Method Madness

Inside the theater, the real show began before the first frame. A pen of journalists and "influencer press" corralled near the foot of the stage, velvet ropes stanchioned to keep the frenzy from spilling over, though the crowd needed little encouragement to jostle and surge.

The red carpet snaked through the lobby, past the sponsors' banners and the signature wall already inscribed with sharpie scrawls: "Why so serious?" and "Marcus 4 Ever" and "#DestroyMe."

Anne and Marcus entered together, but the focus tilted instantly to her. She was, after all, the known quantity. The former ingenue, the Oscar winner, the human face audiences trusted to carry them through whatever fresh hell the marketing machine had cooked up. The industry press orbited her like moths, each waiting for the perfect, vulnerable moment to crash land.

It didn't take long.

The first wave of questions was standard: How did it feel to play opposite the new Joker? Was this a career-defining moment? Could she describe Vale's "process" on set, his rumored intensity, the way he made even the extras cry?

Anne deflected each with the ease of long practice, folding her hands at her waist, turning three-quarters for every new lens, answering with the voice she used for late night hosts and UNICEF galas:

"He's an extraordinary talent, and I think everyone's going to be genuinely surprised by what he brings to this role."

"We were all changed by the experience. I hope audiences feel that, too."

She delivered every line with a smile, but the corners of her mouth tightened more with each volley, the curve of her jaw growing sharper, the eyes flicking to Vale every few seconds like a swimmer searching for the shore.

The reporter from Screentide—one of the streaming industry's new breed, all teeth and hungry ambition—shoved his way to the front. He wore a white suit and a badge that glittered under the spotlights, and when he spoke, it was with the casual cruelty of a man who'd never been told no.

"Anne, can you tell us how you stayed so thin for this shoot? Was there a special diet? Or did Marcus's stare just make you lose your appetite?"

The crowd tittered. Anne's hand, perfectly manicured, tightened on her clutch. She gave a laugh, soft and perfunctory.

"I think it's all the running from Batman," she said, voice feathered with ice.

The reporter pressed, undeterred.

"Did you two have chemistry off set, too? Or was it just for the cameras?"

Anne's other hand drifted to her neck, brushing the chain of her necklace. Her posture straightened, every muscle going rigid, the bones of her wrist sharp as a blade.

She answered, calm.

"Marcus is deeply professional. We're both committed to the work."

He nodded, but his eyes gleamed.

"There are rumors—unconfirmed, but wild stuff—that you had to film some scenes separately because of, let's call it, 'creative friction.' Care to comment?"

Anne smiled, but this time it was a grimace.

"Rumors are fun, aren't they?"

The reporter, sensing blood, went in for the kill.

"It's just that you're known for, let's say, emotional depth. And this role is…well, it's a bit outside your usual wheelhouse. Was there ever a moment when you felt outmatched?"

Her jaw clenched, breath stalling for a beat before she reset.

"I think the challenge is what made it so rewarding."

He smirked, leaning into the mic.

"And would you say—this is just for the record—did you get the part on talent alone? Or did it help that you and the director have a—what's the word—rapport?"

The air in the room shifted. Even the influencer girls with their phone rigs fell silent, their ring lights strobing Anne's cheekbones into something cold and lunar.

Anne's answer came slow, measured, as if she were navigating a minefield she knew intimately.

"I'd hope I've earned every role I've been given. But you know how this industry is. Perception is everything."

The reporter didn't blink.

"So, is that a yes?"

And that was the moment Vale moved.

He had been silent at Anne's shoulder, hands folded in front of him, the very picture of obedient star power. But when the question hung in the air, he tilted his head—not much, just a few degrees—but the shift was enough to realign every line of his body.

He slouched forward, just a fraction, and in that moment he looked less like a leading man and more like a threat designed to wear human skin.

He let the silence hold, then spoke.

His voice was low, thick as smoke, so deep that it seemed to vibrate in the chest rather than the ear.

"You know what I think is funny?" he said, directing the question not to the room but to the reporter alone.

"How quickly a man like you can go from feeling powerful to feeling… nothing at all."

The reporter's grin faltered, but he kept the mic steady.

"It's just a question, Marcus."

Vale grinned, wide and full, teeth white and perfect, but there was no mirth in it.

"It always is," he replied.

"Until it isn't."

He leaned in, close enough that the tips of their noses might have touched if the reporter hadn't jerked his head back.

"Let's try a game," Vale said, voice soft but cutting.

"Let's pretend you're not a man with a microphone, but a man with a secret. Something small. Ugly. You try to hide it, but everyone always finds out. One day, someone like me shows up, and tells the world. Now you're not the interviewer. You're the punchline."

The crowd was silent now, every phone trained on the tableau.

Vale straightened, then dropped his voice even lower, almost a purr.

"I could end your career before the credits roll. Do you believe me?"

The reporter said nothing. His face was two shades paler than a minute ago.

Anne exhaled, a slow hiss of relief and shock.

Vale held the moment, then broke the tension with a laugh—not the Joker's cackle from the trailers, but something softer, more chilling for its intimacy.

The reporter blinked, and in the blink his hand jerked, knocking the mic off its stem. The plastic cylinder bounced, squat and heavy, onto the toes of his expensive shoes.

The crowd sucked in a collective gasp. He tried to laugh, a choked sound that landed flat, then stooped to grab the mic, nearly headbutting an influencer who had drifted dangerously close, phone already rolling.

"Sorry—ha!—but let's, uh, turn it back on you, Marcus," he stammered, the white suit now stained at the cuff with a spray of someone's drink.

"You seem to know a lot about secrets. Is it true that you, uh, spent some time in an institution before you were cast?"

A scattershot volley of camera shutters cracked the silence. The crowd tensed, leaning in, scenting blood. Marco caught Anne's face in the seconds that followed—her eyes narrowed, breaths coming fine and high, the jaw set sharper than any of the knives in her filmography.

Vale smiled, small and controlled, as if the muscles had been dialed down on a rheostat.

"I wouldn't want to disappoint," he said.

"But I think you've got me confused with someone else."

The reporter's hand trembled so hard the mic nearly clipped his teeth.

"Uh, so, just to be clear—no criminal history, no, um—" he looked down at the wrinkled cue card, and for a split second the actual question, the one he'd been saving for the end, shone through: "—you never hurt anyone on set?"

Vale's mouth parted, a single click as his tongue pressed to the roof before he replied.

He didn't look at the reporter now, but directly into the fat black shutter of Marco's camera.

"I did hurt someone once," he said. The words were measured, not a drop of drama. The crowd leaned toward him as if on a string.

"A lot of people, actually. That's what happens when you live in a locked ward for half your adolescence. Sometimes you become the villain of someone else's story."

He left a space after that, a negative so sharp it scythed through every resumé and Instagram handle in the room.

Anne's inhale caught hot in her throat.

Vale continued:

"I was seventeen. Involuntary. Not for violence, but for a disorder. I believed the world was fiction and I was the only—" He seemed to search for a word.

"Player, I guess. The rest of you were just the dream. It's called 'solipsistic psychosis.' You can Google it."

A sound, not quite a laugh, rippled from the press pen. The influencer girls shrank back; the veterans made small scribbles.

"The funny thing is, the drugs do help," Vale said.

"The acting helps more."

His smile twisted, not quite mirthful, but close enough to pass for one. He looked back at the reporter, who'd gone static as a crash test dummy.

"You know how they say every hero's origin story is just trauma plus time?"

A micro-expression on Anne's lips, gone before it found a shape.

Vale tilted his head

He stepped back, and the crowd let out a collective breath. The reporter tried to regroup, but the damage was done; he faded to the edge of the scrum, phone lowered, eyes glued to the floor.

The influencers were already whispering, trading the line back and forth.

"He just Jokered that guy."

"No, he fucking destroyed him. Did you see—"

"Was it real or was it a bit?"

Anne composed herself, eyes blinking quick, then turned to Marcus. For the first time since the night began, she smiled for real.

"Thank you," she said, almost under her breath.

He didn't reply. He just tipped his head, the gesture both respectful and completely unreadable.

The rest of the press conference was a blur of hands and questions, but the energy never recovered. Vale answered only twice, both times with short, cryptic phrases that left the reporters unsatisfied.

Anne fielded the rest, and if her answers were shorter than before, no one noticed. All they remembered was the moment when the balance of power shifted, and the predator stopped pretending to be tame.

Outside the theater, the crowd had caught wind of the exchange. By the time Anne and Marcus reached the after-party, the clip had gone viral. The hashtags trended in twelve countries: #JokerThreat, #ValeEffect, #VelvetGuillotine.

Inside the party, Anne stood alone by the bar, hands still trembling, a cold glass of champagne sweating onto her palm. Vale appeared beside her, silent, his own glass untouched.

They stood for a long moment, neither speaking, letting the sound of the room wash over them.

Finally, Anne said, "You didn't have to do that."

He shrugged, slow and elegant.

"I wanted to."

She looked at him then, really looked, and something in her face softened.

"Do you ever stop performing?"

He smiled, just a touch.

"Does anyone?"

She laughed, this time without any tension, and together they watched the party unfold, the memory of the moment replaying behind every pair of eyes.

Vale didn't say another word for the rest of the night.

But every time Anne glanced his way, she found him already watching, the hint of a smile ready for her and her alone.

And for the first time, she didn't mind at all.