Illusiveone
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196: Redoing my Life, Easy Solutions
🕑 Added 2025-04-26 09:51:13 +0000 UTC“Wow, you’re an asshole,” I heard John say.
“What the fuck, man?” Matt added, shaking his head.
I sat on the edge of the couch in Matt’s apartment, head down, hands clasped.
“Yes, yes, I know—I know,” I muttered. “I don’t even know why I said that.”
I had come here straight after the fight with Margot, maybe just to get away—maybe because some part of me wanted to be told off, wanted someone to spell out how badly I’d messed up.
“Why are you acting like an idiot?” John asked.
Matt nodded agreeing with John.
I didn't speak for while.
“I don’t know,” I finally said. “It’s just… my head’s all messed up lately.”
John dropped into the armchair across from me, nodding. “Yeah. I get that, too.”
“No,” I said, voice low. “I don’t think you understand.”
“I think I do—I run a game company, remember, the one you own?” John replied, his tone sharper than before.
We went back and forth like that—me talking in circles, him calling me out—but neither of us noticed Matt disappear into the other room. A few moments later, he came back holding a small metal tray and a couple of expertly rolled blunts.
“Alright,” Matt said, grinning. “You two, stop.” Then he turned to me. “You’re spiraling.”
I blinked. “You know I don’t smoke.”
John, without hesitation, grabbed one and sniffed it like a sommelier. “What strain is this?”
Matt held up the pack like it was a trophy. “They’re calling it The Godfather. Supposed to be stronger than Gorilla Glue and even Pineapple Express.”
He looked over at me. “And please, don’t give me that fake straight-edge bullshit of yours.”
I frowned. “What?”
John laughed. “Yeah, you were like the golden child, man, because you were so anti-alcohol and stuff. Our moms were like, ‘Why can’t you be like Daniel? He doesn’t drink. He’s a good boy….’”
“Oh,” I said, genuinely caught off guard.
Matt lit his joint and passed the second to John, then looked back at me. “Just try it. One hit. It might help. You’ve clearly been carrying some kind of existential demon on your back lately.”
I stared at the blunt, then back at Matt.
“Yeah, why not,” I said, surprising even myself.
Matt grinned triumphantly and handed it over. I took a long puff—coughed a little—then another, and another.
The smoke filled my lungs, heavy and sweet, tasting almost floral.
John leaned back on the couch, a blunt in his hand, exhaling slow, perfect rings of smoke. Matt, cross-legged on the carpet, was already halfway through his own, looking blissfully content.
I had never really smoked in my previous life; alcohol abuse, yes, but not this. I’d tried weed once or twice but was never a regular user. I didn’t know if the regular stuff was like this, or if it was the so-called Godfather Matt mentioned.
Whatever it was, I felt good. Really, really good.
====
One hour later
Matt sat on the floor, staring off into space like a man deep in conversation with the universe—completely silent, a content, stupid grin plastered on his face.
John sprawled across the couch, eyes half-lidded, lazily turning his head to look at me every now and then.
And me?
I was standing perfectly still, locked in place, staring at the wall like it held the secrets of existence itself.
In my head, the music from 2001: A Space Odyssey was blaring at full volume.
That booming, dramatic chorus.
The DAAAAAAAAAA DAAAAA DAAAAAA DAAAA vibrating through every fiber of my being.
I had no idea how long I stood there. It could have been five minutes or five hours. Time had stopped meaning anything.
I blinked once, very slowly.
Then — like something had snapped — I started pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
“I have too much to do!” I shouted, waving my arms.
“That’s it—that’s the problem. I have too much to fucking do!”
John made a non-committal grunt of agreement.
“I’m writing, like, three different book series at once. Three!”
“I’m micromanaging movies from two whole studios. I’m the firewall keeping every dumbass idea from ruining everything in DC—like, no, Tom, the executive who barely knows anything about comics, I can’t cast your talentless son as Robin. Or some other idiot who wants to shoehorn a no-talent family member into a film,” I ranted.
“Or or they want to make changes in the script because they think they are genius writers or something”
I looked at John, who was nodding along.
“Oh and the fucking politics at Netflix Jesus. I think they’re going to have me killed or something. So what if I own four percent? Your mega investment compnay owns less than I do and it wrecks their fragile egos—well, fuck them!”
I was practically yelling now. John just kept watching me with slow-blinking amusement.
“That’s so cool, man,” John chuckled.
“But seriously…” My voice dropped. “I could handle it. I was juggling everything—until everything started happening at once.
“And suddenly it was like—fires everywhere. Problems everywhere. Everything kept getting more complicated.”
“I haven’t made time for my mom or Alice for months.”
“And Margot—she supports me even though we’ve barely seen each other all year. She’s busy, I’ve been even busier.”
I exhaled, shaky. “I feel like I’m going to slip up somehow and—bam—done, over, like none of this ever existed and I’m right back where I started.” I stopped, refusing to follow that thought any farther.
I looked over at John. “I guess what I’m saying is, I had some kind of mental breakdown or something.”
John stared, bleary-eyed but surprisingly focused. Then he nodded—slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, you should, like, take it easy, man.”
I blinked. “That’s it? That’s your advice?”
John shrugged. “It’s very simple, Danny. You’re just overthinking. Totally solvable, you idiot.”
I squinted. “Wow. Thanks, Dr. Freud.”
But John leaned in, eyes suddenly clearer. “No, really. Sometimes you just like to be an asshole.”
“Excuse me?” I sat up straighter. “Fuck off. No, I don’t.”
He pointed at me. “You do. You get on this ego high, dig your heels in, and become stubborn. I Mean you are already a stubborn guy.”
“Then you turn all… chaotic—like some stupid version of you. Not usual the cool, calm, ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ Adler we’re used to.” He paused, confused. “Wait, what the hell am I saying?”
He’s not wrong, I admitted to myself.
John frowned. “Hey… where’s Matt?”
“Huh?” I looked up. “What do you mean, where’s Matt?”
We scanned the room and found him—standing by the wall, arms wrapped tightly around the wall, literally hugging it.
“I’m having a real hard time here, guys,” Matt said, voice shaking.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered.
Matt’s body trembled. “I want to go home. I’m scared.”
John laughed. “You are home, you idiot.”
Matt stared back, eyes huge. “No, I’m not. Help—I just want to go home.” He clutched the wall even tighter.
“What the hell is in this stuff?” I muttered, just as the room began to spin.
Matt started crying—really crying—mumbling about the floor trying to eat him.
John kept laughing.
And me? I passed out. Face-first, right into the rug.
========
The next day I woke up groggy and disoriented, sprawled out on Matt’s living-room floor.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my face, and spotted John on the couch, lazily flipping through TV channels.
John glanced over, unimpressed. “You asshole,” he said casually. “You left me to deal with Matt.”
“I passed out,” I protested weakly as I stretched, every joint cracking.
“Well, you should’ve tried harder not to,” he muttered.
I staggered to my feet. “So—did Matt go ‘home’?” I smirked, remembering his freak-out.
“Oh, he went home all right,” John snorted. “After you blacked out, I dragged his ass into his room, told him he was home, and he spent an hour drawing weird shit on the walls before finally passing out around midnight.”
I laughed under my breath, then turned to the TV when something caught my ear.
John noticed. “Oh, they’re talking about you.”
On-screen, a TMZ host was practically bouncing out of their chair.
“…so Amber says Daniel planted stories about her,” the host gushed, waving his hands like a malfunctioning robot. “Tried to blacklist her. I mean—what is going on?”
They cut to another host, somehow even more caffeinated.
“There’s a lot of talk Amber was supposed to get the part in Bonnie and Clyde, right? Then—boom—Adler swoops in, his girlfriend gets the role, and suddenly there’s all this ‘unflattering press’? Coincidence? I think not!”
John whistled. “Damn, Danny. I didn’t know you were such an evil mastermind.”
I rolled my eyes.
The hosts shifted to a live clip.
“And earlier this morning, Adler’s lawyer made a statement—”
Cut to Harvey Specter himself, flanked by flashing cameras, dressed in a dark tailored suit.
“Mr. Adler is not only innocent of these baseless accusations,” Harvey said, voice slicing through the noise, “he has zero need to engage in petty, manufactured drama. I’ve seen bad lawsuits. I’ve seen pointless lawsuits. This… this is performance art.”
I couldn’t help smiling. That’s why I’d hired him.
“Well, I’m off,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “Need to end this thing on my terms.”
John raised an eyebrow. “And what about Margot, you coward? Go apologize.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, raking a hand through my hair. “I’m gonna do that too.”
Halfway to the door, I paused. “Hey—did you record our dear friend upstairs?”
John smirked. “Oh, yeah. It’s gold.”
I laughed. “That poor bastard,” I said, shaking my head as I left the apartment.
I had a lot to do.
.
.
.
I arrived at Midas HQ and went straight to the conference room after my PA, Julie, told me everyone I needed was already there.
Lucy sat near the head of the long table—sharp and composed, dressed head-to-toe in sleek black—her pen tapping a steady rhythm on her notepad. Adrian stood nearby, talking with a legal aide while his tablet flashed nonstop notifications. Mitchell lounged in his chair, tablet balanced on one knee, reading intently. At the far end, Raj was speaking in low, rapid tones with two members of his team.
The moment I stepped inside, all heads turned.
Adrian reached over and tapped the speakerphone. “Daniel’s here.”
Harvey’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Daniel, nice of you to make an appearance.”
“Hey,” I said, sliding into a seat.
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?”
“I’m trying a new thing,” I shrugged.
Adrian cleared his throat. “You told us not to bother you with this—”
I raised a hand. “No, Adrian. Bother me.”
A quiet murmur rippled around the table.
Harvey spoke again. “I’m filing a motion tomorrow—lack of evidence, abuse of legal process, the whole thing is a thinly veiled PR stunt. No court will entertain it.”
“I know,” I said, “but I don’t want you to.”
Confusion flickered across every face.
“Why?” Adrian asked.
I leaned forward, elbows on the polished wood. “Because someone’s backing Amber. I don’t just want to shut the lawsuit down—I want her, and Depp, to tell us who’s behind it.”
Silence fell. Even Lucy blinked.
Only Harvey sounded intrigued. “What do you have in mind?”
I turned to Raj. “You’ve been pushing the theory online that Amber targeted Margot first and I simply retaliated, right?”
Raj smiled, modest but proud. “Yeah. Timing plus a little nudging, and people are connecting the dots.”
“Good,” I said. “That means they’re cornered. Now we offer them an out—one that works for all of us.”
“Before anyone asks why,” I added, “it’s pragmatic. We don’t want endless headlines or collateral damage. We want the truth, and they get to save face.”
Harvey chuckled. “Now that I like. For a moment I thought you’d lost your edge.”
I gave a thin smile. “Not yet.”
He cleared his throat, businesslike again. “So? The plan?”
“Simple. Offer them an off-ramp: a joint statement that we were all misled by anonymous trolls or paparazzi narratives. They give us the real mastermind, and everyone walks away clean—no reputations ruined, no careers torched.”
Harvey laughed. “You’ve made this interesting.”
“How fast can you get it to them?” I asked.
“Give me two days,” he said.
“Good.” The call ended, and I looked around the room, ready for the next move.
“Sorry about the abrupt takeover,” I said, slipping my hands into my pockets. “I know I told you not to bother me with stuff like this.”
I turned to Lucy. “Luce, heads-up—I’m going to delay some of the books. The Elden Ring series and the Percy Jackson sequels will have to wait.”
Lucy arched an eyebrow. “What brought this on?”
I shrugged. “I’ve got too much on my plate. I can’t do everything at once without burning out—or screwing something up.”
She drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “You’ll still publish at least one soon, right?”
“Well, George R. R. Martin will be. Daniel Adler won’t be releasing anything for a while.”
Lucy let out a small sigh. “Well at least you will do ice and fire that's enough for me.”
We spent a few more minutes hashing out the new plan—more delegation, clearer lanes of responsibility. It felt good. Liberating, even. Maybe Margot had been right all along.
As the meeting wound down and people packed up, I paused at the door. I still had to apologize to Margot.
“Hey, Adrian,” I called to my chief of staff. “Can I rent out an entire escape room for a day?”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I can make that happen.”
“Great,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I’ll text you the place—have it booked by this afternoon, okay?”
Adrian nodded, already tapping on his tablet. “You got it, boss.”
I smiled, adjusted my sunglasses, and headed out.
Comments
omzy8484
yeah boi. tackle that shît head on like bosss
CkLance
Ok, it's getting addressed sooner than I thought. 👍
