NOVPUBThe news of Archibald Mooney's return roared through Los Alverez like a storm breaking over a parched desert, electrifying the city with whispers of power, fear, and ambition.
The man who could shift entire economies with a single phone call, who had sculpted Moon Enterprises into a colossus that dwarfed most nations, was back after five years of orchestrating his empire from the shadows of Zürich's banking halls, Dubai's gilded towers, and Kyoto's serene boardrooms.
The city's pulse quickened as the black sedans rolled in from Los Alverez International Airport. Police convoys carved a path through the morning traffic, their sirens a low wail that seemed to bow to the man they escorted.
The vehicles moved through the roads. Overhead, there were drones humming like mechanical vultures, their lenses trained on the procession, feeding live footage to every major news outlet.
On the sidewalks, the city's denizens stood frozen, watching with awe, curiosity, and unease. A young woman in a tailored blazer clutched her nokia phone, filming the convoy as it passed. "Is he really that powerful?" she asked.
Beside her, a man in a rumpled suit snorted softly. "More than the Governor, sweetheart. And richer than God." He glanced at the sedans, his expression sour. "That bastard, Archibald Mooney doesn't just own money, he owns the systems that make money mean something.
Across the street, a street vendor selling artisanal coffee watched the convoy with narrowed eyes. 'He's back to save us, they say. His presence here will increase the state's GDP, they say!' She turned away, pouring a latte with deliberate care, her hands steady but her mind racing.
Los Alverez had changed in Mooney's absence— new players, new rules, new blood. She wondered if the old lion still had the teeth to match his roar.
....
Archibald only had a moment before heading for an important meeting late that night.
The meeting was taking place at the Empire Companies Calivernia HQ.
It was a tall tower made of black obsidian glass that seemed to drink in the sunlight rather than reflect it.
Its surface was streaked with platinum veins, a subtle boast of wealth that didn't need to scream. To the ignorant, it was a building. To those who knew, it was the throne room where the Ten Empire Companies of Calivernia, each a titan worth over $10 billion, held court.
These were not mere businesses; they were the sinew and bone of the state's economy, bound by sacred contracts with the Department of National Enterprise.
In exchange for their loyalty and aid to the government, they were granted divine privileges: exclusive trade routes, tax exemptions, priority access to cutting-edge technology, and the power to shape policy before it ever saw the light of day.
Inside the building, the double doors of the meeting room swung open with a whisper, and the room fell silent.
Two black-suited guards stepped aside as Archibald Mooney entered. He was a spectacle for a man of his age.
His black suit was completely unadorned save for a single silver crescent moon pin at his collar, glinting like a shard of moonlight. At sixty-two, his age was a mere suggestion.
He had broad shoulders, silver hair and a perfect beard of the same color. His posture was unyielding, and the piercing dark eyes below full eyebrows screamed power.
Archibald's presence was a force, like gravity bending the room toward him.
The nine executives seated around the table rose as one, a gesture of respect that felt more like surrender. Archibald's gaze swept over them, before taking his seat at the head of the table, the chair creaking faintly under his weight, and the room exhaled.
"Let's begin," he said, his low voice like the tolling of a bell.
The rest of the executives nodded and prepared themselves.
They were CEOs of very powerful companies in the State, some popular, some more conceited.
Thomas Sinclair, the gray-haired mogul of Sinclair Group, broke the silence, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "I welcome you back, Archibald. But we'll go straight to business. As you know, the city's economy is fracturing. MWMO's collapse wasn't just a hiccup, it was a hemorrhage. Clients are pulling liquidity faster than we can track. Our insurance partners are demanding audits, and the government's sniffing around like wolves."
He leaned forward, his manicured fingers steepled, his blue eyes glinting with accusation. 'This prideful bastard left us to clean up his mess. Now we're drowning in it.'
As if he could read his mind, Archibald refused to respond to Mr Sinclair, leading Cheyenne Lamb to speak up.
She was almost amused by Thomas's lashing statement. She tilted her head, her crimson lipstick smiling against her porcelain skin. "I wouldn't like to agree with Thomas, but he is unfortunately right, Archibald. Moon Enterprises owns MWMO" Her voice was silk over a blade, each word precise. "This affects your company's credibility, yes, but you still have to take responsibility for it."
Archibald cleared his throat. "Or course I do. And I have. I've sent corporate invitations to the affected companies to state all their complaints and we've kept billions to fund settlements."
"That hardly would be enough, Archibald." Vladimir Zurich, the grizzled head of Zurich Group, leaned forward, his thick Russian accent cutting through the room like a blunt axe. "My northern logistics are bleeding. MWMO held fifty percent of our digital staking agreements. All frozen. The government's asking questions I can't answer, and my shareholders are screaming for blood."
His meaty fists clenched on the table, his weathered face flushed with barely contained fury. "Some of these problems can't just be solved with money. The entire business world of Los Alverez is crumbling because you hired a perverted murderer to be in charge of the biggest wealth management company in the state."
Archibald tilted his head at Vladimir. "Well that's a little unfair. I had no way of knowing that Ryan Anders lived such a life."
Richard Morrison exhaled a slow, cynical breath. "Let us take deep breaths here, okay? The medical sector was affected too, even our client tracking systems that were funneled through MWMO. But Archibald is here now, all this would be settled before the government starts to cut down our privileges."
"Oh you better hope that doesn't happen, or else you should expect a lawsuit."
"Oh come on! Don't go there!"
"I'm damn serious!"
"Ryan Anders was your friend, wasn't he, Morrison? Of course you'll come to his defense! I'm sure you're a pervert as well!"
"Pervert?! I'm no pervert! And I never defended Anders's actions!"
"You've never called it out either! Pervert!"
"Watch your tongue!"
"I just want my company back on track!"
"Enough!"
Archibald slammed on the table, silencing the room.
Then, he leaned back in his chair, his face an unreadable mask. The room waited, breath held, for his response. His fingers tapped once on the marble, a sound that echoed like a gavel.
"I gave him tools," he said finally. "He failed to wield them." His eyes moved from Cheyenne to Thomas, then to Vladimir and the rest of the room, pinning each like a specimen under glass. "But 'I' did not fail."
The words landed like a challenge, and the room bristled. Thomas's lip curled, his thoughts a snarl. 'Arrogant bastard. You think you can still command us like dogs?*l'
Cheyenne watched carefully 'What game are you playing, Archie?' she thought.
Archibald's gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a near growl. "I came back because this state is unraveling. You've all forgotten how to hold your knives." He leaned forward, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud.
"You've let children and their companies sway the public while you bicker and bleed. You've let Ryan Anders' betrayal make you look weak. I'm here to remind you what strength looks like."
Vladimir barked a laugh, short and harsh. "And you think you'll fix it in a week? The government's breathing down our necks, Mooney. The public trusts this boy, Darren Steele, more than us. You're not a god anymore."
Archibald's gaze locked onto Vladimir, unyielding. "If you're still bleeding by next week, it won't be Moon Wealth's fault, it'll be yours."
Vlad fell silent. Jaw tightened.
Richard and Cheyenne watched carefully.
Thomas Sinclair smoothed his tie, his voice deceptively calm. "We all know how powerful you are, Archibald, and we're grateful you're here to settle this. But some advice, if you want to restore the old order, we need to hit the people on every front— media, policy, finances. We need to work fast to bring every affected company back to their feet."
Archibald got on his feet. The executives fell silent, their eyes locked on him. "You're right. I accept your advice, Thomas, whether it's honest or not. But I also employ you all to help me and I will reward you with my own privileges for the next year."
Everyone gasped and began to whisper.
Archibald grabbed their attention again. "Ryan Anders failed you," he said, his voice like iron. "But I will not. Moon Enterprises will reclaim its subsidiaries. The economy of Los Alverez— every contract, every district, every institution that slipped away— will return to its rightful hands." He paused, his gaze sweeping the table, each executive feeling the weight of his scrutiny. "I will fix this. You just need to help me... or stay out of my way."
Then, as they all watched, he turned around and left them to their thoughts and whispers. Cheyenne, especially, watched him with curiosity before eyeing the rest of the executives, seeing all their personal greed and goals hidden behind their eyes.
The room was a powder keg, and Archibald Mooney had just lit the fuse.
