The Romario Bar was noisy in a thick, friendly way. The cigarette smoke hung down from the ceiling and mixed with the odor of spilled beer and sweat. Posters of IRW on walls—some faded and others with newer taped-up patches—were in nearly every place you looked at in the Romario. It was the IRW Ultras' ground.
Harry Khan stood near the center, arms crossed, tattoos visible beneath the dim lights. The moment he finished relaying Vince Maston's decision—to stand down, to wait—voices exploded.
"What do you mean wait?"
"They hit our boss!"
"NPJW thinks we're weak now!"
"This is bullshit!"
The sounds of chairs being moved; fists slamming against tables; and finally, as one man kicked over a stool spilling a good amount of beer onto the floor.
"They crossed the line."
Harry's voice was loud and full of anger.
Harry spoke softly but with force. "We don't win wars by kicking our opponent's ass in the street. We don't fight wars by doing something without thinking first."
A voice was heard. "That's easy to say now. He's not the person that got beat."
Harry gritted his teeth. "Vince Maston was the one that got beat. Vince didn't ask for us to come rushing in like idiots."
All were silent.
Harry continued. "Vince promised. NPJW is going to pay. Not today, not tomorrow. But when it does, NPJW will regret learning our name."
A few men nodded in agreement but most were noncommittal.
"We're in this for the long term," said Harry. "If you can't support that, get out now."
-------
Vince Maston was riding in Gavin Lindman's car the next day and was viewing the city through tinted glass.
The cast on Vince's right hand pressed down on his thigh, and the swelling of his jaw left a small purple area below his eye. Vince was dressed in his black suit tailored to perfection with a clean, sharp look; he considered this to be a suit of "armor" comparable to what he would have worn in public.
Ren Hoult, who was chosen by Gavin to be their attorney, occupied the rear seat. Ren looked to be in his early 30's, a young man with a large build and a well-kept beard. He seemed very professional and observant.
"Are you alright?" Gavin asked as he glanced over at Vince while negotiating the traffic.
Vince nodded, "I'm ready."
They pulled to a halt in front of a 20-storey building of glass and steel —Vox Broadcasting.
Gavin observed the front of the building and sighed, "This is either genius… or financial suicide.
Vince smiled slightly and replied, "Both types of decisions are usually very close together."
When they exited the vehicle, they noticed a young, confident-looking man, dressed very well with round spectacles, was already waiting for them at the entrance to the building. The young man had neat blond hair and had a careful, formal appearance to him.
He extended his hand immediately. "Mr. Lindman. Welcome to Vox."
Gavin shook it. "Good to finally meet you."
He turned slightly. "Vince, this is Nicholas Branchett. Creative Head of Vox."
Nicholas turned, eyes briefly flicking to Vince's cast and bruised face before settling back into polite neutrality.
"Mr. Maston."
Vince shook his hand with his left. "Pleasure."
Nicholas hesitated. "I hope I'm not overstepping, but—are you alright?"
Vince smiled easily. "Minor accident."
Nicholas flushed. "I wish you a speedy recovery."
They entered the building and rode the elevator in silence, glass walls revealing the city shrinking below them. On the way up, Nicholas explained Vox's internal structure—regional divisions, content arms, legacy contracts, long-term liabilities. Vince listened carefully, noting what was said—and what wasn't.
When they reached the top floor, a secretary stood outside the main office. Young. Impeccably dressed. Strikingly attractive.
"Mr Jinkawa is waiting", she informs them with a slight bow.
The office inside is immaculate in a minimalist style.
As they entered, Kenji Jinkawa rose from behind his desk. He looked late 50s and had on a sharply tailored suit. However, his tired eyes indicated that he has one foot out the door.
"Gentlemen", Mr Jinkawa states. "I'll be brief; let's not waste any time".
He was right.
There was little time wasted on pleasantries; only comments about the city, weather and market trends. Then he leaned back in his chair.
"Normally companies submit their bids formally", he explained, "then lawyers negotiate and the boards vote".
Gavin wasn't able to get something out before Vince raised his left hand slightly.
"Respectfully", Vince stated in a calm tone, "We are here to get this done quickly".
Mr Jinkawa kept looking at Vince.
"You are trying to sell Vox", Vince continued, "You want to get out of Dodge, and I want to buy Vox, so let's not play around and get to talking".
A pause.
Mr Jinkawa smiled, "I like that".
The negotiations started.
They discussed numbers, liabilities, debts, broadcasting rights, infrastructure and staffing issues.
Ren Hoult only spoke when it was necessary, and he was precise and measured. Gavin pushed back when he could. While Vince mostly listened.
He noticed something important.
Nicholas Branchett barely spoke.
He deferred constantly. Let Jinkawa take the lead. Observed everything.
Interesting, Vince thought.
aligned.
Vince stood and extended his hand.
"Tomorrow," he said.
Jinkawa shook it. "Tomorrow."