Anton Stable stood just outside the front gates of the newly rebranded Billion Bloodline Group headquarters, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Above him, security cameras hummed quietly, their lenses tilting in his direction as if the entire building were aware of his presence. He straightened his crimson suit jacket, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, and exhaled through gritted teeth.
"I have to do this," he muttered under his breath. "For the Stable family. If I don’t get this investment... my father is going to eat me alive."
The thought was not an exaggeration. The Stable patriarch had made his expectations very clear: secure funding or face humiliation. Their family business, luxury cars, had been holding steady, booming, even. The market for high-end vehicles was not shrinking like others. If anything, the divide between rich and poor only made the wealthy flaunt their power more. Even in a weakening economy, luxury never really went out of style.
But the issue was no longer the cars themselves. It was the location.
Competition had been swallowing up prime real estate, and the Stables had been slow to secure a flagship site in the city center. According to his father’s research, the Billion Bloodline Group not only had the capital to buy up properties outright, they also seemed to have the connections to grease whatever wheels were necessary. For Anton, this was the dream partner: deep pockets, mysterious backing, and a willingness to expand aggressively.
In truth, the pitch wasn’t bad. He knew it. His father knew it. Anyone with sense would know it. Compared to something as ridiculous as the Curtis family’s failed boba tea venture, luxury cars had weight. They had presence. The Stables had history. To Anton’s father, there was no reason the deal should fail, unless, of course, his son proved too incompetent to deliver it.
That was why Anton had decided to move first. The official opening of the Billion Bloodline offices was still two days away, but he refused to wait. He wanted a face-to-face meeting, something direct, personal. Something that would prove to his father that he could take initiative.
"I have the charm on my side," Anton told himself, psyching up as he began to walk forward. "That’s what makes me different. I’ve always been the smooth talker, the closer. Clients buy from me not just because of the cars, but because they believe me. Because they trust me."
He repeated the thought like a mantra as he strode confidently across the courtyard. The first thing he noticed was the enormous logo mounted at the front of the building. It was nothing like the minimalist text-based brands most venture capital firms used. No sleek fonts or subtle colors. Instead, the symbol was bold, almost ominous: a diamond-shaped droplet, blood red against the steel backdrop.
Anton paused for a moment, his smile faltering. "That’s... not a VC logo," he muttered. "That’s the kind of symbol you’d expect on a fight club poster."
The thought unsettled him, though he quickly shook it off. After all, he knew the building had once belonged to the Fortis Group, a private security firm. Perhaps the new owners simply hadn’t bothered to soften the edges.
Inside, things only grew stranger.
The reception area was vast, its polished floors reflecting the light from modern chandeliers overhead. Two guards stood at either side of the entrance, and immediately Anton noticed how different they looked compared to the usual corporate security. They weren’t just watchmen in suits. They were built like soldiers, outfitted in sleek black uniforms lined with subtle armored plating, each bearing the crimson droplet logo.
Anton’s smile returned, though it was tighter now. He made his way toward the reception desk, rehearsing his pitch one last time. His father’s voice echoed in his head, commanding him not to fail.
But when he finally reached the desk, Anton almost stumbled.
The man sitting behind it looked more like a professional athlete, or a model, than a receptionist. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with sharp features and a look of utter disinterest plastered across his face, the figure was imposing. Anton swallowed hard before forcing his usual grin back into place.
"Good afternoon," he said warmly.
The man barely looked up. "How can I help?" The words were flat, spoken with such little enthusiasm that Anton almost thought he’d misheard.
He blinked, then realized something even more peculiar: this receptionist wasn’t a receptionist at all.
Darno.
Anton didn’t know the name, but this was no ordinary front-desk clerk. He carried himself with the posture of someone used to fighting, someone used to being respected. What Anton didn’t know was that Max, in restructuring the company, had dismissed the old reception staff and placed guards and combat personnel on a rotation system at the front desk. And out of all of them, Darno seemed to be stuck with the job more than anyone else.
Darno himself suspected the reason.
’They’ve got me here on purpose,’ he thought bitterly as he leaned against the desk. ’Probably punishment, or maybe they just enjoy watching me stew in boredom.’
Anton, oblivious to the man’s inner frustration, pressed forward with his charm. "I was hoping to speak with a representative of the Billion Bloodline Group," he said, his tone polite. "Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Anton Stable."
The name should have carried weight, but Darno didn’t so much as blink. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and muttered, "Stable? What are you, related to a horse or something?"
Anton forced a laugh, though irritation flickered in his eyes. He wasn’t used to being brushed off so casually.
Darno gestured dismissively with his arm. "There are no guests today. Unless you’re here to hire us for security, there won’t be any meetings. Not until the official opening." His voice carried the same bored tone, but there was a firmness underneath that made it clear he wasn’t bluffing.
Anton’s smile widened, but it was sharper now. "Oh, we don’t need to talk about business," he said. "This is just a casual greeting. You see, I brought a gift. Something I think your superiors might appreciate."
From his pocket, he drew out a sleek key fob. The metallic emblem on its face glinted under the lobby lights, the unmistakable bull of a Lamborghini.
Darno’s eyes snapped toward it instantly. He might not have cared about Anton, but as a car enthusiast, he knew that emblem anywhere. His expression shifted just slightly, enough for Anton to notice.
"Well," Anton said smoothly, "I wouldn’t want anyone important here to miss out on this."
Darno hesitated for a moment, then reached for the phone. The gesture wasn’t for Anton’s benefit, it was for the car keys.
He dialed Nesa first, then Tim. Finally, after a few redirects, the line reached the one man who made the final call.
Max.
"What’s the name again?" Max asked when he picked up.
"They said they’re Anton Stable," Nesa replied, her tone cautious.
There was silence on the line for a moment. Then Max’s voice cut in sharply.
"Put me through to Darno."
Darno blinked, surprised when the next voice wasn’t Nesa’s but Max’s.
"Listen carefully," Max said. His tone was calm, but it carried an edge that made Darno instinctively straighten. "Tell Anton that he is never to step foot in this building again. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."
Darno hesitated. "And if he refuses?"
"Then you have my permission to give him a beating."