The silence in his penthouse was a stark contrast to the roaring Garden just hours before. The high-floor view of the Boston skyline twinkled, a panorama of success that felt like it belonged to someone else. Kyle stood at the window, the Kyonic prototype in one hand, his phone burning in the other. Ari was on the speakerphone, her voice crisp and professional, cutting through the late-night haze.
"Mark Parker isn't just 'Nike Basketball'," she was saying, the sound of her keyboard clacking softly in the background. "He *is* the heir apparent. For him to text you directly after a game... this isn't a fishing expedition. This is a targeted acquisition. They see you as more than an athlete; they see you as a brand. And they want to own it."
Kyle turned the shoe over in his hands, running a thumb along the sharp red line—the scar, the streak of lightning. "They don't want to own *me*. They want to own this. They want to gut it, put a Swoosh on it, and sell the story."
