
Alfred smiled. "I am certain of it. Alex does not miss things like that. He watches quietly, and then one day he changes your life over an email."
Andrew laughed nervously, rubbing his palms against his jeans. "That does sound… accurate."
Willem observed the exchange with interest, arms loosely crossed. "From what I know, Alex has patience," he said. "When he chooses someone, it is rarely sudden. It only feels sudden to the rest of the world."
Andrew nodded, his chest tightening slightly at the thought. "I keep feeling like someone is going to tap me on the shoulder and tell me there has been a mistake," he admitted. "Like I wandered into the wrong room."
Alfred shook his head gently. "If there were a mistake, it would have been caught by now," he said. "There are too many eyes on this project. You are here because you earned it."
That should have settled him. Instead, it made his hands shake just a little more.
The designer returned with a small notebook, smiling politely. "We will call you back in a few days for the first fitting," she said to Andrew. "Once we have the initial suit assembled."
Andrew nodded again, careful this time. "Of course. Thank you."
As she stepped away, he exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. He looked between Willem and Alfred, suddenly aware of how absurdly young he felt standing there with them.
"I am really glad to be here," he said, voice earnest and unsteady. "And… I am trying very hard not to embarrass myself."
Willem smiled, sharp and kind all at once. "Oh, you will embarrass yourself," he said lightly. "We all do. The trick is surviving it with some dignity."
Andrew laughed, relief cutting through his nerves.
"By the way, where is Alex?" Alfred asked one of the designers who was arranging the tapes.
"He's in the audition room," The designer replied.
...
[Audition Room]
The audition room was smaller than the fitting floor, but it carried more tension.
Two cameras were set up facing a single mark on the floor. A folding table sat behind them, buried under stacks of paper, coffee cups, and handwritten notes that looked like they had survived several internal debates.
Alex sat behind the desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. Rachel sat beside him, tablet in hand, posture relaxed but alert. They had already been there for hours.
The audition was for J. Jonah Jameson. Alex could've simply gone for the OG. But if he keeps picking everyone without auditions, things won't look good. So, he had to go through the usual audition process.
"Next," Rachel called calmly.
The door opened and a man in his late forties stepped in, tall, broad-shouldered, hair slicked back with more confidence than necessity.
"Name?" Alex asked.
"Frank Delaney," the man said, planting his feet on the mark.
Alex leaned back slightly. "There is no script. You are live on television. You hate Spider-Man. You think he is a menace. Whenever you are ready."
Frank nodded, took a breath, and launched in.
"Spider-Man is a reckless vigilante who endangers honest citizens," he said loudly, pointing at an imaginary camera. "He causes more damage than he prevents, and the city should not tolerate masked criminals swinging around like they own the place."
Alex watched carefully.
Frank paced. He raised his voice. He gestured broadly.
It was fine.
Too fine.
"Cut," Alex said gently. "Thank you."
Frank blinked. "Was it the volume?"
"We can't reveal anything at the moment. If you are selected, you'll receive an official email," Rachel replied politely with a smile.
Frank nodded slowly, disappointed but polite. "Understood. Thank you for your time."
He left.
The next actor was younger, jittery, with sharp features and a restless energy.
"My name is Colin Reeves," he said quickly, already halfway into the performance. "Spider-Man is a freak. He is a menace. He is probably working with aliens or communists or both."
Alex raised an eyebrow.
Colin leaned closer to the camera, eyes wide. "I have sources. People tell me things. I am not afraid to say what everyone else is thinking."
Rachel watched him carefully.
Alex let him go on longer than the first. 'What the fuck are you... a paranoid Karen?'
"Thank you for your time," Alex said eventually. "We'll inform you if you are selected."
Colin nodded before leaving.
Rachel said. "Next one should be interesting."
The door opened again.
R. Lee Ermey walked in.
He did not ask where to stand. He found the mark instinctively. He did not wait for permission.
"You want me to talk about Spider-Man?" he asked, voice already sharp.
Alex smiled. "Yes."
Ermey leaned toward the camera, eyes hard, jaw set.
"Spider-Man is a disgrace," he barked. "A masked punk who thinks flipping around absolves him of accountability. I have seen cowards like him before. Hiding behind costumes because they cannot face the consequences of their actions."
It was commanding and brutal.
Rachel felt it immediately.
Alex did too.
But something was missing.
"Cut," Alex said after a moment.
Ermey straightened. "Too harsh?"
Alex kept a straight face. He said, "You know, even if I want to, I can't give you an evaluation at the moment. I can't break the rules I've set."
Ermey nodded. "I understand."
"Thank you for your time. We'll let you know the result soon," Alex said.
They shook hands. He left.
Christopher Lloyd came next.
He stepped into the room quietly, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes already alive with something unpredictable.
Alex simply told him the same thing he did to others. JJ badmouthing Spidey on live TV.
Lloyd stared into the camera, lips curling into a strange, disdainful smile.
"Spider-Man," he said softly. "Do you know what frightens me about him? It is not the webs. It is not the strength. It is that he makes people cheer for chaos."
His voice rose and fell, theatrical, unsettling.
"He swings in, breaks things, leaves, and people applaud. That is not a hero. That is a bad influence."
Rachel tilted her head.
Alex leaned forward slightly.
It was fascinating.
But it felt like a man who would poison a city slowly, not shout at it daily.
"Thank you," Alex said sincerely. "That was excellent."
Lloyd smiled faintly. "I thought it might be."
Hugh Laurie followed.
He entered with an easy confidence, hands in his pockets, already smirking at the camera.
"Oh, Spider-Man," he said dryly. "The city's favorite freelance disaster. Shows up uninvited, leaves broken windows, and somehow gets a parade."
He sighed dramatically.
"If I did my job like that, I would be fired. Yet here we are."
Rachel laughed despite herself.
Alex smiled.
"Very good," Alex said. "Not quite angry enough."
Laurie nodded. "I suspected as much."
"But, I got another proposal for you as a lead role in a TV series. And I want you in the lead role," Alex said as he took out his phone and texted Jane. The scripts on TV shows were rotting on the desk. So, Alex being Alex, decided to make the first TV show on the spot.
"What's the story?" Laurie asked.
"House. A medical drama. Please go to the 5th floor. My assistant is waiting there with the script. If you are interested, we can write the contract today," Alex said.
Laurie smiled as he extended his hand toward Alex.
"Thanks. I won't lie, I really needed a role or anything that pays. Like, I'm not doing that well, financially. So, thank you for this opportunity."
Alex stood up and shook his hand. "No, thank you. The way you did that act. I was like, that's him. He's perfect for the lead role and I won't have to waste my time and resources on another audition. So, in short, you saved me thousands of dollars."
"Haha," Laurie chuckled. "Okay, I'll check out the details. Thanks once again."
With that, he left.
The door opened again.
The man who stepped in looked ordinary at first glance. Medium height, solid build and hair neatly kept. He wore a simple jacket, no theatrical flair.
It was J.K. Simmons.
'Phew! Finally, the real deal is here,' Alex thought as he explained the same thing to him. He's gotta act without a script.
Simmons stepped onto the mark.
He did not shout immediately.
He leaned toward the camera, hands braced on an invisible desk, eyes narrowed with righteous irritation.
"Spider-Man is a menace," he said, voice sharp and fast, words tumbling over each other like they could not wait their turn. "He damages property, interferes with law enforcement, and somehow convinces this city that he deserves praise for it."
He straightened, then leaned in again, faster now.
"He wears a mask because he knows if people saw his face, they would see what he really is. A coward who wants applause without accountability."
His jaw tightened. A vein stood out slightly at his temple.
"And I will not stop saying it. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
The room went very still.
Rachel slowly set her tablet down.
Alex did not say cut immediately.
He let the silence breathe.
Then he smiled. "That was... wow. Okay." He searched the paper piles and took out a script for him to read. "Let's do it with a script this time. The scene is where Peter asks JJ for a job. And JJ is a loud, aggressive and shrewd businessman."
Simmons walked to the desk, picked up the script, read it a few times, and memorized it. He walked back and forth for a moment, playing the character in his head and then he took the mark again. He was finally ready.
Simmons did not rush.
He adjusted his stance first, shoulders squaring as if settling behind an invisible desk that had been there his entire life. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly, irritation tightening into something sharper and more practiced. By the time he looked up, J. Jonah Jameson was already fully awake.
He glanced down at the script once more, nodded to himself, then looked straight ahead.
"No jobs. Freelance," Simmons snapped, the words spilling out fast and confident, like they had been waiting years to escape his mouth. "Best thing in the world for a kid your age. You bring me some more pictures of that newspaper-selling clown, maybe I will take them off your hands."
He flipped an imaginary page with dismissive precision.
"But I never said you have a job."
He leaned back slightly, lips curling with false generosity.
"Meat."
Rachel blinked.
Simmons leaned forward again, pointing toward an unseen Peter Parker with the enthusiasm of a man delivering charity he did not believe in.
"I will send you a nice box of Christmas meat. It is the best I can do. Now get out of here."
Silence followed.
Then Alex exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself.
Rachel stared for half a second longer before looking at Alex. "Well," she said calmly, "that was unnecessary in the best possible way."
Alex stood up.
J.K. Simmons looked at him, neutral again, professional, already prepared for either outcome.
Alex walked around the desk and stopped a few feet in front of him.
"Congratulations," Alex said. "You are J. Jonah Jameson."
--
---[Note: I've decided to go with Castle. Don't ask when I'll release it. I've just started with the draft.]---
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[5 advance chs] [All chs available for all tiers] [No double billing.]
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