That jab was executed beautifully.
And the one who delivered it wasn't even a real journalist—it was one of Tukarev's subordinates.
Tukarev had been annoyed with Alfonso for a long time.
The two had been competitors for years, often clashing over various matters.
Tukarev had always wanted to teach Alfonso a lesson.
But in the past, he simply hadn't had the status or power to do so.
Now, things were different.
Even if it couldn't bring down Alfonso, throwing in a few cheap shots still felt damn good.
...
...
Watching the televised interview where Alfonso's face visibly paled when questioned about his box office numbers, Tukarev laughed heartily, sipping vodka and shouting colorful Russian curses at the screen in pure satisfaction.
He couldn't help but pick up the phone and call Takayuki.
"Mr. Tukarev, there's a fourteen-hour time difference between us. If I weren't a natural night owl, you'd be getting a dose of my very real morning rage right now."
It was night at Gamestar Electronic Entertainment's headquarters when Takayuki answered the call.
"Ah—apologies, Takayuki-san! I didn't mean to disturb you at this hour. I was just so damn happy, I completely forgot about the time difference!"
"Happy?"
"Hehe, your movie is incredible, Takayuki-san. I have to give it two thumbs up! You're a true genius—shining in multiple industries. It's an honor to work with someone like you."
Takayuki shrugged, "It was just a flash of inspiration. Don't expect me to keep pulling these off."
Tukarev replied quickly, "Even a single flash is already more than enough! Have you seen the interviews in the States? Those filmmakers who trashed you are all eating their words now—I've been enjoying it immensely!"
"I'm not interested in any of that. I'd rather spend my time making games."
Sparring with filmmakers? That was honestly beneath him now.
Even if those people had once held status in the film industry, Takayuki stood at the pinnacle of the gaming world.
Arguing with them would only devalue the gaming industry itself.
"Fair enough—no need to waste time on clowns like that. Speaking of which, Takayuki-san, do you have any upcoming game projects in the works?"
"Right now? Yeah, I've got a few. Why do you ask—got something in mind?"
Tukarev laughed. "Honestly, I'm getting very interested in the game industry. Of course, I have no clue how to break into it properly. Could you spare a few of your people to help me get started? I'd pay generously—and I promise any games I produce will launch exclusively on your platform."
These days, Tukarev's media empire did include a few well-known IPs.
Previously, he'd just licensed them out for game adaptations.
But now, he wanted in—to take things a step further and build his own gaming division.
Seeing how Gamestar was thriving, he figured this was the perfect time—and his relationship with Takayuki could give him a strong head start.
"Getting into gaming, huh? I'm all for it. I'd love to see the industry grow. If you need help building a team, I'll see what I can do."
Takayuki had a number of capable people under him—but truth be told, some of them were still green.
They did well under his direct guidance, but without his oversight, it was hard to say.
But this seemed like a good opportunity—send a few of them to Tukarev and see if they could stand on their own. A perfect test.
He nodded, "Alright. Register a new game company, and I'll send over one or two people to help you get started. But don't skimp on their pay."
Tukarev immediately agreed, "Don't worry, Takayuki-san. I'm happy to sign a contract right now!"
Takayuki always took care of his own. That's why third-party developers working with Gamestar were so loyal—he gave them support, resources, and even discounted access to tools like Unreal Engine.
To Takayuki, it was no big deal. Tons of people wanted into gaming now. Whether Tukarev succeeded or failed didn't matter—his own people could treat it like a training mission.
Hearing Takayuki's agreement made Tukarev even happier than watching the film industry folks get humiliated.
And the humiliation wasn't over yet.
Alfonso, hammered by relentless questions from reporters, had to retreat once again into his home.
Lately, he could only communicate with his staff via phone or video calls.
His movie's box office performance had been dismal.
Originally projected to hit $300–400 million, it hadn't even reached $50 million—an absolute disaster.
And things only got worse.
Somehow, news leaked that Alfonso had secretly secured a third-party license to use Unreal Engine.
That revelation turned him into an even bigger joke.
He had loudly denounced Gamestar, insisting on boycotting their products—but behind the scenes, he'd gone crawling back and was paying them for tools.
The backlash was swift and brutal.
His image, once semi-dignified, completely collapsed. Even insiders in the industry began whispering behind his back.
The once-proud vanguard of Detroit Pictures had now become the laughingstock of the film world.
And it still wasn't over.
When Gamestar's U.S. division caught wind of Alfonso's shady license deal, their spokesperson publicly issued a statement:
"Mr. Alfonso needn't have paid a third-party middleman to license our Unreal Engine. He could've approached us directly to save a significant intermediary fee. We don't charge extra for middlemen—and we always honor our clients' privacy. We'd have gladly kept his usage of Unreal completely confidential."
Reading that, Alfonso almost died on the spot.