DOS Ch-213 & 214

Stephen Daldry looked around the set, and sure enough, the atmosphere was quite cheery. It usually was on the last day of filming.
All scenes involving other actors had already been shot, with the sole exception of this one, featuring Troy, who had only just returned from promoting his new movie and album.

“So this is it, huh?” Connell, the first AD, remarked idly as they all waited for Troy Armitage.

“It is,” Daldry agreed. “I have to say, it’s been a unique experience shooting this show. And honestly? This might be my best work yet.”

Connell nodded. “I’ve seen the dailies—I know exactly what you mean.” He glanced around the set, where everyone was ready to shoot except for the lead actor. “He’s taking his time today.”

Daldry shrugged. “You know how it is with actors. But I don’t mind this time. He’s worked hard on his physique, all while shooting this show and promoting other projects. For that alone, Troy has earned my utmost respect. Let him finish those last-minute pushups and crunches before the scene.”

Just then, the man in question walked onto the set, and the moment he did, everyone stopped what they were doing to focus solely on him.

He wore sweatpants and trainers. And that was it.

He had chosen to forgo a shirt, as required for the scene. Usually, actors wore robes between takes, but the temporary tattoos printed on his upper body looked freshly applied, and a robe might’ve rubbed them off. Two prominent designs stood out: a crown on his neck, right above the clavicle, and a fiery motif across his pecs.

His biceps and shoulders weren’t just defined—they were big. His hair had grown a lot, which he had tied up in a tight bun. And the most striking part was his abdomen. The six-pack shone under carefully applied oil, making it look like Troy was sweating hard, or had just stepped out of a shower.

Though he had gained significant muscle mass since the first episode, it wasn’t to the extent of a professional bodybuilder. But one thing was clear: no one looking at Troy would think he was only 18.

“Holy shit,” Connell muttered. “That’s… something.”

Stephen nodded silently, unsure what to say about the young man he’d known since he was a ten-year-old boy.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Troy asked jovially, completely at odds with the mood required for the scene.

“Right.” Stephen pointed to an exercise bench. “There’s your mark. Do we need to go over the scene, or do you know what to do?”

“I know,” Troy said simply, taking his position.

“Action!”

Troy lifted the barbell above him and began a few reps. He grunted with exertion as though it took everything he had, but Stephen knew the truth. The weights were fake, filled with thermocol to look heavy.

Troy could’ve lifted them if they were real, of course. But when you had to repeat the same take over and over, it was best to play it safe.

Troy reracked the weights before getting up, his upper body glistening with the fake sweat. He crossed the floor toward Freddie Graham—the prison’s Godfather—who was watching him closely, and gave him a fist bump.

Freddie returned the gesture with a respectful look as Troy sat beside him. Troy’s face, meanwhile, was blank—filled with angst and worry.

Just then, another man in his mid-to-late twenties entered through the door. He was short, very thin, and his face was badly bruised. He took a seat as far from the two protagonists as possible.

Freddie noticed him and gave a subtle nod in his direction. Catching the cue, Troy rose from his seat and walked over to the bruised man, sitting abruptly across from him. The sudden move made the man recoil in fear.

And seeing Troy’s expression, it was clear why. His face was dead—an expression that silently screamed don’t mess with me.

“Who did that to you?” Troy asked, motioning to the man’s bruised face, wasting no time with pleasantries.

“I don’t know,” the man hesitated. “I didn’t see the face.”

Troy scoffed. “Sure you didn’t.”

Then, suddenly, he lunged forward, as if about to strike. Instinctively, the man shielded his head with his arms.

Stephen was impressed by the small improvisation from both actors. It may have seemed minor, but it added remarkable depth to Troy’s character, Ben.

“You gotta stand up for yourself, mate,” Troy said firmly. “Grow some balls. If you can’t, just say the word, and I can arrange some protection for you.”

The man lowered his arms and asked cautiously, “What protection?”

“You’ll see,” Troy replied mysteriously. “Tell me, are you married?”

“Yes,” the man nodded.

“Good, then. We’ll let you know about it.”

With that, Troy stood up abruptly. His leg bumped the table, making it shake—and the man flinched again. A happy accident that added even more weight to an already powerful scene.

Troy walked back to Freddie and announced confidently, “He can work for us.” Then he sat opposite the older man again. “He has a wife.”

“Good job,” Freddie said, clearly impressed.

“Cut!”

Stephen called it, but he remained in awe of what he’d just seen.

The Troy in front of him wasn’t the same boy who once played Billy Elliot or Harry Potter. This was a completely different man, and not just because of the tattoos or the bulked-up physique. It was all in the eyes, the energy. Gone was the innocent boy who was a coward at the start of the show. In his place stood a hardened man who didn’t take shit from anyone.

Stephen wanted to heap praise on Troy, to tell him just how remarkable his performance had been. But he stopped himself. Troy had made it clear—no excessive praise in front of the crew. As a producer on the project, it would look unprofessional.

“Great job, everyone! That’s a wrap on the series!” Stephen announced instead, prompting cheers from the cast and crew.

Troy’s demeanor shifted instantly. The angry, hollow look vanished, replaced by a beaming smile as he shook hands with those nearby.

His assistant brought him a robe, which Troy slipped on before laughing at something another crew member said.

Stephen walked over to him and his assistant and called out when it was just the three of them, “Troy, that was a fan-fucking-tastic performance. I didn’t know you could act so negatively as well. You should try playing a full-fledged villain sometime.”

Troy and his assistant laughed, as if sharing an inside joke, before Troy replied, “Sure. One day I will.”

Stephen nodded, slightly confused, before shifting to the real topic. “Have you read the script I gave you a month ago? Since you don’t have anything lined up right now, [The Reader] would be perfect for you. And challenging too—you’ll have to learn a German accent.”

Troy shook his head. “I can’t, Stephen. My Harry Potter contract forbids me from doing any kind of nudity or explicit sex scenes. Technically, I’m not even allowed to do a series like this because of the drug use and violence, but since HBO is distributing it, it won’t matter much.”

“What if I convinced Warner Bros on your behalf?” Stephen persisted.

“One word: Weinstein.”

As soon as Stephen heard the name, he suppressed a groan. His second feature film, [The Hours], had been distributed by Miramax, which was then run by Bob and Harvey Weinstein. While Bob was relatively decent, Harvey was anything but. He liked to exercise control over every little detail—shouting, cursing, belittling, and threatening were his go-to methods in all situations.

Because of him, Stephen had already walked away from another proposed film production. He had even decided to stay away from production for a few years. That was, until Troy came to him to direct [Echoes of You].

Stephen had shared all of this with Troy while they were working on Echoes, so it made sense that the young man would be skeptical.

“Harvey apologized to me personally,” Stephen offered. “That’s why I’m willing to work with him again.”

“It’s not just you,” Troy said seriously. “I’ve heard stories—mostly from women. That man is a predator and a rapist. I won’t work with him even if you gave me a billion dollars.”

Stephen hesitated, then said, “He’s not the only one in Hollywood like that.”

Troy closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t believe you said that. Just because everyone’s bad, we’ll do the same thing? I like to think I run a clean company. We have an open-door policy at Phoenix for reporting anything like that. I personally fired three people from influential positions last year alone.

Every person who works with us—be it a director, producer, or casting director—is clearly briefed about it by my team.”

“I got that too,” Stephen nodded in agreement.

“It doesn’t take a lot of effort to do the right thing. People like Weinstein just choose not to,” Troy said, his voice passionate.

As much as Stephen wanted to say he wouldn’t work with Harvey, he knew his hands were tied contractually. Weinstein owned the rights to [The Reader], and nothing could be done if Stephen wanted to make the film.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to change.”

With that, Troy stormed off toward his changing room, his assistant right on his heels.

(Break)

“Where are those guys!?” Benji said irritably as he roamed around the living room of my new home in the UK.

“Calm down, Benji,” I said lazily. “Jamie’s here already, isn’t he?” I motioned toward my old friend, who was taking a shot on my pool table.

“Ha! Just the 8-ball left for me. You’re as good as lost, Troy,” Jamie returned with a grin.

I shook my head before taking my shot. I knew I wasn’t going to win, but not everything is about winning or losing, just like this upcoming trip I’d planned with a few friends.

“Woah.”

Someone had just walked in with a bewildered expression. “I had no idea you lived in a castle, Troy.”

The one to call me out was none other than Michael B. Jordan, whom I had invited. Beside him stood an equally baffled Ryan Gosling, looking around like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“This is Hawthorne Keep,” I announced, trying not to sound too proud. “Built in the 1800s, spread across forty thousand square feet. I moved in yesterday—only bought it because the owner went bankrupt and sold it to me for nearly half the original asking price.”

I’d been on the lookout for a property for a while—well, Dad had. He came across this castle an hour outside London, in serious need of repair. Anything of comparable value usually goes for $50–60 million, but the owner was desperate, so he settled for $28 million.

Over the past year, it had undergone massive renovations, and finally, it was good enough for me to move in. It looked a bit like the home in the movie [Saltburn], only grander.

There were twelve bedrooms, each with an ensuite marble bathroom. I’d commissioned a private music studio with soundproofed walls and an underground recording booth just for me. There was also a grand ballroom that could be used for events or music video shoots if I ever wanted.

Other features included a home theater, a spa wing, a heated Olympic-sized indoor pool, a private chapel (which I’d converted into a personal writing and creative retreat), a helipad, and an underground garage with a car lift. The place even had an emergency landing strip for a small plane.

And if I ever wanted more, there was space to expand as well.

The exterior had kept its antique charm, complete with turrets crowning the multiple towers, but the interiors had been reconstructed to meet modern needs. Exactly what I needed.

The best part? I’d also purchased a hundred acres of land surrounding the property for an additional $17 million—forests, lakes, and private roads included. Security was posted at the main entrance, so no paparazzi could enter without my say-so.

“This is superb,” Ryan commented as he took in the surroundings. “What I wouldn’t give to live in a place like this.”

“You’re staying here tonight,” I said with a grin. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour of the place. After that, you can rest—I know you both must be tired after your flight. We’ll begin our road trip tomorrow.”

“Hell yeah!” Michael called out excitedly.

I would have invited Evan too, but he was busy working on Twilight, and my time here was limited before I had to start shooting my next film, so I decided to make the best of it. I’d never been on a proper road trip before. This time, we planned to tour all the major spots of Europe in a car that one of the five of us would always drive.

My security team would follow us in a separate vehicle, but they’d hang far back enough that we wouldn’t feel like we were being watched every second.

(Break)

The last two weeks had been some of the best in Benji’s nineteen years of existence—and it was all thanks to Troy.

When Troy first suggested a road trip, Benji had hesitated. He knew how hard it was for someone like Troy to go out in public without causing a scene. But he went along with it anyway, mostly because he could tell how badly Troy needed a break.

Back when he didn’t work for Troy, Benji used to think that the life of a superstar must be so easy. Now he knew better. His own life was way more relaxed. At least he could go wherever he wanted without worrying about being mobbed.

So when Troy told him about buying a literal castle, it immediately made sense. Troy needed space. Freedom. A place where he could step outside without constantly watching his back for paparazzi or adoring fans.

He still remembered the first day of their journey like it was yesterday.

They had started right from Hawthorne Keep, driving out in a brand-spanking-new Range Rover that Troy had bought just days earlier. Jamie was behind the wheel, with Troy riding shotgun, a camera in hand.

“You planning to record the whole trip?” Benji had asked, watching as Ryan and Michael posed dramatically in front of the lens, like the narcissistic actors they were.

“Of course I am,” Troy replied, recording cheekily. “I want to direct my next music video myself. Try my hand at it, you know? What do you say, guys—mind if I record you for it?”

“I’m fine with it,” Ryan said easily.

“Me too,” Michael and Jamie added in unison.

Benji hadn’t even replied yet, but Troy had already started filming, capturing the moment as the boys started acting like—well, boys.

Cut to today—the result was ready in front of him, just one click away from going live on YouTube.

[The Nights, Avicii]

~: He said, “One day you’ll leave this world behind

So live a life you will remember”

My father told me when I was just a child

“These are the nights that never die”

My father told me :~

The video was some of the best-edited footage of a song Benji had ever seen.

It opened with a soft, homey montage—Troy sitting in his living room in London, surrounded by his parents and Evan, strumming a guitar casually as the first lines of the song about seeing the world played in the background. Their family looked so happy and perfect.

Benji suspected it must be one of their old home clips that Evan or Steve must have taken a few months ago.

Then came the moment the beat dropped.

The screen cut to a handheld shot—Troy and his four friends driving along a narrow coastal road next to the gleaming white cliffs of Étretat, wind whipping through their hair as they stood atop a moving Range Rover with their arms stretched out, screaming into the wild.

From there, it was rapid-fire, breathtaking moments.

They were surfing crystal-clear waves in Biarritz, with clips of Michael wiping out spectacularly and Troy popping up from underwater, grinning like a madman.

In the next one, they jumped out of a plane over the orange-tinted skies of Seville, their parachutes unfurling in slow motion, capturing the awe on their faces mid-fall. 

Benji still remembered the moment he almost shat his pants when it was his turn to jump out of the plane.

The scene was then beautifully transitioned into them snowboarding down pristine white slopes in the Pyrenees, cutting through powder like pros. Cut again—now they were skiing in the Alps, filming each other with handheld cameras, their laughter echoing over the rush of wind.

Next came a dreamy sunrise over Switzerland. The friends were floating in hot air balloons, their silhouettes outlined against golden clouds, Troy leaning over the edge to film Jamie pointing toward the horizon, wide-eyed like a kid seeing magic for the first time.

Then, a complete vibe switch: they were skateboarding through the streets of Munich, jumping curbs and laughing as Ryan nearly crashed into a fruit stall. The camera tilted with every wobble, capturing a chaotic joy that couldn’t be faked.

The song built to its climax with shots of the group dancing at a silent disco in Amsterdam, jumping into a freezing lake in Austria, cooking sausages on an open fire in a forest in Slovenia, and playing street soccer with locals in Barcelona.

And finally—

A return to London. The five of them walked across Tower Bridge at twilight, shoulder to shoulder, their backs to the camera as the city lights blinked on one by one.

The video ended on a grainy camcorder shot of all of them standing in front of a wall under a bridge, spraying graffiti that read, ‘LIVE A LIFE YOU WILL REMEMBER’.

The entire thing was the perfect video diary. A four-minute memory capsule of their adventure.

The best part was that there was no spoken dialogue or any sound from the guys (besides Troy’s vocals), yet the happiness they shared in those moments, and the new friendship they formed in their limited time together, was clear as day for anyone to see. It was Benji’s first time meeting Ryan and Michael properly, and he could say for sure that he enjoyed their company a lot. Ryan was a little older than the rest of them, but he went along with their group perfectly.

Another thing of note was that the song Troy had picked felt tailor-made for their journey—an uplifting, heart-pounding anthem that celebrated youth, freedom, and living without regrets.

“This is perfect,” Benji said, barely above a whisper. “More than perfect. This is… wow.”

“Thank you,” Troy smiled. “But now starts the difficult part. You understand what you have to do, right?”

Benji fidgeted, reluctant. “I don’t like it. But yeah… I’ll do it.”

Troy nodded. “Good. I’ll take a commercial flight to Chicago tomorrow. Let’s see how long we can keep up this charade.”

“A month at most,” Benji insisted.

“Wanna bet?” Troy raised an eyebrow. “If it’s a month or less, I’ll buy you any car in the world. If I win, you owe me one favor. But no foul play on your end, I’ll know if you do it.”

“Deal.” Benji grinned, shaking his hand with zero hesitation. That car was as good as his.

(Break)

I’m still not sure if this was the right decision, but I decided to go along with it anyway. [The Dark Knight] ranked among my favorite films of all time, and for one reason only: Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I botched it in any way.

So I chose to do something only the most dedicated actors ever attempt—something I knew my parents would try to stop me from doing if they found out. I told them a small lie: that I was going on a full world tour for a few months, not just through Europe for half.

Benji had been instructed to keep sending them regular updates about the trip through text messages, so they wouldn’t get suspicious or worried. Meanwhile, I would fly to Chicago, where the first part of [The Dark Knight] was scheduled to begin filming in two weeks.

The biggest reason for all this cloak-and-dagger behavior was the marketing plan I had come up with to promote [The Dark Knight].

(Flashback)

Christopher Nolan looked at me seriously and asked, “So what is this genius marketing plan of yours?”

Beside him, Dick Parsons gave me the go-ahead to explain.

I took a deep breath. “Usually, when someone is cast in a big-budget movie like this, the studio announces who’s playing the villain so audiences know what to expect. I haven’t even been cast yet, but I already know the backlash that’ll come if people hear I’m playing the Joker. I’m too young, they’ll say. I haven’t ever played a negative role, so that would be another point of argument. So instead of making the announcement, why don’t we keep my involvement a secret until the film is released?”

Chris turned to Dick in surprise. “Would that even be possible? I mean, hiding Troy’s presence on set for months?”

Dick shrugged. “Anything’s possible. Troy just needs to make sure he never steps out of his trailer without his makeup. Ever. We’ll have the entire crew sign ironclad NDAs. Even then, we won’t share Troy’s name except with those who absolutely need to know—like his makeup and costume team. We’ll keep the set closed as much as possible. And we’ll hire a few body doubles for Troy—not just for stunts, but to confuse the crew about who the real Joker is.”

Chris looked back at me, amazed. “Are you really ready to do all that? I wouldn’t want to be in that position—hiding who I am for months. If it’s backlash you’re worried about, we won’t respond to it. We’ll answer with the power of your performance.”

“Nah,” I shook my head. “It’s not just that. This would generate so much free publicity. Imagine—we finish filming, and no one knows who played the Joker. Like Kevin Spacey in [Seven]. That reveal was legendary. Now imagine [The Dark Knight] ends, the credits are about to roll… and then comes the reveal that I was the Joker all along.”

Chris thought about it for a few moments, then nodded slowly. “We could even include a short bonus video in the home release—showing you getting into Joker makeup from your bare face. It would make your role iconic.”

“While that all sounds great,” Dick cut in, fixing his gaze on me, “don’t forget one important thing: this only works if you give the best performance of your life.”

“I will,” I promised.

(Flashback End)

And that’s why I ended up deciding to go full method for this role: to give the best performance of my life.

I didn’t have much time to prepare, just two weeks, but I had one thing working in my favor: Heath Ledger’s performance was etched in my memory. I remembered every scene of the movie so vividly that I felt confident I could replicate it. But I didn’t just want to replicate it. I wanted to elevate it.

That’s why I cut off all communication, even with Paolo, my head of security, and locked myself in my apartment. I had rented the place specifically for this role. Only my security team had access, and even they were limited to dropping off food. Everything else, I handled on my own. I may not be used to doing the cleaning and the cooking myself in recent years, but it wasn’t hard doing things yourself for a change.

During our Euro trip, I’d realized something important: over the past few months, my appearance had changed so much—thanks to my added bulk and my new hairstyle, with long hair tied up in a bun—that most people didn’t even recognize me. So, it was unlikely anyone would figure out who I was if I wore makeup constantly.

So that’s what I did first for the role: I learned how to apply the Joker’s makeup myself.

I didn’t dye my hair green yet—that could wait until filming began—but I let it fall loose around my face. Then I painted my face white and added red lipstick. The best part was the skin-colored calluses the makeup team had provided—I pasted them at the corners of my mouth before painting over them with red. I was careful not to make the makeup too perfect; I left it uneven on purpose. I left the deep lines on my forehead untouched, even exaggerated them slightly, to enhance the expressions. I didn’t have many facial lines because of my age, but skipping over them with the paint gave me a more menacing look.

And honestly, the result was astounding. When I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t believe it was me. I grinned in realization—there was no way anyone would recognize me like this. From then on, I resolved to wear the face paint for as long as I could each day, just to make the eventual transition to long shooting days more tolerable.

With that, the easy part was done.

What remained now was the hard stuff: mastering the Joker’s voice, his subtle facial tics, and that unhinged, hyena-like laugh. All of it combined was what made the role so iconic.

(Break)

Christian Bale paced around the room impatiently, eager to get this over with. For some reason, they were dragging it out far longer than necessary.

Finally, he turned to Nolan and said, “What’s the matter, Chris? Is this actor someone great? Maybe DiCaprio? Why is he taking so much time? You’re set to begin shooting tomorrow, and I haven’t even met him. How is that fair?”

“Calm down, Christian,” Nolan replied. “As I told you, he’s a method actor. He probably got delayed while getting into character. I don’t think he plans to show you—or anyone—his real face until filming is over.”

Christian snorted. “You just had to go and hire a psycho, didn’t you? What’s his name, by the way? Have I seen him somewhere?”

Before Nolan could answer, the door behind Christian creaked open, and in walked a clown—the Joker.

His face was painted white, but the application was intentionally messy. The corners of his lips were covered in rough calluses, smeared over with red lipstick. His hair had been dyed a murky green. A dark purple suit completed the look.

“Hello,” the Joker said in an eerie voice, waving at the two men. “I am the Joker. Good to meet you, Christian. Hi, Chris.” He flicked his tongue across his lips like a snake, adding a dangerous edge to the performance.

Christian instinctively stepped back, clearly taken off guard.

“What happened to your voice?” Nolan asked nonchalantly, as if the whole thing didn’t bother him in the least.

“I think this voice suits the character better. What do you think?” the man replied, running his fingers through his hair, only for it to fall messily back over his face. The gesture might’ve been comical—if he didn’t look so menacing.

“This is amazing,” Nolan said, visibly impressed. “The dedication you’ve shown to this role is unbelievable, T—”

The Joker coughed harshly, cutting Nolan off before he could say more.

Christian closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, then gave a small nod. “Who are you exactly?” he asked bluntly. “I get the whole method thing, but you could at least tell me your name.”

The Joker studied him for a few moments, then replied in that same creepy voice, “I don’t mind telling you—but first, hear my reasoning. You, as Batman, aren’t supposed to know who’s beneath this makeup. If we can replicate that uncertainty in the real world, it’ll enhance your performance, too. So, the decision is yours. If you really want to know and promise not to tell anyone else, I’ll share my identity.”

Christian Bale almost said yes before he stopped to think. He liked to push himself for a role, but even he had never gone to such extremes. For that alone, he respected the man in front of him. If he didn’t know the identity of this man, it would frustrate Christian—and that frustration would bleed into his performance against the Joker, which was perfect for the role.

“Don’t tell me,” he said with finality. “But at least give me some name to refer to you by. I can’t keep calling you Joker in my head.”

The man cackled maniacally, like the psychopath he was meant to be, then nodded. “Of course. Call me Frank.”

“Alright, Frank,” Christian nodded, before turning to Nolan. “Now, can we please start rehearsing? I know my scenes aren’t for a few days, but I want to be as prepared as possible.”

“Definitely,” Nolan agreed. “Start running your lines and let it flow naturally. I won’t interrupt unless I see something wrong.”

(Break)

Christian Bale seemed a little insecure with me yesterday. I could sense it. As soon as we began acting, I saw his face getting paler by the moment. I don’t blame him exactly—it’s almost impossible to take a bland role like Bruce Wayne and elevate it to something truly memorable.

Not just Batman—most superheroes had the same problem. There were exceptions, like Deadpool or Wolverine, who stood out even against the villains, but most didn’t. It’s almost always the villain who’s remembered after the movie ends. Be it Willem Dafoe’s Green Goblin, Ian McKellen’s Magneto, or Tom Hiddleston’s Loki.

So I wasn’t surprised when Bale started to get annoyed that I was outshining him. I could guarantee that if our roles were reversed, he would’ve outperformed me. I knew it, but I didn’t say anything. It’s better if he harbors a little animosity toward me—it’s better for the character.

My ramblings aside, I looked over at the scene that had been meticulously set up by the production team. We were starting the shoot with the very first scene of the movie—the bank heist scene.