SHINKI
The door to my office opens and Franklin walks in, his expression as sharp and tailored as his suit. He carries a tablet, his digital shield. He doesn't bother with pleasantries. He knows I'm not in the mood.
"Shinki," he says, taking the seat across from my desk. "I've read the filing. It's aggressive, I'll give her that. Baseless, but aggressive."
I steeple my fingers, the picture of calm now. The venting is over. The calculation has begun. "She is attempting to reframe a sound business decision as a personal, criminal vendetta. She's using the court of public opinion as her primary weapon. We need to disarm her. Legally, and publicly."
Franklin nods, tapping his tablet. "We have several paths. One: We file a motion to dismiss. Argue her suit fails to state a valid claim. It's the fastest way to potentially make this go away, but it's a procedural move. It doesn't win the narrative."
"Too passive," I dismiss immediately. "It makes us look like we're hiding behind technicalities. Next."
"Two: We go nuclear. We file a massive countersuit for tortious interference and defamation. We argue her false accusations are damaging Kage Capital's reputation and business relationships. We bury her in legal paperwork and discovery requests. It's a war of attrition."
I consider it. The idea of turning her own strategy against her is appealing. It's a show of force. But it's also messy, public, and lengthy. The market hates uncertainty.
"It's a blunt instrument," I say. "It lacks finesse. And it keeps this circus in the headlines for months. What else?"
Franklin allows a thin, professional smile. "Option three. We don't fight the lawsuit on its face. We use it. We accelerate our takeover bid, leveraging her own 'emotional distress' and 'reckless leadership' as Exhibit A for why the company needs new, stable management. We go to her shareholders directly with a sweetened offer and a presentation titled 'Why the Current CEO is Sinking Your Investment.' We make the lawsuit look like a desperate, flailing move from a captain who's lost control of her ship."
A slow, cold smile touches my lips. That… has promise. It's not just a legal defense. It's a strategic offensive. It uses her emotions as the very proof of her incompetence.
"Elaborate on that," I command, leaning forward slightly. "The mechanism."
"We trigger a shareholder vote," Franklin explains, his eyes gleaming with tactical zeal. "We bypass her and the board entirely. We take our case—and our higher offer—directly to the people who actually own the company. We frame her lawsuit not as a defense of Rory Robotics, but as a selfish act that is destroying shareholder value. We paint you as the rational savior, and her as the hysterical obstacle."
It's beautiful. It's ruthless. It's exactly what she deserves for trying to paint me as the villain.
I lean back in my chair, the cold, familiar feeling of a perfect strategy settling over me. The anger is gone, replaced by a glacial certainty.
"Do it," I say, my voice quiet and final. "Prepare the shareholder package. I want the offer sweetened by five percent. And Franklin?"
He looks up from his tablet.
"The presentation deck. I want the title to be 'Sentiment vs. Solvency.'"
The door clicks shut behind Franklin, leaving me in the restored silence of my office. The plan is in motion. The cold, efficient machinery of my response is engaged.
I pick up my phone and call Kenji. He answers on the second ring.
"Cousin," his voice is a low, familiar rumble. "How goes the war?"
"It goes," I say, my gaze fixed on the skyline. "We have shifted strategy. We are no longer just defending against her lawsuit. We are using it as the cornerstone of our takeover."
I explain it to him, concisely. The shareholder vote, the sweetened offer, the presentation that frames her legal challenge as proof of her instability.
There's a moment of silence on the other end. Then, a sound of grudging approval. "A masterful pivot. Turn her weapon into your shield. I half-expected you to call and vent first, though."
"Jiro took the blow already," I say flatly. "The pressure is released. Now, only logic remains."
"Good. At the rate this is escalating, you'll probably be sitting for a deposition within the month."
The thought is irritating. A waste of time. A theatrical exercise. "It will be my logic against her sentiment and dumb fucking emotions. It will be a short conversation."
"Typical," Kenji replies, and I can almost see the faint, knowing smirk on his face.
I allow the silence to hang for a beat, the business of my war sufficiently discussed. There are other, older battlefields.
"And Tokyo?" I ask, my voice losing its sharp edge, becoming flatter. "Apex Innovations?"
"Stable. Profitable. Nicole is…" He pauses, and I hear the subtle shift in his tone, a complexity that only she ever inspires. "She is a force. She sees angles I miss. It's… efficient."
I don't comment on that. His relationship with Nicole is his own complicated equation to solve. "And my father?" The question is clinical. Direct.
"The same," Kenji's voice returns to its usual grim practicality. "No change. The doctors say his body is strong. His mind… is elsewhere. He is stable."
Stable. A vegetable in a private hospital bed. A living ghost. A strategic mind, the one that first taught me to play chess, reduced to a hollow shell by Shuya Midoria's pipe. The old, cold hatred simmers, a constant, low burn beneath everything.
I absorb the information. There is no emotion to show. It is simply a data point. A persistent, inconvenient one.
"Keep me informed," I say, because it is the expected thing to say.
"I always do," he replies. The line goes dead.
I set the phone down. The war here in New York is a clean one, fought with numbers and legal filings. The war back in Tokyo is a bloody, silent thing, fought in hospital rooms and in the quiet of a ruined mind.
For now, the clean war requires all my focus. I turn back to my screen, the numbers a comforting, predictable constant.