July 7, 2006.
After three years, the giant skull flag once again enveloped cinemas worldwide.
"pirates of the caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest" premiered globally on the same day.
Its opening weekend saw a North American box office of $135 million.
This figure, like a thunderbolt, split the sky of Hollywood's film history, tearing to shreds the previous opening record of $114 million held by "Spider-Man."
Subsequently, the global box office market became an unstoppable flood, like a breached dam.
Davy Jones' terrifying deep sea, the Kraken's monstrous waves, and Jack Sparrow's even more flamboyant orchid-like gestures collectively formed an audio-visual feast that swept across the globe.
Allen Lawrence, now a sixteen-year-old, was once again tightly bound to the words "miracle" and "myth."
In the column office of The Wall Street Journal, senior analyst Robert Henderson, cigar in mouth, personally typed out the title of the new article.
"I Owe That Boy an Apology, But I'm Still Not Bullish on Marvel."
In the article, he used exceptionally flowery language to praise the "pirates of the caribbean" series for reshaping Disney's commercial landscape, admitting that his judgment three years prior was "the most foolish mistake in twenty years of my career."
He called Allen Lawrence "a screenwriter with God's perspective."
However, with a change of tone, he returned to the same old topic.
"...Admitting a person's screenwriting talent is one thing, but agreeing with his business decisions is another. Disney and the Lawrence family's $2 billion acquisition of Marvel is still a bad move in my eyes. A bunch of second-rate comic characters, a fragmented copyright universe—this deal, from its inception, is destined to become the most glaring scar on Disney's financial report."
Beverly Hills, the Lawrence family's dining room.
John Lawrence tossed the newspaper onto the dining table with a pleasant chuckle.
He picked up his coffee and called towards the study: "Allen! Come quickly! Our old friend Mr. Henderson has finally bowed his noble head."
Allen walked out of the study, wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly damp. The sixteen-year-old's figure was tall and straight, and the handsomeness in his eyes became even more striking.
John shook the newspaper in his hand and chuckled, "Son, you've already silenced half of Wall Street. But the other half is still waiting to see Marvel fail."
"Fail?"
Allen walked to the dining table, poured himself a glass of water, and his gaze swept over the newspaper's headline without any emotional fluctuation.
"Don't worry, Dad." He took a sip of water, his voice calm, "Soon, they'll be crying and begging, wishing they could have been part of this failure from the beginning."
John burst out laughing; he liked his son's quiet confidence.
He curiously leaned forward to look at the brightly lit computer screen in the study.
On the screen was a detailed list of actor candidates. The photo of the man at the very top had an unruly gaze, carrying a hint of cynical decadence.
Robert Downey Jr.
"Oh, right." John seemed to remember something, picked up a beautifully crafted letter from nearby, and handed it to his wife, "Suzy, this arrived this morning, from Seoul."
Lee Soo-ji wiped her hands and took the letter with a puzzled expression.
The envelope was embossed with the Peninsula National Museum of Art's gilded logo.
She carefully opened it and pulled out the letter inside.
As her eyes moved, her breathing gradually became a little hurried, and the knuckles of her fingers holding the letter turned slightly white from the force.
"What's wrong, dear?" John asked with concern.
Lee Soo-ji looked up, her eyes filled with complex emotions: surprise, nostalgia, and a hint of almost imperceptible timidity.
"The National Museum of Art... they want to invite me back to Seoul to hold a solo art exhibition."
Her voice carried a slight tremor.
Since leaving her homeland many years ago to come to this foreign country, she had never returned.
There were her childhood, her youth, and... those memories she preferred not to face again.
John held his wife's hand: "This is great news! Your work should have been seen by your hometown people long ago."
Lee Soo-ji, however, looked hesitant. She subconsciously glanced at Allen.
Three years ago, the almost frenzied "god-making" movement by the Korean media had left her with lingering fears.
She was afraid to go back, afraid that the people in that land would once again treat her son with that all-consuming fervor.
Allen put down his water glass.
He walked to his mother's side, gently put his arm around her shoulders from behind, and then held her cold hand.
"Mom, I'll go back with you."
His voice was very soft, yet it carried a reassuring strength.
"It's perfect; I also want to see where you grew up and walk the paths you walked as a child."
Lee Soo-ji's eyes instantly reddened, and tears of emotion shimmered in her eyes.
"But... Allen, those media..."
"Don't worry, Mom." Allen gently rested his chin on his mother's shoulder, turned his face, and playfully winked, "At Ms. Lee Soo-ji's solo art exhibition, you are the only star."
"As for me, at most, I'm just a handsomer son who carries your easel."
This single sentence made Lee Soo-ji laugh through her tears.
John also smiled and shook his head, and the atmosphere in the home became warm again.
Meanwhile, in the top-floor office of Warner Bros. headquarters, the atmosphere was like an ice cellar.
A report printed with the terrifying box office data of "pirates of the caribbean 2" was slammed onto the table.
Papers scattered across the floor.
"One series, two movies, brought Disney over two billion dollars in global box office, plus countless merchandise and park revenues!"
His voice was distorted with anger, "And us? Our "Coming Home" cost us two hundred seventy million! But the box office isn't even four hundred million! We're still losing money!"
The assistant in the office trembled, not daring to breathe.
He paced back and forth in the office.
In his mind, he saw only the face of that young man named Allen Lawrence.
That calm gaze, as if he could see through everything.
"What's that kid been up to lately?" he asked coldly.
The assistant quickly opened his notebook and carefully replied: "Report, sir, according to the information we've received, the Lawrence family will fly to Seoul next week."
"Peninsula?" He stopped, a hint of suspicion flashing in his eyes, "What for?"
"It's said that his mother, artist Ms. Lee Soo-ji, has been invited to hold a solo art exhibition."
"Art exhibition?" He sneered, "I don't believe it's that simple."
He walked to the large floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the bustling scene of Los Angeles, his gaze terribly grim.
"Keep a close watch on him."
He gave the order to his reflection in the glass.
"Send people to Seoul, and keep a close eye on every move of the Lawrence family. Especially that kid; I want to know who he meets, where he goes, and what he says."
"He's definitely not just going for a damn art exhibition!"
A week later.
Peninsula, Incheon International Airport.
A Boeing 747 from Los Angeles landed smoothly.
The exit of the VIP channel was already packed with a dense crowd, making it impassable.
Hundreds of reporters, armed with long lenses and cameras, stood ready, the capacitors of their flashlights hissing as they charged, like a pack of sharks smelling blood.
At the very front of the crowd, a huge red banner was pulled taut by several young people, with a striking line of large characters written in both Korean and English.
"Warmest welcome to the pride of the Peninsula nation, genius screenwriter Allen Lawrence, on his glorious return home!"
In the crowd, a man wearing a baseball cap quietly pressed the send button on his phone; a message silently traveled across the ocean.
"Target has appeared; the scene... is out of control."
Allen pushed the luggage cart and walked out with his mother.
The moment he saw that banner, the moment he was engulfed by that instant silver sea of light, bright enough to scorch retinas.
