08-10-2025, 12:51 AM
Zixin’s voice droned on, but Adrian wasn’t listening to the words so much as the currents they stirred. He leaned back in his chair, the cut of his suit immaculate, fingertips steepled lightly in front of him as his eyes wandered the table.
The Yakuza contingent wore their smugness like lacquer. They’d built their empire on patience, and the faint twinge curling at the edges of their lips said they believed they’d seen this kind of meeting before. The Russians were harder to read, but not opaque; a slight twitch in the jaw here, a tightened grip on a glass there. Mikhail, though… Mikhail’s gaze was razor-bright, measuring Zixin with open calculation, a faint humor playing at the corners of his mouth as if he was already envisioning how this might fall apart.
Adrian watched it all, filing away expressions and silences alike. Zixin was angling for consensus, for mutual prosperity, for the illusion of equality. And it might even work for now. But the thing about equal seats at a table was that they were only equal until someone paid for the table itself.
When Zixin finally ceded the floor, Adrian let the silence breathe for only a moment. Then he spoke. “As all have agreed how you’ll work together, you should decide where you’ll work together. That’s why you’re here, in my house, not some smoke-filled backroom.”
He took a slow step around the table. “The Radiance is not just a hotel. It is, from this day forward, neutral ground. You meet here, you speak here, you negotiate here. Safe from interference, from surprise, from each other. My security makes sure of that. Break that rule, and you’re not just out of my hotel. You’re out of this… enterprise. Permanently.”
He let the weight of that sink in, his gaze sliding briefly toward the Russians, then the Yakuza, then Zixin and Mikhail. “My services,” he went on, “are exclusive, discreet, and very expensive. You will find them worth every coin paid.” His tone sharpened as he explained in words that did not need explicits.
“Specialized housekeeping. Teams that restore a room to perfection, no matter what fluids or fragments have been left behind. Contracting services for… unique needs. Reinforced walls, hidden rooms, soundproofed chambers. Cleaning for clothing, yes, even bespoke, no matter the stain. Trash disposal for… unwanted materials.” He didn’t need to spell that one out. “Fast. Untraceable.”
By the time he circled back to the chair from which he rose, his palms rested lightly on the back of the chair. “This covenant makes us not an alliance of friends. Not a council of equals. But a pact. Break it, and you are erased. From business. From the streets. From existence. Any violence in this building is a direct breach of The Covenant. And breaches are… final.”
Adrian sat. He could already see it. The slow bleed of reliance. A meeting here, a cleanup there, a secret room that no one else could have built so well. Eventually, every person in this room would owe him something. And debt, Adrian thought, was the most exquisite form of ownership.
The Yakuza contingent wore their smugness like lacquer. They’d built their empire on patience, and the faint twinge curling at the edges of their lips said they believed they’d seen this kind of meeting before. The Russians were harder to read, but not opaque; a slight twitch in the jaw here, a tightened grip on a glass there. Mikhail, though… Mikhail’s gaze was razor-bright, measuring Zixin with open calculation, a faint humor playing at the corners of his mouth as if he was already envisioning how this might fall apart.
Adrian watched it all, filing away expressions and silences alike. Zixin was angling for consensus, for mutual prosperity, for the illusion of equality. And it might even work for now. But the thing about equal seats at a table was that they were only equal until someone paid for the table itself.
When Zixin finally ceded the floor, Adrian let the silence breathe for only a moment. Then he spoke. “As all have agreed how you’ll work together, you should decide where you’ll work together. That’s why you’re here, in my house, not some smoke-filled backroom.”
He took a slow step around the table. “The Radiance is not just a hotel. It is, from this day forward, neutral ground. You meet here, you speak here, you negotiate here. Safe from interference, from surprise, from each other. My security makes sure of that. Break that rule, and you’re not just out of my hotel. You’re out of this… enterprise. Permanently.”
He let the weight of that sink in, his gaze sliding briefly toward the Russians, then the Yakuza, then Zixin and Mikhail. “My services,” he went on, “are exclusive, discreet, and very expensive. You will find them worth every coin paid.” His tone sharpened as he explained in words that did not need explicits.
“Specialized housekeeping. Teams that restore a room to perfection, no matter what fluids or fragments have been left behind. Contracting services for… unique needs. Reinforced walls, hidden rooms, soundproofed chambers. Cleaning for clothing, yes, even bespoke, no matter the stain. Trash disposal for… unwanted materials.” He didn’t need to spell that one out. “Fast. Untraceable.”
By the time he circled back to the chair from which he rose, his palms rested lightly on the back of the chair. “This covenant makes us not an alliance of friends. Not a council of equals. But a pact. Break it, and you are erased. From business. From the streets. From existence. Any violence in this building is a direct breach of The Covenant. And breaches are… final.”
Adrian sat. He could already see it. The slow bleed of reliance. A meeting here, a cleanup there, a secret room that no one else could have built so well. Eventually, every person in this room would owe him something. And debt, Adrian thought, was the most exquisite form of ownership.