Every time I got 'Amazing Spider-Man' or 'Fantastic Four' or

Host: The studio clock glowed 2:17 a.m. — the hour when city streets go silent, and even neon seems to breathe slower. The comic shop below them had long closed, but the smell of paper and ink still lingered through the floorboards.

Jack sat by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up, pencil smudges streaking his hands. Jeeny perched on the edge of a desk, sketching absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on a half-finished storyboard pinned to the wall — a hero, caught mid-flight, suspended between triumph and tragedy.

The only sound was the scratch of her pencil, steady and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You ever read what Straczynski said about working on Spider-Man and Fantastic Four?”

Jack: “Yeah. ‘Every time I got them on the rails, we got pulled into some big event or crossover, and it cost momentum, messed with pacing and structure.’ Classic industry chaos.”

Host: Jack’s tone was a mix of admiration and exhaustion, the sound of a man who knew what it meant to build something carefully, only to watch it dissolve in someone else’s agenda.

Jeeny: “I think about that line a lot. How even heroes get interrupted. How creation itself gets hijacked by the noise around it.”

Jack: “You’re talking like a poet again. It’s not cosmic tragedy, Jeeny — it’s business. The audience wants crossover events, the studio wants revenue spikes, and the artist… the artist gets overruled.”

Jeeny: “And in that, we lose something essential. The rhythm. The intimacy of storytelling. Every great arc needs time to breathe — but corporations don’t understand breath, only pulse.”

Host: The rain began, soft threads against the window, each drop catching the city’s glow.

Jack: “You want to know what I think? Momentum is overrated. The world doesn’t move in perfect pacing. Life’s full of crossovers — interruptions, reroutes, chaos. That’s realism.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not storytelling, Jack. That’s noise. Straczynski wasn’t whining about deadlines — he was mourning structure. The human need for coherence.”

Jack: “Coherence doesn’t sell. Chaos does. People love being thrown from one crisis to another. Just look at the news cycle, or social media. It’s the crossover event of civilization.”

Jeeny: “And it’s killing our ability to feel. To linger. That’s what he meant — that the sacred art of pacing has become a casualty of commercial urgency.”

Host: Jeeny’s pencil had stopped. Her eyes were fixed on a panel of her own sketch, a hero’s face, half in shadow.

Jack: “You sound like him. Idealistic. Believing art should be pure, untouched. But even Spider-Man had to serve the market. Even gods answer to publishers.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of making anything at all, Jack, if every creation has to kneel before commerce?”

Jack: “The point is survival. You compromise to keep creating. You bend, or you break. Straczynski knew that — he stayed in the system, didn’t he?”

Jeeny: “Maybe because he loved it too much to leave. Maybe because he still believed that within all the crossovers and chaos, a single, human story could still shine through.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that stretches, like a panel before the final caption box.

Jack: “You know, I’ve lived that. I used to design indie games — small, personal projects. But every time we got something right, we got pulled into a collaboration, a publisher request, a ‘brand synergy.’ Before I knew it, I was coding loot boxes instead of dialogue.”

Jeeny: “And you’re okay with that?”

Jack: “No. But I stopped pretending art could exist without interference. You build the bridge you can, not the one you dream of.”

Jeeny: “But dreams are why bridges exist at all.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled — not with weakness, but with defiance. She stood, walking toward the window, her reflection mingling with the cityscape — the artist and the architecture, inseparable.

Jeeny: “Every creator deserves continuity, Jack. Every story deserves its rhythm. When everything turns into a ‘big event,’ nothing matters. It’s just one long explosion without a heartbeat.”

Jack: “And yet, people cheer for the explosions.”

Jeeny: “Because they’ve forgotten what silence sounds like.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes flickered — a spark of guilt, or maybe recognition. The rain outside had softened, like the world itself was listening.

Jack: “You’re right. We lost something. But tell me — do you really think there’s a way back?”

Jeeny: “Not back. Through. By remembering that structure isn’t control — it’s compassion. It’s giving the reader space to feel.”

Jack: “You talk like art is sacred.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Straczynski didn’t just write comics — he wrote the architecture of empathy. He gave time and pacing to hearts that needed it. And when that got stolen by big crossovers, it wasn’t just the story that broke — it was the rhythm of humanity.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, brow furrowed. The lamp above the desk cast a halo of yellow light, like a spotlight on his conflict.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? Refuse to play along? Make art no one sees?”

Jeeny: “We make it anyway. Even if it’s fragmented. Even if it’s buried beneath the noise. Because every artist who refuses to surrender pacing for profit leaves behind a pulse — a reminder that stories once breathed.”

Host: The clock ticked. Somewhere, the sound of a passing train echoed faintly — like a moving frame between worlds.

Jack: “You think the world would notice if one less event book came out?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it would feel the loss — in the silence between panels, in the breath between beats. That’s where real art lives.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, a shadowed grin, caught between sarcasm and surrender.

Jack: “You know, I used to think pacing was just a technical thing — like timing an animation or editing a scene. But now I see it’s moral. It’s how we treat the audience — whether we rush them or let them live.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “So Straczynski wasn’t just complaining about production schedules.”

Jeeny: “He was defending the right to finish a heartbeat.”

Host: The room grew still, the lamp flickering slightly as the storm outside began to fade. The panels on the wall — inked fragments of heroes and hearts — seemed to glow faintly in the muted light.

Jack: “You ever wonder if heroes feel the same way?”

Jeeny: “About what?”

Jack: “About never getting to finish their own story.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the real tragedy. Not that they die — but that they’re interrupted.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, the truth sinking like rain into soil. He reached for a blank page, his hand steady now.

Jack: “Let’s give them one uninterrupted scene.”

Jeeny: “One moment that belongs to no event, no crossover — just itself.”

Jack: “Yeah. Just breath and silence.”

Host: The lamp’s light dimmed to a soft gold, the rain outside ceased, and the air felt strangely alive — as if even the city was waiting for the next panel to turn.

Jeeny smiled, her pencil poised.

Jeeny: “Alright then. Let’s write something that remembers how to breathe.”

Host: And as their hands moved, the world below — all its noise, commerce, and crossovers — seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of graphite on paper, a small but defiant heartbeat in the silence of creation.

End Scene.