For the thirty souls huddled in the room, it was the end of an era, a chapter slamming shut with a metallic clang. My job, the one I'd casually accepted with a wave of my hand and a casual offer, was done. Meteor Creative had absorbed them, every last one.
"So, that's that," I said, my voice deliberately light, pitched to cut through the tension. I watched their faces, a sea of anxious hope. Samantha Myers, a woman with the sharpest eyes and an even sharper mind, had already been appointed temporary Director.
Sabine, our new CFO and the rock of Meteor Creative, stood beside me, her expression calm but her knuckles white against her briefcase. The artists, the writers, the whole creative heart of Folly Comics… some were openly weeping, not with sorrow, but with a profound, bone-deep relief. It was a sound, that collective sigh of release, that always resonated with me.
"Good," I continued, picking up my own sleek, obsidian-black briefcase, a gift from Sunday, my ever-present AI companion.
"Collect your things, pack up, and be ready to move to New San Antonio. That's where you'll be working."
A ripple of confusion, then a chorus of questions, bounced off the walls. "Why New San Antonio?" a young artist, barely out of his teens, stammered, his voice cracking.
I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. It was a genuine one, too. Seeing their faces light up, envisioning the fresh start I was offering them, always put me in a good mood.
"Because that's where I am," I stated, the words hanging in the air. "And Meteor doesn't work anywhere else."
The room erupted. Cheers, whoops, and hollers filled the space. People were hugging, tears now streaming freely, not from fear, but from sheer, unadulterated joy. They were safe. They had a future. I watched them, a genuine warmth spreading through me.
It was a good feeling, this power to offer stability in a chaotic world. In the corner, a shadow lurked. Steve Kisonli, the supposed owner of Folly Comics, sat slumped, his face a mask of humiliation, utterly forgotten. He was a ghost in his own dying empire. Good.
The fluorescent lights of Folly Comics' main hallway buzzed like angry hornets overhead. My bladder felt like a water balloon about to pop after three hours of back-to-back acquisition meetings.
'Jesus Christ, where's the fucking bathroom in this maze?' I thought, sweat pricking my collar.
"Mr. Sael!" The voice cut through my piss-panic—sharp heels clicking on linoleum. Samantha. Late twenties, dark hair pulled tight, she practically skidded to a stop in front of me. "Sir! The restrooms are—"
"Where?" I growled, shifting my weight. Thump-thump-thump went my pulse against my zipper.
"This way!" She pivoted, her skirt swishing around toned thighs as she power-walked down a narrow corridor lined with framed comic covers—Supernova punching through planets, Lady Void in skintight noir shadows. Clack-clack-clack. Her heels echoed like gunshots.
We rounded a corner, and she stopped dead at a dented metal door marked "STAFF ONLY."
"It's… small," she breathed, cheeks flushing. "But it's the closest one."
I shove the door open. Creeeak. Tiny. Barely bigger than a supply closet—sink, toilet, ceiling light flickering like a strobe. I stepped in, already fumbling with my belt.
"Close it," I said.
The door clicked shut. Samantha stood pressed against it, chest rising fast. The air thickened—cleaning chemicals, her perfume, the raw need vibrating off her.
Her gaze dropped to my hands wrestling my zipper down. Zzzzip.
"Sir," she whispered, voice gone husky. "I… I need to thank you. For the job. For… everything."
I froze, cock half-out, thick and heavy against my thigh. Her eyes weren't on my face anymore. They were locked there, dark and liquid.
"Oh?" A slow smirk tugged my lips. "Thank me?" I let my pants sag low on my hips. "How?"
She sank to her knees. Thud. Knees hitting tile. No hesitation. Her fingers trembled as she reached for my waistband. "Let me… show you." Her breath hitched. "Please."
'Fuck.' The submission in her voice—like velvet wrapped around steel—went straight to my dick. It thickened, pulsing against her knuckles as she tugged my boxers down. My cock sprang free, thick-veined and already leaking. Plink, A drop of pre-cum hit the floor.
"Go on then," I rumbled, curling my fingers in her hair. "Show me that gratitude."
Her mouth opened—ahhh—and she leaned in, tongue darting out like a pink serpent. Lap. The first hot swipe along my shaft.
"Fuck yes." Electric. Her tongue swirled the head, wet and eager.
"Slurp!~" She sucked just the tip, hollowing her cheeks, eyes fluttering shut. "Mmmph… so good, sir."
"Taste good, Sammy?" I tightened my grip, guiding her deeper.
"Uh-huh," she moaned, lips stretching wider. Schlllk. She took half my length, gagging softly, tears glistening.
"Want… all of it." Her hands cupped my balls—heavy sacs tight with need. She nuzzled them, inhaling deep.
"Sniff~ God… your scent." Then her tongue was there—lapping under my sack, worshipping every ridge and vein.
"Lick-lick-lick…" Slow, filthy swirls. Her tongue was relentless—hot, wet worship against the taut skin of my balls.
"Slurp- schlick!!!... Slurp~." The sound echoed in the cramped bathroom, mingling with her desperate little whimpers. She buried her face deeper, nose pressed into my musk, inhaling like it was oxygen.
"Fuck, Sammy," I growled, grinding my hips forward. "You love these big fucking nuts, don't you? Smell like a goddamn addict."
She pulled back just enough to gasp, spit-slick chin trembling.
"Yes, sir. Love them." Her eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide as she drove back in, sucking one heavy orb into her mouth like a starving woman.
"Schlurp... Slurp!!! Slurp~" Her cheeks hollowed, lips sealed tight around it, tongue massaging the underside. Throb-throb-throb pulsed through me—my cock dripping onto her hair.
"Both," I ordered, yanking her head down harder.
"Suck 'em together. Show me how fucking hungry you are."
"Mmph! Slurp!!! Slurp!!! Aahhhh~" She whimpered but obeyed, stretching her jaw impossibly wide to take both balls at once.
"Schlllk—gllrk!!! COUGH!!! Slurp!!!" Gagging, tears streaking her mascara, but she didn't stop. Ravenous. Sucking hard, slurping, worshiping my sac like it held the goddamn cure. Her fingers dug into my thighs, anchoring herself as she choked on the sheer size.
"That's it," I hissed, watching her struggle.
"Take it…. Bet you dream about this, don't you? Kneeling in some filthy bathroom, gagging on my balls like a bitch in heat."
She pulled off with a wet pop, gasping for air, strings of saliva connecting her lips to my sack.
"Y-yes, sir," she rasped, voice wrecked.
"Dream about… tasting you…. All day." Her tongue darted out again, lapping up the pre-cum smeared on my shaft.
"Lap-lap-lap~ This slut Need your cum… down her throat." The desperation in her voice—raw, cracked—sent another jolt straight to my balls.
"Throb." Pre-cum dribbled down my shaft, glistening under the flickering light. Her eyes tracked it, hungry, like a wolf spotting blood.
"Needy little thing," I rumbled, tangling my fingers tighter in her hair. "Thought you wanted my cock?"
Her breath hitched. "I do, sir! Please—"
"Denied." The word cracked like a whip. Her shoulders slumped, but her lips stayed parted, waiting.
"You love these balls so much?" I ground my hips forward, shoving my heavy sac against her spit-slick mouth. "Prove it. Suck 'em like your life depends on it. Harder."
"Yes, Master~ Schlllk—GLLRK! Mmph! Slurp!!! Slurp!!!" She dove back in, taking both balls deep, gagging violently. Tears streamed down her cheeks, black streaks painting her skin. Her jaw strained, stretched obscenely wide around the thick weight of me.
"Schlurp-schlurp-schlllk!!!!." The wet, sloppy sounds filled the tiny room, echoing off the tiles. Her throat convulsed, muscles fluttering against my skin.
"Good girl," I growled, watching her struggle. "Choke on 'em. Show me how much you fucking crave it."
Her eyes rolled back, whites showing.
"Gllrk!!! COUGH!!! Gag-gag-gag. COUGH!!!" Spit bubbled at the corners of her lips. She didn't pull back. Just sucked harder, frantic, like she was drowning and my balls were air. "Schllllk—GLRK! HAH~ SSLLLRRRUUPPPP!!!!".
Then my hand snapped out. Rough. Fingers dug into the sides of her throat, squeezing just below her jaw.
"Cough-hack! COUGH!!! COUGH!!!" Her body jerked, face flushing crimson. Panic flashed in her eyes—real, primal fear.
"Hold it," I commanded, voice low and dangerous. I tightened my grip, cutting off her air. "Stay right there…. Take it."
She froze. Trembling. Eyes bulging. Face deepening to a furious purple-red. Tears and snot mixed with spit, dripping onto my thighs.
"Cough!!... cough!!..." Weak, wet rasps scraped from her constricted throat. Her lips stayed sealed around my sack, sucking weakly, obediently, even as she suffocated.
"Feel that?" I hissed, leaning down, my breath hot on her ear. "That's what you are now. My fucking ball-gag. Nothing more."
"Mmmph... HMMMPPPHHH!!!" A muffled whimper vibrated against my skin. Her body shook, desperate for oxygen, but she held the position. Submitting completely. Breaking beautifully.
I released her throat.
"GASP—WHEEZE!" She lurched forward, coughing violently, sucking in huge, ragged breaths. Her face was a mess—smeared makeup, flushed skin, lips swollen and bruised. But her eyes... still locked on my balls, still hungry.
"Again," I ordered, shoving my hips forward. "Swallow it all. Every drop."
She didn't hesitate. Lips parted. Tongue out.
"Schlurp Schlurp Lap-lap-lap Schlllk" Cleaning the sweat, the spit, the tears from my skin. Then she took me deep again.
"Schlllk!!!!." Sucking. Gargling. Worshiping. The ragged gasps tearing from Samantha's throat were music. Her lips stayed sealed around my balls even as she choked, spit and tears slicking her chin.
"Schlllk… gllrk… Schlllk" The wet, desperate sounds filled the cramped bathroom. Her eyes were bloodshot, pleading, but locked on me—waiting.
"Still hungry?" I growled, grinding my hips forward, shoving my heavy sac deeper against her bruised mouth. "Thought you wanted my cock?"
She whimpered, nodding frantically, lips vibrating against my skin. "Mmmph! Schlurp Mmmph!"
"Then beg."
Her mouth pulled free with a wet pop. Strings of saliva stretched between her lips and my balls.
"Please, sir!" Her voice was shredded, raw. "Your cock! Need it… need to taste it… please!"
I smirked. "Dirty little slut." My hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back hard. Her neck arched, throat exposed. Vulnerable. Perfect. "Open wide."
Her mouth fell open instantly—ahhh—tongue trembling, waiting. I slapped my cock against her cheek.
"Thwack!" The sound cracked loud in the tiny room. Her head snapped sideways, a sharp cry tearing from her. "Ah!"
"Eyes on me," I commanded.
She blinked, dazed, but obeyed. Her gaze locked onto mine, dark and drowning. I slapped my thick shaft against her other cheek.
"Thwack!" Harder this time. Her skin flushed pink beneath the sting.
"Good," I murmured. Then I dragged the swollen, leaking head across her plump bottom lip.
"Schllick." Pre-cum smeared like gloss. Her tongue darted out instinctively, licking it clean. Lick.
"Want it?" I teased, tapping the tip against her lips. Tap-tap.
"Yes!" she gasped, straining against my grip. "Fuck me with it, sir! Please! Deep!"
I shoved forward. "Schlllk—GAG!"
No easing in. No mercy. Just thick, veined steel plunging down her throat. Her eyes bulged—shock, pain, ecstasy. Glrk! Her throat convulsed, muscles fluttering wildly around my shaft. Fuck. Tight. Hot. Clenching like a wet fist.
"Swallow," I ordered, grinding deeper. Her nose buried in my pubes. "Take it all, Sammy."
"Guh!!… glrk!!…" She gagged, tears streaming anew, but her throat worked—sucking, milking me.
"Schlllk-schlllk." Her hands clawed at my thighs, nails digging in. Anchoring herself as I fucked her face. Short, brutal thrusts. "Thump-thump-thump" against the back of her throat.
"Skilled fucking mouth," I groaned, tangling my fingers tighter in her hair. "You practice on dildos? Dreaming of this cock?"
"Mmhmm!" she managed, the vibration shooting straight to my balls.
I pulled back slowly, letting her gasp for air. Spit-coated, glistening, my cock glistened under the flickering light.
"Tell me," I demanded, slapping it against her swollen lips again. Thwap! "Tell me how bad you need my cum."
Her chest heaved. "Need… need it, sir!" she rasped, voice wrecked. "Down my throat! Please! Fill me up! Make me swallow every drop!"
"Beg harder."
"I'll be your good girl!" she cried, desperation cracking her voice. "Your filthy cocksleeve! Choke me! Fuck my throat raw! Just… please… cum!"
The raw need in her scream undid me. Fuck.
I shoved back in—schlllk!—hilt-deep. Her throat opened, accepting me, sucking me.
"Gllrk… schlurp… Guh!!… Guh!!… " Her eyes rolled back, pure submission. Bliss.
I pistoned harder. Faster. Thump-thump-thump-thump! The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room.
"Smack-smack-smack!" Her gagging turned rhythmic, choked moans vibrating around my shaft.
"Mmmph! Guh! Mmmph!" The rhythm was brutal. Punishing. My hips hammered forward, driving my cock like a piston down her ruined throat.
"Thump-thump-thump!" Each thrust slapped my balls against her chin—smack-smack-smack!—leaving wet, red marks. Her gagging was constant now, a choked symphony of guh-guh-glrrk!Tears streamed unchecked, mixing with snot and drool into a filthy river down her neck. Her blonde bun had come completely undone, tangled strands plastered to her slick cheeks.
"Look at you," I snarled, tightening my grip on her hair until her scalp screamed. I dragged her halfway off my cock. Air rushed into her lungs in a wet, ragged WHEEEZE! Her throat gaped, bruised and glistening. "Admit it."
Her eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, swam up to meet mine. "S-sir— Cough-hack!" Spit flew.
"Say it!" I slammed back in—SCHLLLK!—burying her nose in my pubes. Her throat bulged obscenely, the outline of my shaft visibly stretching her skin. I held it there, grinding deep. "Tell me what you are!"
She choked, thrashing weakly. Guh-glrk-cough! Her hands scrabbled at my hips, not pushing away—clawing for purchase. Finally, a wet, broken rasp tore free: "Your slut!"
"Louder!"
"YOUR SLUT!" The scream vibrated around my cock. "Fuck! I love it! Love your rough throat-fucking! Please!"
The raw admission shattered something primal in me. Fuck yes. I pulled out completely, letting her collapse forward, gasping like a landed fish.
"Haaah… haaah…"Her shoulders heaved, forehead pressed to the grimy tile. Spit pooled beneath her lips.
"Not done," I growled. My cock throbbed, angry-red and dripping. "Look up."
She obeyed instantly, lifting her ruined face. Mascara streaked like war paint. Her lips trembled, swollen and split. Pure worship burned in her eyes.
I stepped closer. Aimed. A hot, golden arc hissed through the air—ssssssss!—hitting her forehead, splashing across her cheeks, dripping into her open mouth. Splash-splash. The sharp, ammonia tang filled the cramped space.
"Drink," I commanded, my voice gravel.
She didn't hesitate. Her tongue darted out—lap-lap-lap—catching the streams trickling down her face. Slurp. She swallowed greedily, eyes squeezed shut.
"Gulp". More flowed. She leaned forward, mouth open like a baby bird, catching it directly.
"Schlup-schlup-schlup.Gulp-gulp-gulp" Her throat worked desperately.
"Good fucking girl," I groaned, watching her swallow my piss like it was ambrosia. The stream slowed, became a drip. Plink… plink… onto her tongue.
She licked her lips clean, panting. "T-thank you, sir." Her voice was a shredded whisper, utterly spent. "More?"
I gripped my cock, slick with spit and piss. "Open."
Her mouth fell open—ahhh—tongue out, waiting. Trembling. Ready.
I shoved back in—SCHLLLK!—to the hilt. Her throat convulsed, accepting me instantly. Gllrk. I fucked hard, deep, unforgiving strokes.
"Thump! Thump! THUMP! " The wet slap of flesh echoed off the tiles. Her eyes rolled back, pure ecstasy on her broken face. She was mine. Utterly. Completely.
"Swallow it all," I growled, feeling the pressure build, my balls tightening like stones. "Every. Last. Drop."
Her muffled moan vibrated around me—Mmmph!—as I slammed home one final time and erupted. Thick ropes of cum blasted deep into her gullet—SPURT! SPURT! SPURT!—filling her, flooding her throat.
"GULP-GULP-GULP!" She swallowed frantically, throat muscles milking me dry. Her eyes fluttered, drunk on submission.
I pulled out slowly. Schlurp. My cock glistened, slick and spent.
Samantha slumped forward, coughing weakly—cough… hack…—but a thick strand of white still clung to her lower lip. She licked it slowly, deliberately. Lap. A blissful, shattered smile touched her swollen mouth.
"Perfect."
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across her wrecked face. That blissful smile on her swollen lips—filthy, triumphant—sent a fresh surge of heat through me. Fuck. She looked like a sacrifice offered and devoured. My piss still glistened in her hairline, mingling with sweat and cum.
"Up," I commanded, voice rough.
Samantha swayed as she pushed to her knees. Thud. Legs trembling. She braced a hand against the grimy sink, knuckles white. Her reflection in the smeared mirror—mascara rivers, split lip, throat mottled purple—made my cock twitch.
I stepped close behind her. Fingers dug into her hip. Hard. "Look at yourself."
Her breath hitched. Eyes locked on the mirror. On the ruin I'd made.
"See that?" I murmured against her ear, hot and low. "That's my artwork." My other hand slid down her stomach, under the waistband of her skirt. Rrrrip. Fabric tore. Her thong gave way like tissue paper. "Still hungry, Sammy?"
Her hips jerked back against me. "Yes." Raw. Needy.
My fingers plunged between her legs. Squelch. Soaking wet. Drenched silk. Her knees buckled—thump—against the cabinet.
"Fuck," I growled. "Dripping like a faucet. This what you wanted? Crawling to me like a bitch?"
Her head dropped forward, exposing the bruised column of her neck. "Y-yes, sir. Please—"
I shoved two fingers deep inside her. Schlup! Her back arched, cry shredding the air. Ahhh!
"Beg."
"Fuck me!" she screamed, hips grinding against my hand. "Hard! Now!"
She stayed kneeling. The flickering bulb cast jagged shadows across Samantha's face—mascara rivers cutting through the piss and cum glistening on her cheeks. Her chest heaved against my calf, breath hot through the fabric of my slacks. I nudged her chin up with my polished Oxford. "Look at me."
Her eyes snapped open—dilated pupils swallowing the dim light.
"Hike that skirt higher," I ordered, voice gravel-scraped. "Show me what you're begging for."
Rustle. Nylon whispered as trembling fingers dragged the hem past her hips. No panties. Just slick, swollen flesh gleaming under the bulb's erratic pulse. Her thighs trembled like plucked guitar strings.
"Christ, you're dripping," I chuckled, grinding my heel against her inner thigh. "Talk."
"I—I need it," she gasped, arching into the pressure. "Your cock… splitting me open. Fuck me raw, sir. Please. Please."
I grabbed her hair. Yanked her upright. "How bad?"
"So bad I'll scream," she whimpered, nails scraping my belt buckle. "Make me choke on it."
No foreplay. No mercy. I slammed into her with one brutal thrust—SCHLUCK—wet flesh yielding to the stretch. Her back hit the door, rattling hinges.
"FUCK!" Her scream shredded the air. Too tight. Too deep.
"Take it," I growled, pistoning harder. Thud-thud-thud against steel. Each drive punched the breath from her lungs. "You wanted raw? Earn it."
Her cunt clenched—vice-grip spasms milking me. "Yesss—hnngh—harder!"
I hooked her knee over my elbow. Dropped her lower. Sank deeper. Squelch. The head of my cock kissed her cervix.
"BREATHE!" I roared.
She gulped air like a drowning woman. "Gonna—gonna cum—"
"Not yet." I stilled. Buried to the hilt. Watched tears spill fresh tracks through the mess on her face. "Beg prettier."
Her sob hitched. "Ruin me… Sir. Fill me up. Wanna feel you—guh—pumping me full…"
I unleashed. Hammered her until the door hinges screamed. BANG. BANG. BANG. Her cries dissolved into wet, guttural grunts—uhn-uhn-uhn—with every brutal plunge. Sweat dripped from my jaw onto her heaving chest.
"NOW!" I snarled.
Her body locked. Tremors racking her from clit to fingertips. A silent scream tore her mouth open—eyes rolling back as her cunt fluttered around me. Hot cream drenched my shaft.
I followed. Pulled out halfway—just enough to watch her hole cling—then rammed home as I came. SPLOOSH. Thick jets painting her walls. Her womb.
She collapsed. Limp. Quivering. My cum oozed down her thighs.
I stepped back. Watched her slide down the door into a trembling heap. I let her catch her breath, her eyes were cloudy, as she were smiling from the bliss, and after a minute she came back.
"Clean me, Sammy….". I ordered,
"Yes, master~ Slllrrppp~" Samantha purrs and her lips, glued on my cock again. We stepped into the fluorescent glare of the hallway. Samantha limped beside me, thighs glued together, every step punctuated by a wet squish.
Her bun had unraveled—dark strands clung to her sweat-slicked neck. Samantha's breath hitched. A fresh trickle of white seeped through her skirt. Drip! Drip! Onto the linoleum. Naturally, since she is now my staff, we exchanged number, since she is now my cocksleve, I am sure that, we'll be seeing each other's a lot.
**********************
I stepped out of the building, my entourage in tow – Kate, my ever-vigilant lawyer, Ramona's surprisingly capable team who'd handled the legal intricacies, Sabine, and of course, Sunday's guiding presence a subtle hum in my ear – the scene outside was a stark contrast to the somber interior. The street, usually a relatively quiet artery in this forgotten corner of Hollywood, was now a frantic ballet of power.
Women. So many women. They poured out of branded, luxury vehicles, their footsteps echoing on the pavement, their power suits a uniform of ambition. Media vans, their satellite dishes pointed skyward like metallic sunflowers, clogged the street.
Representatives from every major player in the entertainment industry were there: the Hollywood Big 6, titans of the music industry, giants of the OTT streaming world, and an endless parade of agencies, each vying for a piece of the meteor. And the overwhelming majority, at least ninety-eight percent, were women. Their collective aura was a palpable force, a swirling storm of ambition and entitlement.
They swarmed me, a pack of hungry wolves, their voices a cacophony of pitches, flattery, and thinly veiled demands. I felt a flicker of annoyance, a slight tightening in my jaw. Honestly, it was exhausting. I stopped, the cacophony momentarily silenced by my stillness. My bluntness, a trait I'd honed over years of dealing with corporate sharks, landed like a well-aimed blow.
"No," I said, my voice cutting through the din.
"We can offer you—" the first representative, dripping with expensive perfume and desperation, began.
"No," I interrupted, the word crisp and final.
Another, bolder, stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "Silent Hill rights—"
"No. Stop wasting my time," I stated, my gaze sweeping over the frustrated faces. I had no desire to bargain, no interest in their inflated offers. I'd come for Folly's talent, not their intellectual property.
The crowd shifted, their carefully constructed smiles faltering. Then, a different kind of threat. A woman from Walt Mouse, her tailored suit impeccable, her smile as sharp and artificial as a plastic flower, stepped forward. The aura of old money and established power clung to her like a designer scent.
"You'll regret turning down Mouse," she said, her voice dropping to a cold, hard whisper that somehow carried over the lingering murmurs. "We own this town."
I stopped. Mid-stride. I turned, my gaze locking onto hers. The street seemed to hold its breath. I offered her a slow, deliberate smile, the kind that promised trouble. "Try that again when you've actually got something on me or Meteor Studio," I said, my voice dangerously soft, almost conversational. "Until then? Empty words."
I let the silence stretch, enjoying the subtle discomfort I was causing. Then, I added, my words a playful jab, delivered with a casual shrug, twisting the knife just a little deeper. "Or should Meteor enter the movie market? I wonder how Mouse would fare then."
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The executives from the film and drama sectors flinched, their jaws tightening visibly. The Walt Mouse representative paled, her carefully constructed facade cracking. It was one thing to be dismissive; it was another to threaten their very livelihood on their own turf.
In the stunned silence that followed, a new figure emerged from the periphery. Amelia John, the Dev Leader from Thundra Corp, a rival in the gaming world, approached. She didn't push, didn't shove, didn't demand attention. She simply walked, her stride measured and confident, falling into step beside me. Her presence was a quiet counterpoint to the frantic energy of the others.
"Meteor and Thundra can work together," she said, her voice calm and professional. She didn't try to grab my attention; she simply offered a statement of fact. "As a developer… I admire your games." Her eyes met mine, devoid of desperation, just a quiet acknowledgement of our shared space in the industry.
I nodded, my gaze still fixed forward, but my mind cataloging her every detail. "Thanks," I replied, my tone cool but acknowledging. "We'll work together. Later. I'm busy now."
Amelia offered a small, respectful smile. She understood. She didn't push. As I continued to walk, I caught her eye again, a casual glance over my shoulder.
"By the way," I said, my voice carrying the weight of unsolicited advice, "don't release your new game."
She frowned, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. "What game? We don't—"
"Sure," I interrupted, the grin returning, wider this time. It was a smirk of pure, unadulterated knowledge. "Keep denying it. But the code is trash, the design is worse. It'll flop."
The words hung in the air, sharp and brutal. Amelia, the confident Dev Leader, stood frozen, her jaw literally dropping. Around us, the entire street had gone silent. The clamor of ambition had been replaced by a stunned, collective inhalation.
And then, for good measure, I added, my voice casual, as if I were commenting on the weather. "And stop hacking Meteor's servers. It's annoying."
The silence that followed was absolute. Amelia's eyes were wide, her face a mask of shock and disbelief. The vultures, the sharks, the corporate wolves assembled on the street – they were all stunned into an unnerving stillness.
"Sael," Sunday's synthesized voice, smooth and reassuring, echoed in my thoughts. "The Folly Comics staff have settled in. Initial psychological assessments indicate a significant reduction in stress markers. They are… grateful."
"Good," I mused, swirling the remaining amber liquid in my glass. It wasn't alcohol, of course. Sunday made sure my indulgences were carefully monitored, though she'd learned that "carefully monitored" often meant "allowed, with a side of stern advice." This was a high-end, nutrient-rich beverage designed to mimic the sensation of fine whiskey, minus the liver damage.
A little bit of Earth's lost luxury for my current life. "It's always good to see people find their footing. Especially after dealing with… well, with Steve."
A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of amusement in Sunday's tone. "Steve Kisonli's public meltdown was… widely reported. The financial analysts are still trying to reconcile Folly Comics' sudden devaluation with your acquisition of its creative talent."
"Devaluation?" I chuckled, leaning back in my chair. "It wasn't devaluation, Sunday. It was a strategic redirection. Folly Comics, as a company, was a sinking ship. The crew, however, were top-notch. And I needed a good crew."
I thought about the faces of those artists, the sheer relief etched onto them when I'd offered them a place at Meteor. It wasn't just about acquiring talent; it was about saving them. In this world, where corporations treated people like disposable assets, offering stability was a radical act.
"The industry reaction to the street incident is fascinating," Sunday continued, her voice maintaining its objective tone.
"Walt Mouse's stock saw a minor dip. Several smaller studios have openly expressed… apprehension regarding your potential entry into the film market."
"Apprehension is good," I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. "It means they're paying attention. Amelia John's reaction was particularly satisfying, though. I sensed her… concern."
"Her reaction was predicated on your accurate assessment of Thundra Corp's unreleased project, codenamed 'Project Chimera,'" Sunday confirmed. "Your analysis of its flawed code and design was… disturbingly precise."
"Disturbingly precise, or just accurate?" I countered, enjoying the slight pause. Sunday rarely admitted to being taken aback. "I've seen it all before, Sunday. Or rather, I've seen what it becomes before it even gets here. That's the advantage of knowing the future, or at least, knowing its echoes."
The salt-laced wind off Venice Beach was usually a balm, a familiar companion to the chaotic symphony of street performers, hawkers, and the endless pulse of the Pacific. But today, even the ocean felt like it was holding its breath after the dust-up with Folly Comics.
The air still hummed with the phantom tension of the corporate vultures I'd just left circling, their beady eyes glinting with a mix of disbelief and thinly veiled fury at my "nuclear option"—offering jobs directly to their staff instead of buying their failing comic house. It was done, over, a clean break, but the residual energy clung to my skin like fine sand.
As we walked, the oppressive corporate stench slowly began to dissipate, replaced by the more honest, if sometimes questionable, odors of a bustling boardwalk. It was in this moment of mental detox, shaking off the weight of what had just transpired, that a singular, undeniable craving blossomed in my gut.
"Man… I'm craving donuts," I muttered, almost to myself, the words feeling utterly incongruous with the recent high-stakes drama.
Beside me, Kate, ever the picture of composed professionalism, blinked once, then again. Her usually sharp gaze, honed by years of legal battles, softened into something akin to mild bewilderment.
"Donuts? Seriously, Sael? After all that?" There was an incredulous arch to her eyebrow, a silent question about my priorities.
I shrugged, a casual, almost lazy gesture that belied the strategic calculus constantly churning beneath the surface.
"Yeah. I want donuts. Frosted, glazed, jelly-filled, hell, I'll take a cruller if it's good. Just… donuts." The craving was primal, a yearning for simple, unadulterated pleasure, a taste of comfort from a world that increasingly felt like a distant dream. It was my brain's way of hitting the reset button, I figured.
We meandered along the crowded beachfront, the scent of sizzling hot dogs and sugary churros wafting in competing waves. My eyes scanned the storefronts, dismissing the generic, the chain establishments, nothing quite sparking that specific, nostalgic itch.
Then, tucked away between a faded surf shop and a garish souvenir stand, a small, unassuming restaurant caught my eye. It looked a little rundown, the paint on its facade chipped in places, but there was a certain humble charm about it. Outside, a hand-painted sign, slightly askew, proclaimed:
"Kamsay's Kitchen."
As if on cue, the kitchen door swung open, and out stepped a man who looked like he'd just walked off a cooking show set. He was middle-aged, with a lean, wiry frame that spoke of endless hours on his feet, and a face etched with the kind of sharp features that suggested both intensity and a surprising warmth. His rough, unmistakable British accent preceded him as he offered a wide, genuine smile.
"Alright, mates? Just checking on the street for a bit of fresh air," he boomed, his eyes bright and curious.
"Gordon Kamsay, at your service."
'No way… ' I thought, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of my lips. This world's Gordon Ramsay? The universe really does have a sense of humor. A chuckle vibrated in my chest, low and amused.
Gordon Kamsay, it turned out, knew exactly who Sael VT was. His eyes widened, a flicker of pure recognition igniting them as he practically sprang forward, his smile even wider now, revealing a surprising set of perfectly aligned teeth.
"Bloody hell, it's you! Sael VT himself!" Gordon exclaimed, his voice practically trembling with excitement. He looked us up and down, then his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that could rival a plasma cutter.
"You've gotta eat at my place, mate! Just give me the chance—help me put this restaurant on the map, eh?" He gestured wildly with both hands towards the struggling establishment behind him, a desperate plea in his booming voice.
I merely chuckled, shaking my head slowly. The cosmic irony of encountering this particular chef when all I wanted was a simple donut was almost too perfect. "I appreciate the enthusiasm, Mr. Gordon…. But honestly, I wanted donuts, not steak. No offense."
Gordon didn't miss a beat. His sharp features contorted into an expression of almost theatrical pleading. He leaned forward, conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a fervent whisper, yet still carrying enough volume to be heard clearly over the general street noise.
"Then I'll make you the best donuts you've ever had, mate. The absolute best! Freshly made, to order, whatever you want. Just give me the chance. Please." His eyes, earnest and almost watery, pleaded with a sincerity that was hard to deny. He was a man fighting for his dream, and I recognized that fire.
Before I could fully process my answer, Kate and Ramona instantly objected, their voices a synchronized chorus of caution. Kate, ever analytical, saw the logistical nightmare. Ramona, ever vigilant, saw the potential risks.
"We don't have time for this, Sael," Kate stated, her voice firm, glancing at her phone as if it held the unforgiving schedule of the universe. "We have back-to-back meetings, and a detour for… donuts wasn't factored in."
Ramona, her hand subtly resting near the concealed weapon at her hip, scanned the few curious passersby. "Could be risky, Boss. An unscheduled stop, an unknown location…" Her voice trailed off, but the implication was clear: it was a security vulnerability.
I waved them off with a dismissive flick of my wrist. "Relax. It's Venice Beach. And it's just donuts." I wasn't about to let paranoia completely rule my life. Besides, the sheer absurdity of the situation amused me.
"Let him try. What's the worst that happens, bad donuts? We'll just get a refund and be on our way." The truth was, I liked the cut of Gordon's jib, and a celebrity chef in miniature, so passionate about his craft, was intriguing.
Reluctantly, with lingering glances of disapproval from Kate and a thorough sweep of the area from Ramona, they followed me. We stepped past Gordon, who practically bowed us in, into the surprisingly empty restaurant. The interior was tastefully decorated, with warm, muted colors, sturdy wooden tables, and framed pictures of various mouth-watering dishes adorning the walls. There was a faint aroma of spices and fresh bread, not unappealing, but it was clear this place was starving for customers. The quiet hum of the ventilation system was almost louder than any conversation.
The moment we were inside, Gordon Kamsay transformed. He rushed towards the kitchen, a man possessed, his earlier humble demeanor replaced by a fiery, almost theatrical intensity.
"Full speed ahead, you lot! We've got guests! Important guests!" His voice echoed from the kitchen, punctuated by the immediate clanging of pots, the hiss of oil, and the sudden roar of a gas flame. His "skeleton staff"—I imagined a few harried, underpaid prep cooks—were no doubt scrambling to keep up.
I settled into a comfortable booth by an open window, letting the fresh sea breeze wash over me, carrying the distant faint murmur of the waves and the shouts of beachgoers. It felt good to lean back, to just be for a moment, after the relentless pace of the day.
Kate slid in across from me, her datapad already active, its soft glow illuminating her focused expression. She wasted no time getting back to business.
"Next meeting is with Sun Flower Entertainment. Cassandra Roberts…. I took the liberty of calling her," Kate began, her thumb scrolling rapidly, "and explained the… change of venue. She's on her way here instead. It feels safer than having you travel all the way back to the studio for what will likely be a very tricky negotiation."
I nodded slowly, appreciating her foresight. The studio was a fortress, but the less travel, the fewer opportunities for unexpected encounters, the better.
"Fine. Good call." Then, I raised my voice, directing it towards the bustling kitchen. "Gordon!"
A muffled yell, barely audible over the kitchen din, confirmed he'd heard me. "Yes, Chef!"
"Make more food!" I shouted back, a faint smile on my face.
"It looks like we'll be here a while." The simple pleasure of an unexpected meal, served by a passionate chef, was exactly what I needed to re-center before the next round of corporate sparring.
Only a few minutes later, Gordon emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a clean towel, a triumphant grin plastered across his face. He carried a large, rustic wooden basket, piled high with an astonishing variety of donuts. My eyes widened.
There were the classics: glistening glazed rings, rich chocolate frosted, vibrant strawberry-pink. But then there were the more adventurous ones: a sprinkle-covered monstrosity that looked like it belonged in a cartoon, and then, nestled among them, a donut with a distinct, golden-brown hue and what looked suspiciously like… curry powder. My "perverted but funny" side often got a kick out of the bizarre, and this definitely qualified.
"Right then, Sael! Fresh out of the fryer, just for you. Tell me what you think!" Gordon beamed, his pride radiating off him like heat from a fresh oven.
I reached for a classic glazed, inhaling its sweet, yeasty aroma before taking a bite. The dough was impossibly light, fluffy, and the glaze shattered with a delightful crunch. Holy shit, these are actually really good, I thought, genuinely surprised. I gestured to the basket.
"Thanks, Gordon. These are incredible." I took another bite, then wiped my fingers. "You wanted publicity, right? To put Kamsay's Kitchen on the map?"
Gordon nodded so vehemently his head almost bobbed off his shoulders. "More than anything, mate! This place, it's my life!"
"Then consider it done," I said, pulling out my phone.
"I'll post this later…. A picture of these bad boys, maybe a quick shout-out to the 'best donuts on Venice Beach' from Sael VT. That should get a few eyeballs on Kamsay's Kitchen."
Gordon's face, already alight with hope, nearly exploded into a supernova of pure joy. He practically teared up, his rugged facade momentarily crumbling to reveal a genuine, childlike wonder. "You… you'd do that? For me?"
I just nodded, taking a bite of the curry donut, my brow furrowing in surprise as the savory spice hit my tongue, strangely compelling. "Yeah, Gordon. I would."
Just moments later, as I was still contemplating the culinary enigma of the curry donut, the restaurant's front door opened again. Cassandra Roberts entered. She was tall, with an elegant, almost regal bearing, despite the subtle lines of exhaustion around her sharp, intelligent eyes. Her tailored power suit was impeccable, but her shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight. The cutthroat world of corporate entertainment truly wore people down.
Before she could take another step, Ramona intercepted her, moving with a fluid grace that belied her imposing presence.
"Hold it right there, ma'am." Ramona's voice was calm, but her intent was unmistakable. Ramona proceeded to frisk Cassandra thoroughly, her movements professional and unyielding, leaving no doubt about the seriousness of the situation. Cassandra, to her credit, merely stood still, her expression a mix of weary acceptance and mild annoyance, allowing the security protocol to play out.
Once cleared, Ramona gestured her forward. Kate and Sabine, who had materialized by my side, stepped forward to meet her. Kate, ever the legal eagle, laid down the ground rules with a cool formality.
"Ms. Roberts, as you know, this is an informal meeting, but the terms remain the same…. No tricks, no bargaining games. Sael has a very clear objective, and we expect you to come to the table with an equally clear proposal. Surprises will not be tolerated."
Sabine, usually soft-spoken, added her own gravitas with a quiet intensity. "We operate on transparency here, Ms. Roberts. We value honesty above all else in our partnerships."
Cassandra Roberts, her gaze flicking from Kate's stern face to Sabine's serious one, and finally settling on me, nodded once, a curt, almost imperceptible dip of her head. Her face was a mask of solemn resolve. It was clear she understood the stakes. Or, at the very least, she understood that Sael VT was not a man to be trifled with.
********************
The scent of fried dough and sugared glaze clung to the air, a sweet counterpoint to the quiet tension across the table. Cassandra sat opposite me, her posture rigid, eyes sharp despite the faint shadows beneath them. She'd seen better days, financially at least, but the fire in her gaze was undimmed. I watched her, a half-eaten beef wellington roll nestled in its pastry prison on my plate, a testament to my ongoing war against the morning hunger.
"You look like you could use some comfort food," I mumbled, sliding a particularly plump, chocolate-glazed donut onto her plate with the tip of my fork. It landed with a soft, almost seductive thud.
She merely glanced at the donut, then back at me, her expression unyielding. "Allow me to be clear and straight forward… I'll sell everything…. Sun Flower ENT. will become Meteor Entertainment. My only condition—my people are rehired. They're loyal. They're good."
Her voice was crisp, decisive, like a freshly snapped baguette – no frills, no wasted words. I leaned back into the surprisingly comfortable cafe chair, the soft leather creaking in protest. My gaze remained steady on her, assessing the flicker of desperation behind the professional facade. She was a fighter, alright. A cornered animal, but one that still had bite. That was good. Very good.
"Agreed," I said, a slow smile playing on my lips. "But everyone gets screened…. No snakes… No leeches near my talent, we're building something clean here, Cassandra. No room for the kind of rot that brought down your last venture."
The implication hung in the air, pointed and precise. Her jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in her cheek, but she simply nodded, accepting the terms without argument. It was a fair trade, she knew. Loyalty for security, and a chance to purify the ranks.
"I understand and agreed, as I also wanted to build a better agency… and I believed together, we can do it…". Cassandra said calmly. Then, with a hesitancy that surprised me after her earlier bluntness, she pushed a pristine resume across the lacquered tabletop. The paper whispered as it slid.
"Then I ask one more thing," she began, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "I apply for the COO of Meteor Entertainment…. I can build stars…. And I can prove it."
I picked up the resume, not really looking at the immaculate formatting or the impressive list of accomplishments. I already knew what she brought to the table. She was a shark in a world of minnows, albeit one who'd been badly bitten. The industry whispered about her eye for talent, her ruthless negotiation skills, her unwavering dedication to the artists under her wing. She'd simply been surrounded by the wrong kind of sharks, the ones who ate their own.
"You know, that is quite, forward…." I said, tilting my head, a genuine smirk spreading across my face now, "I was going to offer it anyway... But since you asked—you've got it… COO, effective immediately."
Her eyes, which had been so guarded, suddenly shone. The relief that flooded her face was palpable, like a dam breaking. Her shoulders slumped infinitesimally, the tension easing out of her frame. It was a raw, human moment, and I recognized it for what it was: the forging of a powerful new alliance. She wasn't just joining Meteor; she was being given a chance at redemption, a new slate to write her legacy. And that, I knew, would make her fiercely loyal.
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a near whisper, cutting through the pleasant, if slightly artificial, hum of the cafe's ambient music. Cassandra was still basking in the glow of her new position, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. It was time to give her a reason to direct that newfound energy.
"Want a secret?" I asked, my eyes never leaving hers, watching carefully for the subtle tells. "The CFO that scammed you—the one you called a best friend? She was the one who sold you out."
The words landed like a physical blow. Cassandra froze, the delicate donut she'd finally picked up halfway to her mouth. Her hand, which had been relaxed, clenched around the pastry, nearly crushing it. The small smile vanished, replaced by a mask of stunned disbelief, then a slow, terrifying shift towards pure, unadulterated fury. Her knuckles whitened, her nails digging into the soft dough.
"I'll deal with her myself," she hissed, the words barely audible, squeezed through clenched teeth. Her eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, now burned with a cold, righteous fire. It was the look of someone who had just found out their most trusted confidante had plunged a knife into their back. It was personal. It was primal.
I merely smiled, a genuine, satisfied curve of my lips. "Good. That's what I wanted to hear."
'Because a loyal ally was good. A loyal ally with a deep, personal vendetta against my rivals? That was priceless.'
She wouldn't just work for Meteor; she would fight for it. And she would tear down anyone who stood in our way, starting with those who had betrayed her. The taste of victory was sweet, even sweeter than the donut she was now inadvertently dismantling.
Just as Cassandra was trying to compose herself, her knuckles still white against the crumpled donut, the chime above the cafe door announced two new arrivals. Ramona, ever vigilant, stepped forward, her movements fluid and silent as a predator. The air shifted, becoming noticeably heavier.
Director Martin Berg and Jose Caseras, CEO of Panamic Vision, strode in, their presence alone radiating power and an almost old-world Hollywood gravitas. Martin, a man whose face was as synonymous with blockbuster cinema as the opening credits themselves, had a neatly trimmed silver beard and eyes that had seen every trick in the industry book. Jose, younger but no less imposing, carried himself with the slick confidence of someone who owned entire media landscapes. They were legends, titans, and suddenly, they were standing in a donut shop.
Ramona, however, didn't care for legends or titans. She approached them with the same no-nonsense efficiency she'd shown everyone else.
"Hands," she commanded, her voice a low growl that cut through the cafe's ambient buzz. "Pockets. Belongings."
The two men stiffened, their expressions a mixture of surprise and offence. Jose Caseras actually grumbled, a low rumble in his chest that probably usually made assistants sprint. Martin Berg, though, just offered a tight-lipped smile, a flicker of something like amusement in his eyes, as he complied. Ramona frisked them with the precision of a seasoned security pro, patting down their expensive suits, checking under their arms, even glancing at their shoes. It was a thorough, humiliating inspection for men who were accustomed to being fawned over.
Their eyes, once cleared, scanned the cafe, and then landed on Cassandra. A momentary flicker of recognition, perhaps even surprise, passed between them. They knew each other, clearly, and the unspoken history between them added another layer of tension to the already charged atmosphere.
Martin cleared his throat, regaining his composure, his gaze finally settling on me, the teenager calmly devouring a monster beef wellington. "You're Sael VT?" he asked, his voice deep, accustomed to commanding attention.
I looked up from my plate, a piece of flaky pastry clinging to the corner of my lip. I chewed slowly, deliberately, savoring the rich, savory filling.
Then, without an ounce of inflection, deadpan, I replied, "No."
Both men froze, awkward silence descending like a sudden, heavy curtain. Their powerful, practiced smiles faltered. Ramona, satisfied with her search, returned to her post, a silent sentinel by the door.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin, a slight smirk now playing on my lips.
"Sit down anyway," I offered, gesturing vaguely to the empty chairs at our table. "You wanted something? Ask away…. Just don't get in the way of my donuts and beef wellington."
The two legends of Hollywood—men who commanded billions, whose words influenced global entertainment, who could make or break careers with a single phone call—were reduced to stunned silence in front of a teenager eating donuts. Their expressions were a priceless blend of irritation, confusion, and a reluctant respect for someone who clearly didn't give a damn about their status.
But before they could even properly process my dismissal, before they could speak a single word of whatever grand proposition they'd come to deliver—the cafe doors slammed open with a violent crack.
Loud voices, accompanied by a cacophony of jingling chains and heavy footsteps, announced the arrival of a hip-hop entourage. Heminem and Wayne East swaggered in, literally dripping with enough gold and diamonds to fund a small nation. Their entourages, a phalanx of burly bodyguards and scantily clad women, trailed behind them, filling the quiet cafe with a sudden, overwhelming surge of noise and chaotic energy. The air, already thick with the scent of donuts, was now laced with expensive cologne and a distinct whiff of… something else. Entitlement, perhaps.
Heminem, spotting me instantly, roared, his voice cutting through the din like a cannon shot.
"Ay yo! Sael! Let's make a song, man!"
I took another bite of my beef wellington, a tiny sigh escaping my lips, inaudible amidst the chaos.
'Here we go again.'