07-22-2025, 09:03 PM
The cold had teeth in Moscow this time of year. Sharp, gnashing things that chewed through fur and pride alike. Zixin cursed it every time it kissed his face, but today… Today it suited him. The streets below were frozen in place, movements cautious and slow, as if the whole city waited to see what would come next.
From the glass-walled penthouse of the Radiance Hotel, the skyline glittered like a constellation trapped beneath ice. Below, the boulevards of Moscow’s wealthiest district stretched clean and quiet, gleaming with salt and privilege. Up here, forty-one floors above consequence, the city felt almost tame.
Zixin adjusted the cuffs of his ink-black coat. The wool was a whisper of luxury against the charcoal collar beneath. No gold. No ornament. He didn’t need symbols. He was the symbol.
The suite had been stripped of Adrian Kane’s usual decadence. In its place: austerity. A long table of black-stained walnut bisected the room, framed by the icy glow of the windows and the low, ambient hush of a city kept far away. No waiters. No music. No distractions. Even the hotel staff had been cycled off the floor for the evening, replaced by trusted faces whose tongues were already bought.
This was not a party. This was not a negotiation. This was a claim.
A gentleman’s understanding had gone out through the channels: neutrality. No weapons. No retaliation. No blood on Radiance floors. Not tonight. Adrian’s hotel was considered neutral ground now, and no one had reason to test the boundaries yet. Still, eyes would watch from the corners, security swept and reswept. Adrian promised he would ensured it.
There would be seats at the table for the players: the Yakuza captain, likely first to arrive. Punctuality was as much ritual as reputation. The Russians would likely arrive fashionably late - though it remained to be seen whether the Stoyas, Petrovich's, or Vasilev's would arrive first. Adrian, of course, was already here. Always watching. He was both host and observer, in the way predators sometimes pretended to be idle.
Ryker would come when it amused him.
And then there was Ozymandias and Alistair. Wild cards in every way, especially allure. Zixin didn’t need their endorsement, but their presence would serve as a quiet reminder of the game already in motion.
Beyond the table, Adrian had arranged standing space around the edges of the room. A gallery for lieutenants, enforcers, middle-men. Those too important to be absent, but not important enough to speak. Besides, each party was unlikely to arrive unaccompanied. They would hover like shadows, eyes fixed on the table, ears hungry.
Zixin didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget. There was no need. The room already answered to him. And the city. If it didn’t yet, it would.
This wasn’t about violence. This was about inevitability. When they arrived, he would already be seated at the head of the table.
From the glass-walled penthouse of the Radiance Hotel, the skyline glittered like a constellation trapped beneath ice. Below, the boulevards of Moscow’s wealthiest district stretched clean and quiet, gleaming with salt and privilege. Up here, forty-one floors above consequence, the city felt almost tame.
Zixin adjusted the cuffs of his ink-black coat. The wool was a whisper of luxury against the charcoal collar beneath. No gold. No ornament. He didn’t need symbols. He was the symbol.
The suite had been stripped of Adrian Kane’s usual decadence. In its place: austerity. A long table of black-stained walnut bisected the room, framed by the icy glow of the windows and the low, ambient hush of a city kept far away. No waiters. No music. No distractions. Even the hotel staff had been cycled off the floor for the evening, replaced by trusted faces whose tongues were already bought.
This was not a party. This was not a negotiation. This was a claim.
A gentleman’s understanding had gone out through the channels: neutrality. No weapons. No retaliation. No blood on Radiance floors. Not tonight. Adrian’s hotel was considered neutral ground now, and no one had reason to test the boundaries yet. Still, eyes would watch from the corners, security swept and reswept. Adrian promised he would ensured it.
There would be seats at the table for the players: the Yakuza captain, likely first to arrive. Punctuality was as much ritual as reputation. The Russians would likely arrive fashionably late - though it remained to be seen whether the Stoyas, Petrovich's, or Vasilev's would arrive first. Adrian, of course, was already here. Always watching. He was both host and observer, in the way predators sometimes pretended to be idle.
Ryker would come when it amused him.
And then there was Ozymandias and Alistair. Wild cards in every way, especially allure. Zixin didn’t need their endorsement, but their presence would serve as a quiet reminder of the game already in motion.
Beyond the table, Adrian had arranged standing space around the edges of the room. A gallery for lieutenants, enforcers, middle-men. Those too important to be absent, but not important enough to speak. Besides, each party was unlikely to arrive unaccompanied. They would hover like shadows, eyes fixed on the table, ears hungry.
Zixin didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget. There was no need. The room already answered to him. And the city. If it didn’t yet, it would.
This wasn’t about violence. This was about inevitability. When they arrived, he would already be seated at the head of the table.