Location: Grand Imperia Hotel – Tavara
The private suite on the top floor of the Grand Imperia exuded cold luxury. Gold fixtures. Polished obsidian floors. The skyline of Tavara twinkling beneath the night sky like scattered secrets.
Victor Kane sat alone at the end of a long, black-glass table, a crystal decanter of aged whisky before him. He was dressed in navy, no tie, exuding casual authority. He didn't rise when Damien entered. He merely smiled—calculated, unreadable.
"I was beginning to think you wouldn't come," Victor said, pouring a second glass.
Damien took the seat opposite him without removing his coat. "I don't drink with traitors."
Victor chuckled. "And yet here you are. I thought you'd be taller."
Damien's gaze hardened. "I thought you'd be smarter."
A heavy silence followed—two titans measuring each other not in words but in presence. This wasn't just a rivalry. It was a war of philosophies. One born in legacy. The other in exile and vengeance.
Victor leaned forward. "Let's skip the theatrics. You know what I want. The Blackthorne network—your ports, your digital backbone, your seat at the International Innovation Council. Join me, Damien. I'll let your little empire live under mine."
Damien's lips barely moved. "You're mistaking me for someone who negotiates with liars."
Victor's smile thinned. "No, I'm offering you survival. Tavara's elites are shifting, and I've already bought half the ministers. The military? I have generals calling me 'Sir.' You can't fight the tide."
Damien stood. "I am the tide."
Victor's eyes flared, but his voice remained calm. "Then we'll drown in each other's storms."
"No," Damien said as he walked toward the door. "You'll drown alone."
He paused before exiting, voice cold as steel. "And when I take you down, Victor—it won't be through backdoor deals or media games. It'll be in front of the entire world. I'll make an example of you."
Victor Kane remained seated, swirling the untouched whisky.
As the door closed, his smile returned.
Let the games begin.