The conference room smelled like money and old coffee.
Not the burnt, desperate smell of her apartment's instant kind, but the ghost of expensive beans brewed hours ago in a machine that probably cost more than her yearly rent. The air-conditioning hummed quietly. The carpet was thick and colorless. The walls were lined with framed degrees and tasteful abstract art that looked like someone had spilled ink on canvas and charged five figures for it.
Amara sat in a chair that was too comfortable to be reassuring, fingers knotted together in her lap. Across the table, three people in nearly identical dark suits paged through nearly identical stacks of paper. Their names and positions had already blurred together in her head: Associate This, Partner That, "from Litigation," "from Reputation Management."
At the head of the table sat Adrien Hale.
He looked less like a lawyer than like the charming villain side character in a prestige drama—the one audiences loved right up until he did something unforgivable. His dark hair was swept back neatly, his tie a subtle deep blue. No visible wrinkles, no coffee stains, no paper cuts. His posture was relaxed but precise, as if someone had measured the angle of his shoulders with a protractor.
He smiled when he caught her looking. It was a good smile: soft at the edges, professional, almost kind. It made her more nervous, not less.
Next to her, Patel sorted his own much thinner folder, glasses low on his nose. His suit wasn't as crisp as theirs. His tie was slightly skewed. There was a faint coffee ring on the corner of his notepad. He looked very human in this room, which made Amara cling to him like a lifeline.
And at the far end of the table, one seat removed from the heart of the action, sat Lucian Valtor.
He had the air of someone who could afford to be bored but wasn't. His suit today was charcoal, his tie black, his scar a pale half-moon in the corner of his mouth. He didn't have any papers in front of him. A single glass of water sat untouched by his hand. His attention moved between the lawyers with idle ease, but every so often his gaze circled back to Amara, weighing her like part of the agenda.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to. His presence did more than any paragraph in the complaint.
"Ms. Reyes," Adrien said, drawing her attention back. "Thank you for coming."
As if she'd had a choice.
Patel had explained on the phone: pre-trial settlement conference. Opportunity to "narrow issues," "clarify positions," "discuss potential resolution." Words that sounded, in his mouth, like maybe-this-won't-be-a-bloodbath.
Now, inside Valtor Group's chosen law firm—a high-rise with its own view of the city and the kind of reception area that whispered retainers in five digits—those phrases felt like set dressing around a firing squad.
"We're here today," Adrien continued, "to see whether we can arrive at an arrangement that satisfies all parties without the need for protracted litigation."
His voice was warm. Not syrupy, not false. Just… smooth. The kind of voice that could read someone their execution order and convince them it was a generous opportunity.
Patel cleared his throat. "My client is open to hearing your proposal," he said. "We'll of course reserve all rights and defenses."
"Of course," Adrien said pleasantly. "Shall we begin, then?"
One of the other lawyers—Ms. Kwan, Compliance—slid a printed document to the center of the table. A few pages, clipped neatly. No dramatic title this time, just: Settlement Term Sheet (Draft).
Patel pulled it closer and angled it so Amara could read.
Her eyes scanned the bullet points.
Immediate removal of the webcomic "Alpha of the Boardroom" from all public platforms.
Permanent cessation of publication of any work featuring the character known as "Alpha" or any substantially similar depiction.
Public statement issued by Ms. Reyes clarifying that her work is wholly fictional and disavowing any intentional connection to Mr. Valtor. Draft to be approved by Valtor Group.
Assignment of rights in existing "Alpha" character designs and storyline to Valtor Group.
Payment of damages in the amount of [redacted in draft] plus reasonable attorneys' fees.
Non-disparagement and confidentiality agreement preventing Ms. Reyes from publicly discussing the settlement terms or making negative statements about Valtor Group or Mr. Valtor in the future.
The words swam for a second.
They weren't just asking to take her story down.
They wanted it. The bones of it. The man inside it. His name. His ring. His scars. His history, on the page and in the margins. They wanted to own the monster she'd created with stolen features.
Patel's jaw tightened. "That's… extensive," he said carefully.
Adrien folded his hands on the table, still smiling. "These are, as stated, draft terms," he said. "A starting point. We're open to discussion on certain numbers."
"Certain numbers," Patel repeated. "But not on the core demands."
"Our core concerns are reputational and proprietary," Ms. Kwan said crisply. "The ongoing association of Mr. Valtor's image with a violent supernatural character presents both legal and public perception issues we cannot ignore. Any resolution must address that at the root."
"And from our perspective," a third lawyer—Douglass, External Affairs—added smoothly, " allowing the work to remain available in any form continues to reinforce those associations. Half-measures won't solve the problem."
Amara felt her ribs tighten around her lungs. "You're calling my entire comic a problem," she said. "Like it's mold in your bathroom."
Three sets of legal eyes turned toward her. Lucian's attention sharpened imperceptibly.
Patel laid a warning hand on her forearm. "We'll respond in order," he murmured.
She swallowed her instinctive retort and sat back.
"Let's start with the basics," Patel said. "My client disputes the allegation that she deliberately targeted Mr. Valtor. We will argue that any resemblance is either coincidental or falls under protected creative expression. Taking down her entire body of work and forcing assignment of her characters is a disproportionate remedy."
Adrien tilted his head. "With respect, Mr. Patel, Ms. Reyes's own audience clearly identifies the character as Mr. Valtor," he said. "We're not dealing with an abstract critique of 'rich men in general.' We have thousands of readers tagging him by name, making comparisons. That's not a coincidence. That's a public perception problem we are obligated to address."
"Public perception is fickle," Patel said. "It can be addressed with clarity, not just erasure. A prominent disclaimer, for instance. Amara is willing to adjust future designs to further differentiate—"
"Future designs are not the issue," Ms. Kwan cut in. "The existing content is. The most-viral episodes. The memes. The edits. Once something is on the internet, it is difficult to contain. But we can at least ensure the source is no longer feeding the narrative."
"Feeding," Amara muttered. "Nice choice of word."
She had written panels where her Alpha talked about feeding his pack, feeding stockholders, feeding on fear. Hearing her work fed into this room as a problem made her teeth ache.
Patel ignored the aside. "You're asking a young independent creator to not only remove her work but sign over the rights to her own character," he said. "That's an extreme condition."
Douglass smiled without warmth. "We need to ensure we control any future exploitation of a character so closely linked—rightly or wrongly—to our client's image," he said. "Otherwise, what stops Ms. Reyes, or someone she sells or licenses the character to, from repurposing him in new, equally problematic contexts?"
"Artistic integrity?" Amara said before she could stop herself. "Basic decency? The fact that I am not a corporation planning brand strategy over my drawings?"
Adrien's gaze flicked to her, amused. "Ms. Reyes," he said lightly. "We're not accusing you of being an evil mastermind."
"Just a poor one," she shot back. Her voice shook, but she held his eyes. "You're talking about my comic like it's a defective product. It's… my work. My story. It took me years to build. People care about it."
"And our client's name, reputation, and brand took decades to build," Douglass said. "A single piece of viral content can damage that very quickly. I'm sure you understand virality, given your recent success."
"Success," she echoed. "You mean the trending hashtags that got me here."
Adrien spread his hands slightly, palms up – the picture of reasonable compromise. "We're not here to diminish your effort, Ms. Reyes," he said. "You've created something clearly compelling. But compelling doesn't trump lawful. Freedom of expression is not absolute, especially when it collides with another party's rights."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Patel glanced at her, a silent plea for restraint.
She thought of all the nights she'd spent drawing until her wrist ached. Of readers writing that her story made them feel seen, made them laugh, made them cry. Of the way the world had burned behind her Alpha's shoulders when he refused fate in panel 3 of Episode 67.
"You keep saying 'rights,'" she said quietly. "What about mine?"
Adrien's smile dimmed a millimeter. "You do have rights," he said. "And we're not here to strip them entirely. No one is arresting you. No one is forbidding you from ever creating again. But there are consequences when your creativity crosses certain lines."
"Lines like drawing a man who kind of looks like a rich guy people already know?" she asked. "Lines like telling a story where someone with power is also a monster?"
"Lines like using identifiable elements of a real person's likeness and attaching them to a character who commits crimes and is depicted as… let's say morally complex," Ms. Kwan said. "In a way your audience directly ties to that real person. There are legal precedents."
"Precedents," Amara repeated. "Of big companies stepping on small artists when they get nervous, you mean."
Patel's fingers tightened on her arm. "Amara," he murmured.
She exhaled sharply and bit down on the rest.
Across the table, Lucian remained silent.
His gaze, however, had sharpened. He watched her the way someone at a poker table might watch an opponent who kept betting with bad cards—half expecting the crash, half curious whether she had some unknown leverage.
She wondered what her defiance looked like from his side. Cute? Irritating? Pointless?
"Let's talk specifics," Patel said, reclaiming the conversation. "The damages figure is blank here. Do you have a number in mind?"
Adrien's smile returned, cooler now. "We're still calculating," he said. "Lost goodwill, potential impact on future negotiations, cost of reputation management. But given Ms. Reyes's financial situation, we're prepared to discuss a structured payment plan, and possibly a reduced lump sum, contingent on full cooperation with the other terms."
A reduced lump sum. As if they were offering her a nice discount on her own destruction.
Patel scribbled something on his pad, then looked up. "And if she does not agree to assign her rights?" he asked.
"Then we litigate," Ms. Kwan said simply. "And pursue all remedies available. Including, potentially, an injunction preventing her from using this or any confusingly similar character in the future regardless."
"So in both scenarios, you're trying to kill the story," Amara said. "The only difference is whether you also want its corpse on your bookshelf."
"And protect our client from further unauthorized use of his image," Douglass added.
She laughed, short and humorless. "You keep saying 'image' like he's a brand, not a person."
"That's exactly what he is," Adrien said, oddly frank. "In the public sphere, Mr. Valtor's name and face are as much a brand as your comic's title. You understand branding, Ms. Reyes. You recognize its power. That's why your readers connected the dots so quickly."
Because I wrote him too well, she almost said. Because I wrote the kind of man who would do exactly what you're doing now.
She glanced down at her own hands. Ink stains had worked their way into the lines of her fingers over the years. Today, they felt like smudges on evidence.
Patel rubbed his jaw. "My client is willing to consider temporary removal of some episodes while this is being resolved," he said. "But a permanent takedown and rights assignment is a drastic overreach."
"We disagree," Adrien said pleasantly. "That said, we're not looking to, ah, impoverish Ms. Reyes. There may be room to discuss the damages amount. Perhaps a low five-figure sum instead of more. We're not interested in her furniture."
"Low five-figure," Amara repeated faintly. Her brain translated automatically into rent, food, electricity, years. "That's… I don't have that. In any numbers. High, low, sideways."
"We're prepared to be creative with payment schedules," Douglass said. "But understand: from our client's perspective, your work has already generated value—views, ad share, possibly direct monetary support—and simultaneously harmed his. Damages are not a punishment. They're compensation."
"Feels like punishment from here," she said.
Adrien studied her for a moment. His eyes, unlike Lucian's, were an easy warm brown. It would have been comforting if they hadn't belonged to a man calmly itemizing what parts of her life to take.
"Ms. Reyes," he said quietly, "do you truly believe your right to tell this particular story, in this particular way, outweighs our client's right not to have his image used without consent in this manner?"
"Yes," she said, before Patel could nudge her or caution her or even breathe. The word left her mouth like a reflex, sharp and sure. "I do."
Adrien blinked.
"So you believe," he said slowly, "that your creative freedom includes the freedom to appropriate someone's face, name, and corporate identity to shape your own narrative about them?"
"I didn't appropriate his armpit hair," she snapped. "I wrote about the world I live in. Powerful men in towers, making rules, getting away with everything. My readers saw him in that because he already fits that story. I didn't put him in their heads. The world did."
The other lawyers shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't in their neat bullet-point agenda.
Lucian's head tilted, just a fraction. His gaze on her warmed—not in kindness, but in interest. Like a scientist watching an unexpected reaction in a petri dish.
"Art still has to obey the law," Ms. Kwan said firmly.
"Sure," Amara said. "But the law doesn't always protect everyone equally, does it? It protects the people who can afford you." She flicked her fingers toward the wall of degrees. "All I have is a drawing tablet and a nervous breakdown."
"Which is why we're offering you a way to contain this without protracted harm," Adrien said, the smoothness returning. "We're not trying to ruin you, Ms. Reyes. We're protecting our client. This is us being generous."
Generous. The word landed like a slap.
She looked down at the term sheet again. At the bullet points that might as well read: Let us erase your work. Let us own your monster. Let us put a gag on your future.
Her throat tightened.
"I understand you feel this is unfair," Adrien added, gentler now. "But feelings won't change how a court may view this. Judges tend to be conservative with these things. They don't like messy online narratives. They do like clear lines."
Legal lines drawn. Borders between acceptable and actionable. Between story and crime.
Patel spoke before she could. "We'll need time to review your proposal in detail," he said. "My client is under significant emotional stress. She's just received the complaint, and this is the first concrete settlement demand. We aren't prepared to respond today."
"Of course," Adrien said. "We're not expecting a signature on the spot. However—" He tapped a line near the bottom of the term sheet. "Given the hearing date, we do have timelines. If we don't have a substantive response within ten days, we proceed as planned."
"Ten days," Amara echoed. Ten days to decide whether to amputate her own story to save the rest of her life. Ten days to choose between jumping off a cliff now or being pushed later.
"The world will move on from this quickly," Douglass said, as if offering comfort. "Online outrage is fickle. In six months, people may not even remember this comic."
The words made her stomach lurch. He said it like a weather forecast. Temporary storm, then sunny skies for the tower.
Across the table, Lucian shifted slightly in his chair.
"I will remember it," he said.
Everyone else fell quiet.
It was the first time he'd spoken since the initial greeting, and the air in the room rearranged itself around his voice.
Adrien's posture straightened almost imperceptibly. Ms. Kwan's fingers stilled. Douglass glanced his way, measuring.
Lucian's gaze rested on Amara, steady.
"You are not the first person to take shots at me in public," he said. "You are, as far as I know, the first to do it with fangs and moonlight attached. That… stands out."
"I wasn't trying to shoot you," she said, tired. "You were collateral damage in a story about capitalism."
His scar tugged as one corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. "You see why my PR team is less inclined to be philosophical about that," he said.
He tapped a finger lightly on the table. The sound was soft, almost idle. Somehow it still felt like a gavel.
"My lawyers are here to argue the law," he went on. "To quantify harm. To draw lines, as Mr. Patel accurately put it."
He glanced at Adrien then, and something unspoken passed between them. Adrien dipped his chin, respectful.
"But there's something the law doesn't handle well," Lucian added, "and that is… narrative."
He said the word like it was a currency he understood intimately.
"You wrote a story where a man who looks like me becomes a monster," he said. "Your readers liked it. They liked it enough to glue my name to it. That… annoys me."
"Understatement," Douglass murmured. He shut up when Lucian's gaze flicked sideways.
"However," Lucian said, "I'm also… curious."
That word, in his mouth, felt dangerous.
"Curious?" Amara repeated warily.
"You say this wasn't deliberate," he said. "That you didn't know who I was. That you simply wrote the world as you see it and my image fell into it like… debris."
He tilted his head. "I'm not sure I believe you," he admitted. "But I haven't decided it's impossible. And that uncertainty is… bothersome."
Adrien cleared his throat softly. "Mr. Valtor—"
Lucian lifted a hand, the small gesture shutting him up more efficiently than any objection.
"So I will be watching this case closely," he said. "Not just for the legal outcome. For what it tells me about where the line really is. Between fiction and defamation. Between criticism and exploitation. Between a story and an attack."
His eyes held hers, and for a heartbeat—a single, sharp beat—Amara saw it again.
A flicker, deep in the gray. Not gold this time, not full moon. Something subtler, like light catching on the edge of a blade in a dark room.
If anyone else in the room noticed, they gave no sign.
Patel shifted beside her, uncomfortable. "My client is not interested in being a test case for your philosophical musings, Mr. Valtor," he said stiffly. "She just wants to make rent and tell stories."
"Then she should consider the offer on the table seriously," Lucian said. "It is—"
"Generous," Adrien supplied.
"Strategic," Lucian corrected. "Generosity is for charity. This is business."
The word hit the table like a stone. Business. Rent. Lawsuits. Damages. Words that had nothing to do with panels and ink and people in comment sections writing this made me feel less alone.
Adrien slid the term sheet toward Patel. "Take your time to review," he said. "You have my direct number. If you wish to counter, do so in writing."
He turned his gaze to Amara again, and the charm returned full-force. "Ms. Reyes," he said. "I do admire your… passion. I hope we can resolve this in a way that allows you to keep creating. Perhaps with different… subjects."
"Like, I don't know, flowers and puppies?" she said. "Nothing with teeth or opinions?"
He smiled. "Just ones that don't come with registered trademarks and SEC filings."
The meeting dissolved after that, not with a bang but with the soft rustle of papers and chairs. Hands were shaken, polite phrases exchanged—thank you for your time, we'll be in touch, have a good afternoon—as if they'd just discussed an advertising partnership instead of the potential dismantling of her life.
As Amara stood, her knees felt unsteady. She gathered her bag, the term sheet, the growing knot in her stomach.
At the door, she glanced back once.
Lucian was still seated, one hand resting on the tabletop, fingers lightly curled. He wasn't looking at his lawyers. He was looking at her.
Not angry.
Not amused.
Weighing.
Weighing her work. Her resistance. The cost of breaking her versus the cost of letting some part of her story survive.
For a split-second, a stupid, treacherous part of her brain whispered: He looks like my Alpha deciding whether to kill a rival outright or turn them into something useful.
She shoved that thought down so hard it almost hurt.
Out in the hallway, the air felt thinner. Less conditioned, more real.
Patel walked beside her, quiet until they were in the elevator, doors closed.
"Well," he said finally. "We know their lines."
"Pretty thick ones," she said, clutching the papers. "Permanent. Bold."
"They almost always start maximalist," he said. "It's a tactic. Ask for the moon so the compromise still gets you the stars."
"I don't want to give them the moon," she said. "I don't want to give them my wolf."
He glanced at her. "You may not have a choice about some of it," he said gently. "But we'll see. There's room to push. Maybe we can keep them away from the character rights. Maybe we can get damages down to something survivable. Maybe…"
He trailed off, not finishing the maybes that hurt too much.
Amara stared at her reflection in the elevator doors—small, rumpled, visitor badge bright against her hoodie, clutching a sheaf of paper with her own name printed under the word Defendant.
Behind that reflection, superimposed in her imagination, she could see another room: a burning boardroom, a wolf in a suit, lines of fire drawn across the floor separating those who survived from those who didn't.
She had written so many scenes about characters standing at lines they couldn't uncross.
Now, the line sat in her hands, bullet-pointed, lawyered, real.
And somewhere behind it, watching with eyes she still wasn't sure were entirely human, sat the man her story had accidentally summoned—a man deciding whether to crush her world or redraw it on his terms.