Wolves of Manhattan

The conference room at Peak Media Group’s Manhattan headquarters felt less like a meeting space and more like a corporate war room—a place where fortunes were decided and lives dismantled with the stroke of a pen. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the steel-and-glass jungle of the city below, reflecting the warm glow of late afternoon light. The long, polished table in the center of the room gleamed under the cool LED fixtures above, each sharp reflection a reminder of the precision and control that governed this place. At the head of the table sat Victor Blackwell—the current architect of it all.

Victor sat with an air of supreme confidence. His silver-streaked hair is slicked back, perfectly complementing his well-groomed beard, which frames a smirk that never quite fades. Draped in a tailored dark gray suit, Victor’s presence was both commanding and refined. The crisp black tie knotted against his shirt reinforces his image of a man who values control and precision. His eyes, a piercing shade of storm-gray, swept across the room with the same quiet authority as a predator surveying its domain. No wasted movements, no unnecessary words—only calculated control.

Across from him, Sebastian Greer leaned back in his chair, the picture of brute efficiency. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit over a simple black V-neck shirt, Sebastian blends professionalism with effortless confidence. His polished dress shoes reflect the dim light, a subtle testament to his attention to detail. His posture is relaxed yet deliberate—arms lightly clasped, one leg crossed over the other—giving the impression of a man who never acts without purpose. His gaze is measured, his presence commanding, leaving little doubt that he is not someone to be underestimated.

“The Infinity liquidation is complete,” he said, closing his tablet with a decisive snap.

“Content assets have been absorbed into our existing platforms. Workforce reduction is ahead of schedule.”

Victor didn’t react immediately. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make the room feel smaller. Then, he exhaled through his nose—subtle, controlled.

“Good.”

Sitting to Sebastian’s left, Oliver Crane adjusted his glasses, a thin smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Unlike Sebastian, Oliver wasn’t physically imposing—he was lean and wiry, with an air of quiet authority. Dressed in a neatly pressed button-up with a bow tie, layered under a dark knitted vest, and pinstriped trousers, he looked more like an old-school banker or a shrewd academic than the CFO of a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate. A fedora sat atop his neatly groomed gray hair, adding to his vintage, almost calculating demeanor. But where Sebastian enforced, Oliver orchestrated. His weapon of choice wasn’t physicality—it was numbers, contracts, and the kind of legal maneuvering that ensured Peak Media always came out on top.

“We gutted them,” Oliver said matter-of-factly. “The platform was never viable. But their intellectual property? That’s where the money was.” He tapped the armrest of his chair, his smirk widening. “Thirty percent profit margin within the next quarter.”

From across the table, Genevieve Vaughn shifted uncomfortably, her auburn hair catching the light as she folded her arms. Unlike her colleagues, she didn’t look particularly thrilled. Her deep green eyes flickered toward the screen at the far end of the room, where the Infinity Entertainment logo still lingered—a ghost of a company that had once promised innovation, now just another trophy in Peak Media’s collection.

“And the employees?” she asked, her voice measured but tinged with unease. “A lot of people lost their jobs in this ‘liquidation.’ What’s the narrative we’re spinning for the press?”

Victor finally turned to her, his gaze cold but unreadable.

“The narrative is simple,” he said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “Peak Media Group acquired Infinity Entertainment to ensure their legacy endures. Their vision lives on through us. That’s what the press release says.”

He held her gaze, unwavering.

“And that’s what the public will believe.”

Genevieve pressed her lips together, clearly dissatisfied but unwilling to push further. She knew better than to challenge him outright.

Victor turned his attention to Oliver. “And the leadership team?”

Oliver leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed indifference. “Golden parachutes all around. We’re set for a nice little bonus.”

Victor nodded, satisfied. “As it should be. The ones who make the hard decisions deserve to reap the rewards.”

Sebastian folded his hands together, resting his elbows on the table. “Speaking of hard decisions, what’s next? The Infinity deal’s wrapped up. Are we moving on to the Imperial Pictures acquisition?”

Victor’s smirk widened as he tapped the polished table.

“Not quite.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Something else on the horizon?”

Victor pushed himself up from his chair and moved toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched out before him like a chessboard—millions of people, each playing a role they didn’t even realize had been assigned to them. He stood there for a long moment, his hands clasped behind his back, as if admiring a masterpiece only he could truly appreciate.

Then, without turning around, he spoke.

“MMA and pro wrestling.”

The air in the room shifted.

Genevieve blinked. “You’re serious?”

Victor turned, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. “Deadly serious.”

She hesitated. “That’s… a niche market, isn’t it?”

Victor’s smirk widened. “It’s an untapped empire waiting for the right hands to mold it. And with the right branding, the right talent…” He let the sentence hang, letting them fill in the blanks.

Sebastian leaned forward slightly. “And you already have a plan.” It wasn’t a question.

Victor steepled his fingers, his voice measured, deliberate.

“A man approached us recently. Logan Drake.” He let the name linger, watching their expressions. “Ring any bells?”

Sebastian frowned slightly. “Can’t say it does.”

Victor’s smirk deepened. “Didn’t think so. He’s a nobody with a dream. But that dream caught my attention.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “And why do we care?”

Victor exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Because Logan thinks we’re investing in his dream.” He let the words settle before continuing. “He called, requesting a meeting to pitch an idea for a one-night tournament. His words, not mine—‘Pro wrestlers versus fighters. Winner takes all.’”

Sebastian drummed his fingers against the table. “And what’s the ‘all’ in this scenario?”

Victor turned back toward the window, his expression unreadable.

“Logan didn’t have the slightest clue beyond some vague nonsense about ‘respect.’ So, I decided to sweeten the pot.” He turned, his smirk now wolfish. “I told him Peak Media would put up half a million dollars for the winner.”

Genevieve’s breath hitched slightly. “You offered $500,000? For what?”

Victor shrugged. “Because I could.”

Sebastian let out a low chuckle. “He must have lost his mind when he heard that.”

Victor nodded, amusement flickering in his cold gaze. “I could hear his jaw practically hit the floor. He thinks we’re doing this out of the goodness of our hearts.”

Oliver laughed under his breath. “He doesn’t seem to know who he’s dealing with.”

Victor’s grin widened. “Exactly. Logan Drake is desperate. He believes this tournament is his golden ticket. And I’ve structured the deal to ensure that, even if it succeeds… the only

people getting richer are sitting at this table.”

Sebastian leaned back, nodding slowly. “You’ve already thought this through.”

Victor’s voice was ice-cold certainty.

“Of course I have.”

He turned back to the window, watching the city below—the game board where everyone else fought for scraps while the wolves at the top feasted. And in his mind, the tournament was already a success. Because by the time Logan Drake realized the game was rigged, it would be far too late.