NOVPUBTwenty-five minutes later, Charles and Don stood in the student parking lot of Santos Hero University.
You'd think the lot belonged to a tech mogul convention — rows of pristine sports cars lined up like a mechanical fashion show. Lamborghinis, McLarens, a limited-run Koenigsegg.
A few armored SUVs that probably had more horsepower than common sense. It all tracked. Most Category A students had at least one sponsor sniffing around.
Some pushed cosmetic brands. Some played the social media circus. A few even hawked protein powder with their faces on the tubs.
If you were smart, it meant six figures before graduation.
If you were ambitious, it was just a stepping stone to the real money. League-level. Global contracts. The kind of money that made lawsuits a minor inconvenience.
Don didn't stare. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, flanked by polished chrome and overpriced paint jobs.
He was parked next to the most expensive car there — a sleek, silver Bugatti that looked less like transportation and more like a middle finger sculpted by God.
Charles was seated on the hood like he owned the parking lot itself, phone pressed to one ear, sunglasses pushed halfway up his nose. His white slacks didn't so much as wrinkle.
Don barely moved.
He just listened.
"...yes, I saw the numbers come in," Charles said, voice smooth and easy, one leg swinging lazily over the hood. "Go on."
There was a pause as the financier on the other end rattled off figures.
Don didn't need to strain to hear. With his current hearing, he could've picked up a whisper from a building over.
"Mm. That much just from ad placement?" Charles asked, tilting his head. "Not bad."
Another stretch of silence.
"Viewership peaked at 9.3 million? Lovely. And the betting contracts?"
Don remained still, eyes fixed somewhere off to the left, past the cars, past the lot. His ears filtered everything else.
"Right. The licensed platforms alone covered what we expected — but those offshore groups matched it?" Charles let out a quiet chuckle. "Tell our lawyer to look the other way until Monday."
The financier kept talking. The number they quoted would've made most twenty-year-olds faint.
Charles just hummed.
"Understood. Have the breakdown sent to both our accounts — I'll review the tax shielding before end of day."
Another pause.
"Yes, I'll remind him. Thanks, Lin."
He ended the call and finally glanced at Don.
"Good news. The stream, plus the contracts from the betting side, sponsorship clicks, and indirect network gains... came to about forty-two million," Charles said, almost casually, like he was talking about lunch. "You should receive your half very soon."
Don nodded once. "Thanks."
With that out of the way, he shifted slightly, glancing back at the school buildings before speaking again.
"We just need to wait for the investigation on those tunnels to finish."
Charles leaned back on his hands, exhaling. "Until then, we expand our interests. Gain support. Shift the narrative."
Don tilted his head. "Best way to do that is to drag the spotlight elsewhere — somewhere just as loud. Something they can obsess over while we move."
Charles sighed, nodding. "I've already started digging. Barclay's the top of the list. Him and his little trust fund mafia. Public loves his philanthropic image, but no one's perfect. And people love watching perfection crack."
He gave a small shrug, eyes hidden behind tinted lenses.
"I'll let you know what I gather by the end of the week."
Don's answer was simple. "Sure thing."
But his thoughts wandered. 'Seems Charles is already thinking way ahead. I have to admit... it's nice not having to plot against the whole damn city alone.'
Charles slid off the hood with practiced grace, adjusting his cuffs.
"What will you be doing until then?" he asked, almost idly.
"Sorting out a new little business," Don said, voice quiet. "Once I deal with its... underlying issues, I could use your help."
Charles grinned wide, genuinely curious. "Consider my interest piqued."
He didn't ask for more. Just turned, opened the car door with a soft click, then paused to lean against the roof for a moment, posture relaxed.
"For what it's worth," he said, "despite the circumstances, I'm quite enjoying this partnership."
He gave Don a small, sardonic smile. "I look forward to the fruits it will bear. Tata, Don."
Don gave him a simple nod. "See you around."
Charles slid into the Bugatti with the ease of a man who had nowhere better to be.
Don turned toward his car — the Ford Mustang Boss.
He made it halfway there when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
**Bzzt**
He paused, pulled it out, and glanced at the screen.
Message from Miss Claire: "This may be abrupt, but are you free to discuss a few things? If so, come to Lermont's Bay Restaurant in the next 30 minutes."
Don stared at the message for a beat. His expression didn't change.
Then he sighed, thumbed out a short reply, and hit send: "I'll be there."
The phone slipped back into his pocket.
And Don kept walking.
———
Don didn't head straight to Lermont's Bay.
He drove.
Nowhere in particular — just looped through the city, Mustang engine humming low beneath him like a purring beast with nothing to kill.
The streets were half-dead, still under the residual lockdown orders, but some movement lingered. Drones hovered. Patrol vehicles cruised by like they owned the place.
The radio was less restrained.
"…and with that kind of showing, I think we can all agree: this kid's either the second coming or a lawsuit in progress."
"Can't even blame Ezekiel for bailing. The guy folded more bodies than a laundromat during the Casino incident."
"…still, SHU's board hasn't released a formal statement. Are they supporting this behavior or just hoping it'll go away?"
Don let the voices wash over him. They weren't impressed. Just addicted.
It wasn't awe. It was content.
He caught the pattern quickly.
His name came up every other breath — Don Bright, The Reaper of SHU, the Elite Hero Program's dark horse.
But Charles?
Barely a whisper.
Too dangerous. Too legally fortified. Nobody wanted a lawsuit pinned to their ad revenue. Don made for easier headlines. Easier targets.
He didn't take it personally.
He just made a note of it.
A glance at the Mustang's dash told him enough time had passed. He changed lanes, then peeled off toward the coast.
———
Lermont's Bay sat perched on the edge of Santos City's high-end district — a seafood restaurant dressed up like a beach resort and priced like a small war crime.
White stone arches framed the entrance, leading into a space that looked like the lovechild of a Caribbean villa and a French chateau. Tropical plants lined the walls in neat vertical gardens. Subtle music played, something jazzy and expensive-sounding.
Through the grand windows: ocean.
Waves crashed in rhythmic procession. The beach was pristine — imported sand, obviously.
Don stepped out of the car, ran a hand through his hair, and made his way to the front doors.
Inside, it smelled of sea salt and polished wood.
He'd barely crossed the lobby when a man in a navy blazer approached, posture straight, expression tight.
"Good evening," the man said, voice just a touch too polite. "Do you have a reservation?"
Don blinked at the empty tables behind him, the untouched menus, the complete absence of any actual customers thanks to the city-wide restrictions.
"No," he said. "I'm meeting someone. Miss Claire." 𝓷ℴ𝓿𝓹𝓾𝓫.𝓬ℴ𝓶
The name worked like a key. The man's eyes flicked sideways — not quite a flinch, but close.
"Right this way," he said, managing to keep the venom out of his tone, but not the stiffness from his shoulders.
Don followed him through a set of glass doors and onto a huge terrace — or maybe it was a balcony. The place was large enough that the term didn't matter.
The floor was reinforced glass, offering a dizzying view of the waves crashing against the rocks far below. Steel-framed torches burned along the perimeter, giving off a low flickering light that danced across white-linen tables, each set in pairs — strictly a couples arrangement, apparently.
Along one wall, framed photos captured private proposals in various poses of shock, joy, and desperation. Expensive memories carved into canvas.
Don's eyes found her instantly.
Miss Claire.
She was seated near the edge — one of four tables that clung closest to the ocean's edge, the view behind her straight out of a travel magazine. Deep blues. Distant gulls. Water meeting sky like some divine afterthought.
She looked sculpted. The kind of elegance you didn't buy — you inherited, like a weapon.
Her noir-styled suit dress clung cleanly to her frame, black on black. The long gloves added an old-world sophistication.
Her trench coat hung over the back of her chair like a shadow. The wide-brimmed hat dipped low, casting part of her face in gentle shade. A cigarette balanced between her fingers like it belonged there.
She looked like she'd been torn from a black-and-white film and painted back into this world with deliberate care.
The man guiding Don stopped a few feet short and gave a shallow bow.
"Miss Claire is expecting you."
Don gave a short nod and walked the rest of the way himself.
As he approached, she finally turned.
One hand reached out, slow and practiced, to extinguish the cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
The other lifted her wine glass.
She took a single sip. Eyes never left his.
Don pulled out the chair across from her and sat.
"Evening," he said.
"I'm glad you could join me," Claire replied, her voice a velvet blade. "We have plenty to discuss. At least until the meal I took the liberty of ordering arrives."
She didn't blink when she spoke.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't fidget.
Just met his eyes and held them, like she was reading something behind them.
Most people would've broken eye contact by now.
Most didn't enjoy standing that close to a bonfire.
Don didn't flinch either.
He simply nodded. "That we do."
