The following morning, Max was preparing for his meeting with Warma. For once, he felt relief in not having to button himself into a stiff suit. During his White Tiger days, smart clothing had been a necessity, part of the image of authority and discipline he was forced to project. Now, in the borrowed youth of his new body, he wanted freedom. He wanted to breathe.
Opening Aron's massive wardrobe, however, only reminded him of the man's obsession with uniformity. Row upon row of identical suits, black, pressed, and unyielding, lined the racks like soldiers waiting for inspection. Not a single casual piece among them.
Max frowned. "Does this man even own a T-shirt?" he muttered.
From his own smaller collection of belongings, he pulled out a clean tracksuit. It wasn't flashy, just comfortable, but wearing it made him feel like himself again. A far cry from the suffocating collars and polished shoes of a world that constantly judged.
Thankfully, he was going to meet Warma alone today. Mira had school, and Aron had taken the duty of escorting her. She had left earlier with her small backpack bouncing on her shoulders and an energy Max couldn't help but envy.
"Don't worry about me, I'm strong!" she had declared proudly before leaving, flashing a grin over her shoulder.
Max had forced an awkward smile, though the words nagged at him even after she left. "Come to think of it… I didn't even tell her not to take that thing to school. Is she carrying it now? And if it's one of the supercharged tasers Aron uses…" He groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "If she zaps some poor kid, that's going to be a nightmare."
Still, as he reminded himself, Mira wasn't exactly the type to be bullied. Innocent or not, anyone foolish enough to try would likely regret it.
Outside, Max hailed a taxi, leaning back against the seat as the city rolled by.
'Looks like Na's still shadowing me,' he thought when he spotted a familiar vehicle idling a street away. 'I hope I don't end up with two stalkers I need to avoid. One Aron is already more than enough.'
The ride carried him back to the same building where Warma had set up his office. A sleek glass tower with views of the sea, it was far more modest than the skyscrapers controlled by the Stern family, but impressive enough to lend an air of legitimacy.
When Max stepped into Warma's office and sank into the leather chair opposite his desk, the older man gave him a long, weary look before sighing.
"You know," Warma said, eyeing the tracksuit. "Sometimes I forget you're just a kid. Dressed like that, no one would ever believe who you really are."
Max raised a brow. "And is it my goal to convince anyone? If they don't believe me, it's less trouble."
"You're impossible," Warma muttered, rubbing at his temple. "Anyway, do you know how late at night I was scratching my head over this? There's something serious we need to discuss."
On the desk lay four thick folders, neatly stacked and numbered.
Warma tapped them. "After that meeting with the Curts family, I realized exactly how these people think, how they operate. It's not about substance, it's about appearance. They only look at what's on the outside. They don't care what's beneath the skin."
Max leaned back, unimpressed. He could have told Warma that without the fancy meeting. The world had always been like this. Even before he'd built his own empire in his past life, he'd known the truth. Dress codes for restaurants, rigid expectations for clubs, rules about appearances… all of it was a game. An image everyone chased while those truly powerful did as they pleased.
"Still," Warma continued, "it gives us an opportunity. A chance to take advantage of the illusion."
He opened the first folder and spread its contents across the desk.
"The situation right now is good for us. Multiple companies are scrambling for funding. They see us as a miracle-worker, a group with a magic touch. That means they'll be inclined to accept deals that are… unfavorable for them, to put it mildly."
Max glanced at the papers, frowning.
"Regardless, if we invited them here, to this place, they'd laugh," Warma said, gesturing around his office. "A single rented floor doesn't scream credibility. Right now you've built the illusion of the all-powerful Billion Bloodline Group. And here's the thing, it's not just illusion anymore. With the money you have at your disposal, you really are a force. But no one knows the owner. They can only judge us by what they see."
He pushed the folders toward Max.
"That's why I've prepared these. Four different options. Each one is a buyout plan. Businesses that have gone into administration, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Their operations are worthless, but their buildings, their names, their fronts? Fancy. Respectable. If we buy one, we inherit the illusion."
Max flipped through one folder and skimmed the numbers. The documents laid out a clear picture: the companies were practically corpses, but their outer shells gleamed.
"Didn't you just rent out this entire floor?" Max asked dryly. "And now you want me to buy an entire building?"
Warma nodded firmly. "Remember what I said. A company like ours appearing out of nowhere makes no sense. But if we acquire one of these failing giants, rewrite the story a little, it looks natural. People will assume our roots were here all along."
He gestured to the papers again. "Each option costs around twenty million for the buyout. Look through them. See what suits you, or what fits the image we need."
Max sat back, tapping his finger against the folder.
Twenty million. It wasn't just money, it was strength. His vow, his very source of power, was tied to his fortune. Spending such an amount meant weakening himself.
'I trust Warma,' Max thought, staring at the neat lines of text. 'But if I lose that much, I'll be weaker. If something happens, if I have to fight too soon, I won't have the full weight behind me.'
He hadn't summoned the Bloodline Gang for weeks now. They were out there, still training, sharpening their edge, ready to be called. But calling them meant risk. Calling them meant he had to stand strong.
Still, he understood the truth of Warma's words. If he wanted to rise, if he wanted to strike at the Sterns, the White Tiger Gang, or any of the enemies circling him, he needed more than fists and shadows. He needed an empire.
'While things are quiet, it's better to spend now,' Max admitted to himself. 'When I need it most, I can't afford hesitation. Let's see what these four companies are… and which one can be turned into our mask.'
He opened the first folder, the pages rustling like a warning of the choices to come.