Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

California, Los Angeles.

In a sprawling studio, Martin was directing The Avengers.

"Robert, your expression's too serious. Loosen up—channel that old playboy vibe," Martin coached Robert Downey Jr.

"Fuck, I haven't been a playboy in ages," Downey quipped.

This scene, a clash between Iron Man and Captain America, tested Downey's acting chops. Chris Evans, playing Captain America, had it easier—just keep a straight face. In superhero films, Captain America was arguably the least demanding lead role, requiring little more than earnestness. (P.S.: Having watched all the Captain America films, Chris Evans just needs to look serious—sad serious, happy serious, or just plain serious.)

"Ready? Let's go again."

"Action!"

…

Libya.

The Aziziya Barracks, located west of Tripoli's Abu Harida Street, spanned roughly four hectares. Encircled by four-meter-high, half-meter-thick reinforced concrete walls, it served as Muammar Gaddafi's command headquarters and one of his main residences in Tripoli.

Why a military base? Safety, obviously.

Satan and his team arrived at the entrance in three armored personnel carriers. Security was tight. Despite Mutassim's signed orders, they still underwent rigorous checks.

Satan's crew didn't mind. As seasoned fighters, they had no room for petty pride.

After dismounting, Satan professionally scanned the defenses—barbed wire and sandbags formed a perimeter with shadowy figures moving behind. Machine gun nests on both sides eyed them warily, and snipers likely perched in distant towers. He even spotted armored vehicles parked in an open warehouse.

His gaze stretched further, noting probable camouflaged anti-aircraft emplacements—the real priority.

Under the watchful aim of machine guns, Satan's team was checked against a roster, one by one, for bugs or jamming devices. It took an hour and a half before they were cleared to enter.

…

Los Angeles.

"Scarlett, I need your steps lighter. Think cat-like—heels barely touching the ground," Martin directed.

"Isn't a cat's walk more like a swagger?" Robert Downey Jr. teased.

Martin smirked. "Why don't you show us?"

"Challenge accepted."

Downey strutted a mock catwalk, hips swaying, arms flailing dramatically, drawing roars of laughter from the crew.

Martin joined in, recognizing Downey's attempt to ease the tension. The outside world was buzzing with skepticism about The Avengers. Many doubted it could succeed, even with Martin at the helm. Crafting a massive cinematic universe, weaving together Marvel's sprawling cast of characters, was deemed too ambitious.

The doubts weighed on the set, creating a palpable sense of pressure. Fortunately, Martin and Downey, both veterans of high-stakes projects, knew how to lighten the mood. Their banter and pranks kept spirits up.

The effect was decent.

Martin and Downey even cooked up a game: hiding snacks around the studio for the cast to find. During filming, Downey would sometimes whip out a bag of chips, casually munching while delivering lines, leaving his scene partners dumbfounded. Martin captured it all, some for the film, some for bloopers.

…

Libya, Aziziya Barracks.

A nondescript officer approached, clutching a stack of papers. "You're the fifty-man team? You don't look like much," he sneered, not bothering to hide his disdain.

Ram, hot-tempered, bristled, ready to throw a punch, but Satan held him back.

"We're the fifty," Satan confirmed coolly.

The name was a spur-of-the-moment choice. In this war, they weren't flying the "Hellfire Security" banner.

The officer, surprisingly, didn't push further. Glancing at his papers, he said, "You're assigned a defensive position. It requires elite fighters. Since Mr. Mutassim says you're elite, you're in. But one rule: you answer to a specific commander. You don't withdraw until he orders it."

Satan frowned. "Commander? Who? What's his role?"

He didn't like entrusting his fate to an unknown.

The officer shot him a haughty look. "You don't need to know."

Satan stared him down, eyes sharp. The officer tried to hold his gaze but quickly faltered.

Satan smirked. "I have a right to know my mission and who's in charge. If you won't tell me, maybe I'll call Mr. Mutassim."

The officer's head snapped up, then dropped. "The commander's a high-ranking figure. He won't interfere with your tactics—just oversees holding the position and orders a retreat if needed. That's all."

His arrogance was gone.

Satan nodded. "Take us to the position."

The officer complied. "Follow me."

"Bully the weak, fear the strong," Ram muttered behind Satan.

The group followed through the barracks, a maze of reinforced concrete walls topped with cameras and sensors. Satan memorized the layout as they moved, as did Ram and the others—a professional habit.