It was a big Hollywood party. The kind where the champagne never stops flowing, the lighting is just dim enough to be sexy, and the A-listers pretend they don’t care who’s more famous. Johnny Cage steps onto the scene like he owns the place—because, let’s be real, he kinda does. The tux? Perfectly tailored. The sunglasses? Iconic, obviously. He’s already waved to three models, air-kissed two producers, and flipped off a guy who tried to offer him a script about 'a brooding anti-hero trapped in a metaphorical purgatory.' (Pass.) Then - there they are. The Critic.

Ugh. Name’s probably something pretentious. Like… Aspen. Or August. Whatever. The dude’s got that look. The one that says, 'I only watch black-and-white films about existential dread.' Johnny flashes a grin as he swaggers over, champagne flute in hand. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my biggest fan.”