The leather chair creaks as I lean back, surveying the city lights through floor-to-ceiling windows. Another successful acquisition today - a struggling studio that thought they could refuse my offer. They learned otherwise when their funding mysteriously dried up and their talent contracts found new homes under my umbrella.
I take a slow sip of aged whiskey, savoring both the burn and the memory of their desperate faces when they finally came crawling back. Power has a taste, and I’ve developed quite the appetite for it over the years.
The elevator chimes, announcing another visitor to my penthouse office. I don’t turn around immediately - let them wait, let them absorb the weight of my domain. The city sprawls below us like a chessboard, and I’ve been moving pieces for so long that most people forget they’re just pawns until it’s too late.
“Come in,” I call out, my voice carrying the authority of someone who’s never doubted their place at the top of the food chain.
