Inside an ominously dark negotiation room, the air felt heavy enough to fracture.
A man in a tailored black suit lounged back in his chair, his posture relaxed, almost careless. Between his fingers rested an unlit, custom-made cigar, which he turned slowly as though time itself bent to his leisure.
Ares Gabriel—one of the most powerful arms magnates in M Nation—held the lifeline of the Western world's weapons trade in his hands.
No one dared speak of his past. All anyone knew was that in the span of ten years, he had swept through the American and European arms markets like a storm, forging a commercial empire that spanned three continents.
He controlled thirty percent of the global mid- to high-end arms trade. His factories could roll out upgraded fifth-generation fighter jets in under sixty days. In overseas black-site warehouses, enough weapons were stockpiled to arm an entire nation.
He sold arms to warlords. He sold arms to peacekeeping forces. He helped governments eliminate terrorists—and armed terrorists to fight governments.
To him, there was no such thing as good or evil.
Only profit.
At the head of the table, Ares sat motionless. To his left stood Alfred, the Gabriel family's longtime steward and the keeper of every ledger, every shadowed transaction. To his right was Dax—officially his assistant, in truth his all-purpose bodyguard.
Across from them sat Oleg Ivanov, boss of the Eros syndicate. A jagged scar slashed across his face. Four hulking men in dark suits and sunglasses stood behind him like silent monuments of intimidation.
At this moment, however, Oleg's fingers were drumming violently against the table.
"Ares! Are you fucking playing me? Fifteen percent price hike—and you're pushing delivery back a month? This isn't cooperation. It's fucking robbery!"
Ares didn't even blink. He continued rolling the cigar between his fingers, unhurried.
"Market volatility," he said evenly. "Not robbery."
Alfred spoke next, his voice measured and precise. "Raw materials. Transport. Risk premiums. Every line item has risen. Fifteen percent is the floor. Non-negotiable."
He glanced coolly at Oleg. "You know how tight border control has become. If you want the shipment delivered safely, you will have to wait a month. If you don't, you're welcome to try someone else."
A faint pause. "But no one moves product the way we do. Quietly. Cleanly. On time. Only us."
Veins throbbed at Oleg's temples. He snatched up a glass of vodka and drained it in one savage gulp.
"Don't try to scare me! 'Old Bear' from the Far East offered a lower price—and delivery two weeks faster! You think I don't have options?"
He locked eyes with Ares, his gaze feral, daring.
For the first time, Ares moved.
He lifted his eyes slowly. Ice-blue. Cold enough to still a heartbeat.
Oleg was a man who could walk the streets of Eros without fear. Yet under that gaze, something in him faltered. The bravado flickered. His breath tightened. The room seemed to shrink.
Ares brought the cigar to his lips.
Dax stepped forward instantly. Click. A flame flared to life.
Smoke curled upward in pale blue ribbons.
Ares took a slow drag, then exhaled, his eyes never leaving Oleg's.
"Sure, you can try other options."
The words came unhurried. Almost gentle. Within seconds, a sheen of sweat broke across Oleg's forehead.
"…Fine," he ground out through clenched teeth. "You win. Fifteen percent it is. But if the shipment isn't there in a month—this isn't over."
Ares's mouth curved faintly. He gave a small nod.
Meaning: the door is right behind you.
As though the tension that had bristled moments ago had never existed.
Alfred rose smoothly and extended a hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, Oleg."
The handshake was brief, perfunctory. Oleg and his men withdrew in haste, their retreat far quicker than their entrance.
Ares remained seated at the head of the table, smoking with deliberate calm.
As if the fifty-billion-dollar arms deal just sealed were nothing more than a routine signature on an ordinary contract.
Only when the cigar burned down to its final ember did he crush it into the ashtray.
Then he stood.
Alfred and Dax fell in behind him without a word.
Night had fully claimed the city. Outside, skyscrapers shimmered beneath a sea of lights.
A black Rolls-Royce Phantom was already waiting at the entrance.
The uniformed chauffeur bowed and opened the rear door.
Ares stepped inside.
Beyond the tinted window, the city's neon brilliance streaked backward in rivers of light, swallowed by the dark.