Kingdom Come - Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Gridlocked Purgatory

Fifth Avenue had devolved into a gridlocked purgatory of metal and frustration. Horns blared in discordant protest, their angry chorus rising above the rain-slick pavement where red brake lights reflected like pools of blood. Pedestrians navigated the maze with New York's characteristic impatience, weaving between bumpers with practiced disregard for both traffic laws and self-preservation. The city was performing its daily ritual of collective agitation—a symphony of urban discontent conducted without a maestro.

Inside his town car, Victor Blackwell existed in another dimension entirely. The vehicle's air-tight sealed interior created a safe haven of ordered luxury. Premium leather radiated the subtle scent of wealth, while hand-finished woodgrain panels gleamed under tasteful ambient lighting. The chaos beyond the tinted windows registered as little more than distant theatre—a performance observed but not experienced. Victor sat with the unwavering posture of a man who had long ago determined that even his physical bearing would communicate control. One manicured hand rested on the armrest, fingers drumming a measured, almost mathematical rhythm.

The notification tone from his phone cut through the engineered silence. Victor's gaze shifted downward, hawkish and calculating. The screen illuminated with a new message—a forwarded article from one of his subordinates. His expression remained unchanged as he unlocked the device with a businesslike motion, thumb hovering momentarily over the subject line:

FWD: Contenders, more like Pretenders. The "show" starring Victor Blackwell.

Something cold and pragmatic unfurled behind his eyes. Not rage—Victor had transcended such primitive responses years ago. Instead, he engaged in a practiced ritual of self-regulation: three seconds of inhalation through the nose, hold for two, exhale for four. Emotional reactions were inefficiencies he had systematically eliminated from his operational framework.

Then he registered the byline.

Rico Vega.

The name lingered in Victor's consciousness like a single discordant note in an otherwise perfect composition. His lips pressed infinitesimally tighter—an expression so subtle it would have been imperceptible to anyone but his closest associates. He proceeded to read the article with the clinical detachment of a surgeon examining a malignancy.

One star.

The rating sat atop the review like a declaration of war. Victor absorbed its intended impact without visible reaction, processing the provocation as data rather than insult.

His grip on the phone adjusted fractionally—the only external manifestation of the precise calculation occurring behind his impassive features.

This wasn't a credible critique worthy of genuine concern—it was a tactical challenge. A temporary obstruction. A variable to be eliminated from the equation.

"At least they're distributing blame beyond myself," he observed to the empty vehicle, his voice carrying the practiced neutrality of a chess player noting an opponent's predictable move.

Victor dismissed the email with a precise swipe, his mind already crafting a response. His finger hovered over the Social X icon—a momentary temptation. A well-placed post could shift the conversation, drown out dissent beneath a wave of engagement, dictate the narrative before it spiraled out of his control.

He tapped the app open, the screen illuminating with trending discussions, his name appearing in bold among them. His jaw tensed. The idea of responding lingered for half a breath, but then, just as swiftly, he exhaled through his nose and closed the app.

No. Control. Always control.

Social media was for spectacle. He was a man of action. Navigating instead to his email, he composed his response with the efficiency of a man who viewed technology as merely an extension of his will. His thumbs moved with algorithmic precision, each keystroke measured and final. The message took shape with the clarity of a corporate acquisition order:

"Acquisition inquiry—Tapout. All properties, digital and print. Ensure all journalists are included in the deal. No exceptions."

He sent the directive without hesitation or review. In Victor's world, reconsideration was a luxury afforded to those who lacked confidence in their initial judgment—a category to which he did not belong.

The message departed with a soft electronic chime. Victor allowed himself to ease back against the upholstery, his reflection in the window offering a mirror to his calculated composure. Outside, New York continued its chaotic dance, unaware that significant vectors of its media landscape were being irrevocably altered from within a stationary town car.

A smile formed on Victor's lips—not the performative expression he deployed in boardrooms or media appearances, but something more authentic and therefore more unsettling. It was the private satisfaction of a strategist who operated ten moves ahead of his opponents.

"Let's see how generous they are with their star ratings once they're writing under my banner," he murmured.

The town car edged forward incrementally, rejoining the agonizing crawl of Manhattan traffic. But within its confines, Victor Blackwell remained perfectly still—the immovable center of his expanding universe. His expression had already reset to neutral, the momentary display of satisfaction filed away as efficiently as the problem that had prompted it.

The pieces were in motion. Soon, the voice that had dared critique his vision would become just another instrument in his orchestration. Not through argument or persuasion. Not through complaint or correction. But through acquisition and control. The only language Victor Blackwell truly spoke.

Rush Hour Encounters

The Q train lurched through the darkness beneath Manhattan, its metal frame protesting with each curve of track. Fluorescent lights sputtered overhead, briefly illuminating the mosaic of humanity packed shoulder to shoulder in the evening rush. Logan Drake braced his foot against the floor as the car swayed, maintaining his balance while never looking up from the fixed middle distance all subway veterans learn to stare into.

While Victor Blackwell traveled between climate-controlled luxury vehicles and corner offices, Logan rode the MTA. Not out of some performative working-class solidarity, but because it was what he knew. What he could afford. What kept him grounded when everything else in his life had become unrecognizable.

The bass line from his playlist thumped through his earbuds, providing rhythm to the train's chaotic percussion. Then—buzz. The music cut out as his phone vibrated against his thigh with the distinctive pattern of an email notification.

Still not used to this corporate leash.

The device was top-of-the-line, considerably sleeker than his previous cracked-screen model. His previous contacts, messages, photos—all sacrificed to the altar of professional advancement.

Logan sighed, digging into his worn backpack wedged between his knees. His movement disrupted the delicate choreography of the subway car, his elbow accidentally connecting with the woman beside him. He offered an apologetic half-smile that went unreturned. The subway had its own social contract: acknowledge mistakes but never engage.

The screen illuminated his face in the dim car as he unlocked it. Inbox: 1 New Email.

Sender: Victor Blackwell.

A sinking feeling settled in his gut. Of course, Victor wouldn’t let him have a commute in peace. Logan opened the message, immediately recognizing Victor's passive-aggressive signature move—the forwarded article with highlighted text, the digital equivalent of a red pen circled around a disappointing grade. The piece came from Tapout, the combat sports outlet whose reviewer, Rico Vega, had been particularly unsparing in his assessment of Strike Force Legends:

Below the highlighted passage, Victor had added his own curt assessment:

"Logan, we need to do better. Consider this constructive feedback. Your leadership is crucial in making Contenders a success. Let's ensure next week's event doesn't give them any ammunition."

Logan read the message twice, the muscle in his jaw working beneath stubbled skin. The audacity was breathtaking.

We?

Your leadership?

Victor had railroad Logan's proposed three-match card. Victor had tied the roster down on new contracts leaving only the championship match. Victor had monopolized the opening segment with his corporate soliloquy. Yet somehow, in the twisted reality Victor inhabited, these failures belonged to Logan.

The train hit a rough section of track, jostling passengers together in momentary intimacy before they readjusted, regaining their bubbles of personal space. Logan slumped back against his seat, the phone still illuminated in his hand as he considered his response options with clinical detachment:

"Yes sir." (Too corporate. Too submissive.)

"LOL." (Too reckless. Too dismissive.)

"Fuck off." (Perfect. Catastrophic. Tempting.)

He exhaled slowly through his nose, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a knowing calm, he locked the phone without responding and slid it back into his backpack as the train began to decelerate.

"Stand clear of the closing doors, please," the automated announcement echoed through the car as Logan rose, adjusting his backpack straps over his shoulders.

This wasn't a battle worth engaging. Not via email. Not while the frustration was still raw. Not when Victor would interpret anything but absolute deference as insubordination. Logan stepped onto the platform, merging into the current of commuters flowing toward the exit stairs. Around him, the city continued its relentless pace—indifferent to his professional dilemma, to Victor's manipulation, to the precarious position of Contenders in the combat sports landscape.

Some fights couldn't be won with an immediate counterpunch. Some required patience. Strategy. Timing. Logan had never been a trained fighter, but he'd always known how to pick his moments. And this wasn't one of them.

Not yet.

Wrestling Dreams in a Storage Room

Rico Vega's "office" existed in a dimensional rift between professional workspace and adolescent bedroom—a converted storage room in his mother's Queens duplex that served as the command center for his wrestling journalism empire. The space had developed its own ecosystem: towers of dog-eared wrestling magazines dating back to the early 2000s formed precarious monuments around his desk; empty energy drink cans created a perimeter of caffeinated tribute; fast-food containers in various stages of decomposition provided an aromatic backdrop to his creative process.

His mechanical keyboard clacked with percussive authority beneath fingers that had never taped a wrist, applied a headlock, or felt the canvas impact of a body slam. The monitor's harsh glow reflected off his eyes, bathing his face in electronic daylight as he hunched forward in a chair threatening structural collapse with each shift of his weight.

Rico adjusted his position, prompting a shriek of plastic protest. This humble domain might lack prestige, but it was where he wielded influence over the wrestling landscape—or so he had convinced himself through years of dedicated rationalization.

He had never experienced the adrenaline surge of performing before a live crowd or the physical toll of the road. He'd never negotiated a contract or pitched a storyline in a production meeting. But in the digital arena, Rico Vega had created an identity more meaningful than mere participation—he was a self-styled arbiter of quality, a voice of "the real fans," a truth-teller in an industry built on illusion.

His gaze drifted to the analytics dashboard for his latest polemic: "Contenders, more like Pretenders. The "show" starring Victor Blackwell." The numbers validated his existence—thousands of clicks, hundreds of comments, dozens of angry quote-tweets from wrestlers pretending they didn't care about criticism. His one-star review had struck a nerve, particularly his targeted assessment of Logan Drake's booking and Victor Blackwell's corporate approach.

Rico sipped cold coffee with the grimace of a man who had forgotten hot beverages existed, his attention suddenly captured by a notification appearing in the corner of his screen.

New Email: Business Inquiry – Peak Media Group.

His heart rate accelerated instantly. The coffee mug froze midway to the desk, hovering momentarily before being set down with uncharacteristic care. He straightened his posture, instinctively adjusting his wrinkled T-shirt bearing the faded logo of a defunct wrestling promotion.

Not directly from Victor Blackwell—that would have been too perfect—but from PMG's corporate communications department. It didn't matter. After years of typing furiously into the void, someone with actual industry power had acknowledged his existence. His cursor hovered over the message for three heartbeats before he clicked, eyes darting across each word multiple times to ensure he wasn't misinterpreting:

"Mr. Vega, Your recent coverage of Summit Fighting League has caught our attention. Peak Media Group would like to discuss potential business opportunities with you. Are you available for a meeting at our New York offices next Tuesday? Please reply with your availability. Regards, Corporate Communications, Peak Media Group."

Rico pushed away from his desk, rolling backward until his chair hit the wall behind him. His pulse thrummed in his temples as possibilities sprinted through his mind. A consulting position? A seat at the creative table? Perhaps a role within PMG's media division?

The validation was intoxicating. Of course they needed him—someone who understood wrestling's soul, not just its marketable shell. Someone who spoke the language of the diehards, the internet community that could make or break a promotion's reputation. They needed authentic perspective, not more corporate sanitization. Victor Blackwell might have the money and the connections, but Rico had something more valuable—the ear of the audience.

He wiped his palms on his sweatpants, mind racing through preparations. He'd have to excavate the button-down shirt buried in the back of his closet—untouched since his cousin's wedding three years prior. He would need to steam out the wrinkles, perhaps invest in a new tie. Perhaps even dust off that sports jacket he'd reluctantly worn to his birthday celebration at Villa Veneto, that pseudo-upscale restaurant which promised "authentic old-world charm" while actually delivering endless baskets of mediocre breadsticks and sauce that tasted suspiciously like it had been reheated several times throughout the evening. The transformation would require wrestling his unruly hair into something resembling an intentional style rather than the aftermath of a windstorm.

Most daunting of all, he would need to abandon the comfortable anonymity behind his keyboard, learning instead to command attention with his spoken words, to infuse his voice with the same confidence and authority that had previously existed only in the carefully edited sentences he crafted on screen.

Rico's hand reached for his phone, muscle memory nearly compelling him to post cryptically about "big opportunities on the horizon" and "changing the game from the inside." He caught himself—no, that would be amateur hour. This required discretion, strategy, professionalism.

Peak Media Group. A real opportunity. A legitimate salary.

For years, Rico Vega had shaped narratives from his mother's house, crafting storylines about an industry that barely acknowledged his existence. But now, the narrative had come to him—offering not just recognition, but elevation. As he examined his reflection in the closet mirror, Rico couldn't help but smile. The critic was about to become the criticized. The outsider was being invited in.

Seventy-Six Days

Jax Braddock stared at the number on his notepad with a mixture of pride and trepidation.

76.

Seventy-six days since alcohol had last passed his lips. Longer than his previous attempt. Longer than he'd managed in years. Yet the achievement felt hollow, more like a tightrope than a milestone—one misstep and he'd plummet back to zero.

The hotel room enveloped him in its generic comfort—beige walls bearing no memories, a bed barely disturbed, air conditioning humming its white noise lullaby. Another temporary space in a life built on transience.

Down the hallway, the sounds of celebration filtered through his door—laughter punctuated by clinking glasses, music providing a backdrop to camaraderie he wasn't sharing. The boys were drinking, as they always did after shows.

Not that there was much to celebrate. Most of the locker room hadn't even competed at the Contenders premiere. But in this business, reasons were optional. All you needed was an open tab and the collective agreement to forget tomorrow's consequences.

Jax exhaled slowly, massaging his temples with calloused fingertips. There was a time when he'd have been at the center of it all—first to the bar, last to leave, ordering doubles while everyone else nursed singles. He'd have belonged there, laughing too loudly, slapping backs too hard, waking up feeling like death but wearing it as a badge of honor.

Now he was being "an Elias."

The term had spread through wrestling locker rooms years ago named after Elias Rhodes, aka Titan. Not because Titan didn't drink, but because he never joined the post-show gatherings. He kept to himself completely, existed in his own universe, and made it clear he had no interest in the brotherhood of the locker room. In wrestling, if you skipped the bar after the show, you were "pulling an Elias."

Jax wasn't like that, not really. He wasn't isolating himself out of superiority or disdain. His absence wasn't a statement.

It was survival.

He glanced at his phone, the screen illuminated with a missed call notification. For a moment, Jax considered letting it sit. He already knew the message's content—another verse, another reminder of strength he sometimes doubted he possessed. The caller wasn't ordained, had no formal training, but spoke with the conviction of someone who had found absolute truth. Jax would typically roll his eyes at such certainty, but he always listened.

Because beneath his skepticism lived hope. With resignation, he tapped play.

"Proverbs 25:28 – 'Like a city whose walls are broken through is a person who lacks self-control.' The fight ain't just in the cage, brother. It's in you. Every day, every night. You're stronger than this. Hold the line."

The voicemail ended, leaving Jax in silence. He wasn't a believer in the traditional sense. He didn't pray before matches or attribute his wins to divine intervention. But these messages served as anchors when the currents of temptation grew strong, when the noise in his head threatened to drown out reason.

His devotion wasn't to any higher power. It was to the man he was fighting to become. His fingers drummed beside the notepad.

76.

One drink wasn't just one drink. One drink was erasure. One drink was starting over. The craving intensified on nights like this—when isolation pressed against his chest, when every ache from today's training whispered that relief was just one glass away.

But memory served as his most effective deterrent. One drink led to a second. A second led to oblivion. Oblivion led to waking in unfamiliar rooms, his body bearing evidence of fights he couldn't recall, his accounts drained from generosity he couldn't afford.

Oblivion led to Day Zero.

Jax inhaled deeply, straightening his spine as if physically bracing against temptation. He looked at the number once more.

76.

Not impressive in the grand scheme. Not worthy of celebration. But real. Tangible. His.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, it would be 77. With careful movements, he rose from the bed, grabbed his duffel bag, and tucked the notepad inside. He turned his phone face-down on the nightstand, the outside world temporarily shut out. The party could continue without him. The night would pass regardless of his participation.

One day at a time. One city at a time. One decision at a time. It wasn't a perfect solution. It wasn't even a permanent one. But for tonight, it was enough.

Skyline Executives

The forty-third floor of Peak Media Group's Manhattan headquarters offered an unobstructed view of the city skyline, though none of the executives seated around the conference table paid it any attention. The windows merely served as a reminder of their elevation—both literal and figurative—above the common concerns of the world below.

At the head of the polished glass table, Victor Blackwell observed the proceedings with the detached interest of a scientist monitoring a predictable experiment. His bespoke suit remained unwrinkled despite the hour, his posture perfect, his presence commanding the room without requiring a single gesture.

Across from him, Sebastian Greer, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the subtle movement betraying discomfort that his carefully neutral expression attempted to conceal. Behind him, a wall-mounted screen displayed a presentation slide bearing the stark heading: Tapout: Acquisition Analysis.

"I'll be direct, Victor," Sebastian began, his voice modulated to project confidence despite the shortfall of information on his slides. "The due diligence on Tapout has been... challenging."

Victor's lips curved slightly upward—not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment of amusement.

"Challenging," he repeated, the word carrying the significance of unspoken judgment. "How diplomatic of you, Sebastian. Please, continue with your findings, such as they are."

The subtle barb landed precisely as intended. Sebastian tugged at his collar before advancing to the next slide—a sparse organizational chart with more question marks than definitive information.

"Tapout exists in a state of corporate ambiguity," Sebastian explained, gesturing toward the screen. "The original LLC expired in 2019, yet the publication continued operations without any clear legal restructuring. We can't find current registration documents, tax filings are inconsistent at best, and their supposed corporate headquarters is a virtual office space in Hoboken that routes to a P.O. box."

Victor remained impassive; his stillness somehow more intimidating than any visible reaction would have been.

"Harrington and Wessler—the principals we identified as likely owners—seemed almost surprised by our interest," Sebastian continued. "They expressed immediate willingness to sell, suggesting a price point that, frankly, indicates they're eager to offload what they perceive as a liability."

Sebastian advanced to a slide showing minimal financial data. "Revenue streams are nebulous. Subscription numbers can't be verified. Their advertising contracts appear to be handshake deals at best. In essence, sir, what we're looking at isn't a media property in any traditional sense—it's essentially a glorified blog operating under a once-reputable brand name."

Victor's expression remained unchanged, offering neither encouragement nor displeasure. Sebastian, reading the silence as permission to speak freely, ventured into dangerous territory.

"Given these findings, I feel compelled to raise an alternative strategy," he said, straightening his shoulders. "PMG already owns VYBE Media, which has a robust digital infrastructure and established editorial processes. We could easily launch a combat sports vertical under that umbrella, or create an entirely new property that we build from the ground up—"

"Sebastian."

Victor's interruption was soft yet absolute. The room seemed to drop several degrees in temperature as he leaned forward, placing his palms flat against the glass surface.

"Do you understand what we're purchasing here?" Victor asked, his tone suggesting the question was not rhetorical.

Sebastian hesitated. "A digital publication with significant operational issues."

"Sebastian," he said smoothly, "we're not just buying a publication. We're buying perception."

Sebastian furrowed his brow slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Tapout has history," Victor continued, eyes locked onto Sebastian like a predator explaining its kill. "It’s a recognized name in the wrestling industry. The people who read it don’t give a damn about corporate infrastructure or LLC filings. They care about the brand, about the legacy. They trust the opinions written under that banner, even if the operation behind it is held together with duct tape and wishful thinking."

Victor rose from his chair in a single fluid motion, moving to the window where the late afternoon sun cast his silhouette against the Manhattan skyline. "When Tapout gives a match five stars, it means something to a very specific audience—an audience that matters to Summit Fighting League's success. When Tapout criticizes a promotion, that criticism carries weight."

Victor returned to the table, "we don't need their nonexistent corporate structure or their questionable accounting practices. We need their masthead. Their legacy. Their credibility."

He didn’t sit down—he stood over the table like a general briefing his war council, voice sharpening with each word.

"Tapout will chronicle the emergence of the Summit Fighting League—not as a curiosity or an experiment, but as the inevitable evolution of combat sports entertainment. It will document how PMG systematically dismantled the artificial barriers between disciplines. How we unified what others insisted on keeping separate."

He placed his palms flat on the glass surface, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that nonetheless commanded complete attention.

"Most importantly, it will bear witness to PMG's absolute domination of professional wrestling and mixed martial arts—not as a participant, but as the definitive historical record. The voice that tells future generations not just what happened, but why it mattered."

Sebastian absorbed the explanation, recognition dawning in his expression.

"Prepare the acquisition documents," Victor instructed, his tone brooking no further discussion.

"When you meet with Harrington and Wessler, make it clear: this isn't a negotiation. This is a courtesy notification that ownership is changing hands. The price is fair, considering what they actually possess, but the deal itself is non-negotiable."

Sebastian nodded, already making mental notes for the legal team.

"And Sebastian?" Victor added as he settled back into his chair. "Make sure Rico Vega doesn’t sniff this out. I want him blissfully ignorant until the moment I decide otherwise. When the time comes, I’ll be the one to personally hand him his walking papers."

The meeting concluded without fanfare, but the atmosphere in the room had shifted. What had begun as a puzzling acquisition of a failing publication had revealed itself as something far more strategic—another calculated move on Victor Blackwell's corporate chessboard. Not just the purchase of a website. The acquisition of authenticity itself.

Dirt Sheet Screw Job

The glossy black town car pulled up to the base of Peak Media Group's headquarters, its sixty stories of glass and steel commanding the Manhattan skyline like an exclamation point in the city's architectural sentence. Rico Vega didn't wait for the driver to come around—he emerged from the vehicle with self-important haste, tugging at his new blazer that strained noticeably across his shoulders. The price tags had been carefully removed just hours before, leaving behind a small thread he hadn't noticed.

"Next time," Rico announced to the driver with practiced nonchalance, "avoid the Holland Tunnel. I know at least three better routes into the city."

The chauffeur, whose services had transported genuine celebrities and executives for over a decade, offered a practiced nod of deference that contained not a single ounce of sincerity. Rico failed to notice the subtle dismissal, already mentally rehearsing his impending triumph.

"Hospitality industry 101," Rico continued unnecessarily. "The experience begins the moment your VIP enters the vehicle."

Without awaiting a response, he pivoted toward the entrance, shoulders squared with the confidence of a man who believed himself summoned rather than summoned. In his mind, this meeting represented validation—proof that his years of commentary from his mother's converted storage room had finally caught the attention of the industry's power brokers. PMG was trying to woo him. They needed him. He smirked to himself. Maybe Victor Blackwell wasn’t as untouchable as people thought.

The PMG lobby stretched before him like a cathedral to corporate success—soaring ceilings, exhibition-quality artwork, and furnishings that whispered of tasteful wealth rather than shouting it. Rico approached the reception desk, bypassing the electronic check-in kiosk that actual regular visitors used.

"I'll have sparkling water, light ice, with a Meyer lemon wedge," Rico informed a young lady seated behind the desk. Before she could say anything else, leaning one elbow on her counter. "Not regular lemon—Meyer. There's a difference."

"You must be Mr. Vega," the receptionist said, her tone neutral, betraying neither warmth nor disdain. The woman behind the desk regarded him with the blank professionalism of someone who had perfected the art of not reacting to presumptuous behavior. Her blank expression lingered just long enough to make Rico shift uncomfortably in his shoes.

"That’s right, sweetheart," he added with a wink, his misplaced confidence filling the void. "I’m sure you’ve been expecting me."

Just beyond the waiting area, Rico spotted Wessler and Harrington, the two relics from a bygone era of journalism. They sat side by side on one of the uncomfortable modern sofas, their posture speaking to men who had long since stopped caring about appearances. They had been instrumental in launching Tapout back when Rico was just another name in the dirt-sheet scene, but their time had passed.

Rico’s smirk widened. Guess the old fossils wanted in on the money train too.

"Gentlemen," a voice announced, disrupting Rico's internal monologue.

Sebastian Greer approached, exuding his usual brand of unbothered smoothness. Fully embodying PMG’s corporate aesthetic. "We're ready for you now. Please follow me."

As they all stood, Rico flicked his gaze back to the front desk.

"Yeah, so, I never got my water," he said, staring daggers at the receptionist.

She didn’t so much as blink. Sebastian turned, giving Rico the flattest look imaginable before responding with a deadpan, "Sure. I’ll get right on that." He motioned to one of his assistants. "Get Mr. Vega his water."

Rico, sensing victory, flashed a grin. "Make sure there's just a touch of Meyer lemon in it... not any regular lemon, but M-E-Y-E-R lemon." Rico emphasized the specific type of lemon.

The assistant nodded, playing their role in what Rico didn't yet understand was elaborately choreographed theater.

"Oh, and make sure it's not too bubbly," Rico added, basking in what he interpreted as special treatment. "The carbonation interferes with my vocal presence during negotiations."

Sebastian's response was a masterclass in professional restraint: "We wouldn't want that."

As they moved toward the elevator, Rico failed to notice the knowing glance exchanged between Sebastian and the assistant—the silent communication of those who understood the true purpose of this meeting.

The conference room on the forty-seventh floor offered a panoramic view of Manhattan that Rico tried to not acknowledge, too focused on mentally preparing his list of demands and suggestions. At the head of the gleaming table sat Victor Blackwell, immaculate in appearance and utterly still, flanked by Ollie Crane, whose vintage bow tie and suspenders seemed almost rebellious in the ultra-modern setting.

Rico settled into his chair with unearned familiarity, spreading his notes across the table as if claiming territory.

"Alright, let's get down to brass tacks," he began without preamble. "I've got a comprehensive vision for taking Tapout to the next level. First, we need to double down on our anti-establishment voice. That's what separates us from the corporate shills."

Neither Victor nor Ollie reacted to the irony.

"We need a podcast network—'Tapout After Dark' where we really dig into the backstage politics. Merchandise opportunities are endless: 'One Star Review' t-shirts, coffee mugs with my catchphrases. I'm thinking exclusive subscriber content behind a paywall—insider reporting that even the wrestlers themselves will pay to read."

Rico paused for dramatic effect, then delivered what he believed would be his masterstroke: "And I want editorial autonomy. Complete creative freedom. That's non-negotiable."

The silence that followed should have been his first warning. Victor, who had been observing with the detached interest of an entomologist studying an unremarkable insect, finally spoke. His voice was measured, almost gentle, yet carried an undercurrent of absolute authority.

"So, the documents look acceptable to you both?"

The question was directed past Rico, toward Wessler and Harrington.

Rico's expression faltered. "Documents?"

Wessler nodded slowly, his eyes downcast. "Everything's in order."

"Excellent," Victor replied, his tone shifting to one of finality. "We'll transfer the funds today."

Rico's head swiveled between the participants, comprehension dawning with sickening clarity.

"Wait, what documents? What funds? What's happening here?"

Victor's gaze finally landed on Rico, regarding him with the mild curiosity one might afford a street performer unexpectedly joining a private party.

"Tapout has been acquired by Peak Media Group," he stated simply. "The transaction was completed this morning."

Rico's mouth opened and closed several times before words emerged. "But... I'm the face of Tapout. The voice. The brand. You can't—"

"Mr. Vega," Victor interrupted with practiced precision, sliding a single document across the table. "Your short term employment….” Victor paused savoring the moment, “with Peak Media Group has been terminated, effective immediately."

Rico stared at the paper, uncomprehending, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less devastating if he looked long enough.

"This is a mistake," he managed, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning fog. "You need me. My audience, my insights—"

"What we needed," Victor corrected gently, "was Tapout's established brand and historical credibility. Your personal contributions were... incidental."

Rico turned to Wessler and Harrington, searching for allies. "You can't let them do this. We built this together. We're independent journalism!"

Harrington finally met his gaze, exhaustion evident in every line of his face. "Kid, we haven't been independent since 2018. We've been treading water, borrowing against the brand's reputation. This buyout is our retirement plan."

"Rico, your severance package is quite generous," Sebastian added from his position near the door.

"Absolutely nothing, but as a bonus we’ll let you keep your personal social media accounts."

Rico's breathing became shallow as reality crashed through his carefully constructed delusions. He hadn't been summoned to join the upper echelons of wrestling media. He'd been invited to witness his own professional execution.

Victor checked his watch—a noticeable signal that this portion of his day was concluding. Victor leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of absolute control as he slid a crisp sheet of paper across the table toward Rico. With measured precision, he clicked a sleek black pen before placing it atop the page. His voice remained smooth, almost casual, yet laced with an unmistakable edge.

"List any and all usernames and passwords for email accounts, social media accounts, and websites associated with Tapout."

Victor instructed; his gaze locked onto Rico’s increasingly pale face. "And let me be perfectly clear—if you omit anything, and we later discover it?" He let the silence stretch, savoring the moment before delivering the final blow.

"Well, to put it bluntly, we'll sue the living shit out of you."

The room fell into an oppressive silence, the only sound the faint ticking of a high-end wall clock behind Victor’s chair. Rico swallowed hard, his fingers twitching near the pen, hesitating as if reality had only now begun to sink in.

Victor pushed back his chair with a smooth, conscious motion, the legs scraping softly against the polished floor. Without another word, he adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, straightened his tie, and turned toward the door. Ollie Crane followed in lockstep, his hands casually clasped behind his back, his own expression unreadable.

Across the table, Wessler and Harrington exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting ever so slightly uncomfortable, uneasy. The two old men had been around long enough to see plenty of cutthroat business dealings, but this? This was a different breed entirely. The sharp-edged legal threat that had just left Victor’s mouth made it crystal clear that any complaints, any buyer’s remorse, would result in a similar fate for them. They had made their deal, cashed their check, and now, there was no going back.

As Victor reached the doorway, he paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder at Rico, who sat frozen in place, still staring down at the paper in front of him. The smallest smirk tugged at the corner of Victor’s lips—barely noticeable, but enough.

Wessler exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at the table. Harrington adjusted his glasses, his lips pressing into a thin line. Neither man spoke, but the weight of what had just transpired settled heavily between them.

They had built their careers on old-school handshake deals, on loyalty and trust. But now? Now they sat at the table of a different kind of businessman. A businessman who didn’t just win—he ensured his opponents never even had the chance to play the game again.

Sebastian remained behind to manage the aftermath. Rico sat motionless, the termination letter trembling slightly in his grip—a man who had spent years casting judgment now finding himself on the receiving end of a verdict from which there was no appeal. The sparkling water with Meyer lemon arrived just as the meeting concluded—a perfect, unnecessary garnish to the feast of humiliation that had been served.