07-27-2025, 01:38 AM
Zixin sat at the head of the table like a man awaiting the sunrise. The quiet moment was interrupted only by the shuffle of arrivals. His fingers tapped once on the polished wood with each appearance like a conductor measuring tempo before the music began.
Yuta Hayashi arrived first, as expected. Precision incarnate. His lieutenants, sweet Kiyohito among them, stood like shadows along the wall. They made no small talk. Zixin didn’t require it. He offered Hayashi a respectful nod, however. The gesture was returned, nothing wasted.
Adrian Kane, their host, had entered next draped in arrogance and wrapped up in Savile Row wool. He circled the room like he owned the damn air itself, then selected a seat precisely halfway down the table. Right where a man with no known allegiances might make himself impossible to ignore. Zixin didn’t mind. Adrian was a wildcard, but not a real threat. Not yet.
Then Ryker. Every inch of him irreverent, but not careless. Zixin knew enough about men like him to recognize obedience masked in disdain. He was dying to know what strings Ryker answered to, and Zixin didn’t like not being able to scratch that itch. Now came the Russians.
The first to arrive was Konstantin Vasiliev, patriarch of the Vasiliev family. His coat was sable, his gloves fine leather, and his eyes shrewd and as cold as expected. Nebesa’s Gate had made him one of the wealthiest criminals in Europe, and he walked like a man who knew it. A single nod from Zixin was returned with the barest incline of the head. It was an uneasy peace that bonded them ever since Zixin delivered Kiyohito to Konstantin’s justice. He studied the two faces now they were in the same room. If only Haruto was also here. It would be quite the reunion.
Behind him came Gregor Petrovich, Moscow’s vodka baron. Barrel-chested and smelling faintly of his own product, Petrovich carried none of Konstantin’s icy veneer. He laughed too loudly, shook hands too hard, and sat at the table like he’d already claimed a bottle for himself. Zixin didn’t underestimate him. There was a cunning behind those ruddy cheeks that had kept his empire flowing through every club and bar in the city. There was no sight of Gregor’s boy. Zixin had yet to meet Zholdin in person, but he was looking forward to the opportunity. Word on the street was that Zholdin was eccentric and vicious. He sounded fascinating.
Third came Rodian Mordvinov, with his son Roman a step behind. Rodian had the look of a man who’d choked men with piano wire and then taught Sunday school the next morning. His family’s alliance with the Stoyas made them lethal. But it was Roman that Zixin watched closest. That one would inherit fire, and maybe more. Their nods were brief. Territorial. But not defiant.
And last came the Stoya matriarch: a woman whose first name was never spoken publicly without direct permission: Valeska Stoya. Dressed in a winter-white coat that brushed her heels, she looked more like an opera patron than a trafficker and extortionist. Her dark hair was pinned back in perfect waves, her lips lined in bright red like she kissed blood. She offered no greeting, and he didn’t need to. In fact, she seemed as if this was below her very attention, but her presence was still a declaration.
Like each of the others, she arrived with two men in tow: broad, silent shadows who remained standing behind her chair. It had become a silent tradition by now. Each Russian family head arrived with two lieutenants, uniform in posture but varied in temperament: some alert, some bored, all armed with watchful eyes even if they were weaponless.
All except one.
Mikhail had appeared quietly earlier, relatively unobtrusive in his entrance compared to what it might have been and without entourage or theatrics. A man who represented no family but wove among each as if he belonged to all. He took up a position near the wall, having found himself a champagne somewhere along the way, silent but unmistakably observing. A one-man syndicate, unpredictable and wholly self-contained.
Zixin leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he surveyed the room. The players had taken their places. Now, the game could begin.
Zixin gave it just enough pause to let the silence stretch. Then he spoke.
“This,” he began, voice quiet but clear, “is a first.”
He looked slowly down the line of faces. Zixin clasped his hands in front of him, loose at the fingers. No flash of rings. No thumping fists.
“I grew up in rooms like this,” he said, gaze flicking across the Russians. “Men who carved up cities like bread. Who thought empire could be fed one bite at a time.”
He let that settle, then continued with something close to reverence.
“And yet, none of them did this.”
A small gesture to the table. The gathered storm. “None of them brought enemies and allies together in one room to break bread.. figuratively, of course. Apparently the Radiance catering doesn’t offer pastries.”
A few faint exhales of amusement, though no one truly reacted.
“I haven’t asked you here to posture. Or to claim a title. I have no crown to wear, and even if I did,” he shrugged one shoulder. “I’m far too practical to wear jewelry to a knife fight.”
That got a smirk from Adrian, a tilt of the head from Yuta, a cold nothing from Konstantin.
“I asked you here to propose something more useful than dominance. But structure.”
He didn’t move from his seat but his voice hardened slightly. “A truce, yes. But more than that. A shared vision.”
Zixin’s hand unfurled, palm up, as if offering something precious.
“The five Companion Clubs will open in the coming days. Not brothels. Not drug dens. Institutions. Veins of profit that will run through every corner of this city.”
His eyes landed on Adrian. “For those of you who do not know him, allow me to introduce to you Mister Adrian Kane,” he gestured, “who has provided the land, the leases, the laundering, and the linens. He has graciously volunteered his resources and discretion: two things that don’t often coexist among people like us.”
A nod. “The Yakuza, under the excellent eye of Mr. Hayashi, have designed and built the clubs. Elegantly. With an eye toward longevity and respectability. I’m particularly excited about Hikari, myself.”
Another gesture, now toward the Russians. “You will stock the shelves, so to speak. Your men will oversee liquor, betting, and protection. You already do this for half the city. Now it will be done under one roof.”
Then, finally, his voice cooled.
“My people will provide the entertainment. The companions. Special companions. Human channelers: weak ones that we can control. Carefully sourced. Discreetly trained into cooperation without loose ends. And no unwanted eyes.”
“This alliance is built on one shared truth: if we fracture, the Ascendancy will come for us no matter how high of friends we have. If we overlap, the Atharim will hunt us. If we draw too much blood, the politicians will pretend they never knew our names.”
“But if we work together? We won’t just survive. We will be the shadow behind the spotlight. The real council behind the Sphere.”
Then, finally, Zixin leaned back and folded his hands.
“This is not a monarchy. There is no king here. Only partners. And if any of you feel otherwise: now is the time to speak.”
Yuta Hayashi arrived first, as expected. Precision incarnate. His lieutenants, sweet Kiyohito among them, stood like shadows along the wall. They made no small talk. Zixin didn’t require it. He offered Hayashi a respectful nod, however. The gesture was returned, nothing wasted.
Adrian Kane, their host, had entered next draped in arrogance and wrapped up in Savile Row wool. He circled the room like he owned the damn air itself, then selected a seat precisely halfway down the table. Right where a man with no known allegiances might make himself impossible to ignore. Zixin didn’t mind. Adrian was a wildcard, but not a real threat. Not yet.
Then Ryker. Every inch of him irreverent, but not careless. Zixin knew enough about men like him to recognize obedience masked in disdain. He was dying to know what strings Ryker answered to, and Zixin didn’t like not being able to scratch that itch. Now came the Russians.
The first to arrive was Konstantin Vasiliev, patriarch of the Vasiliev family. His coat was sable, his gloves fine leather, and his eyes shrewd and as cold as expected. Nebesa’s Gate had made him one of the wealthiest criminals in Europe, and he walked like a man who knew it. A single nod from Zixin was returned with the barest incline of the head. It was an uneasy peace that bonded them ever since Zixin delivered Kiyohito to Konstantin’s justice. He studied the two faces now they were in the same room. If only Haruto was also here. It would be quite the reunion.
Behind him came Gregor Petrovich, Moscow’s vodka baron. Barrel-chested and smelling faintly of his own product, Petrovich carried none of Konstantin’s icy veneer. He laughed too loudly, shook hands too hard, and sat at the table like he’d already claimed a bottle for himself. Zixin didn’t underestimate him. There was a cunning behind those ruddy cheeks that had kept his empire flowing through every club and bar in the city. There was no sight of Gregor’s boy. Zixin had yet to meet Zholdin in person, but he was looking forward to the opportunity. Word on the street was that Zholdin was eccentric and vicious. He sounded fascinating.
Third came Rodian Mordvinov, with his son Roman a step behind. Rodian had the look of a man who’d choked men with piano wire and then taught Sunday school the next morning. His family’s alliance with the Stoyas made them lethal. But it was Roman that Zixin watched closest. That one would inherit fire, and maybe more. Their nods were brief. Territorial. But not defiant.
And last came the Stoya matriarch: a woman whose first name was never spoken publicly without direct permission: Valeska Stoya. Dressed in a winter-white coat that brushed her heels, she looked more like an opera patron than a trafficker and extortionist. Her dark hair was pinned back in perfect waves, her lips lined in bright red like she kissed blood. She offered no greeting, and he didn’t need to. In fact, she seemed as if this was below her very attention, but her presence was still a declaration.
Like each of the others, she arrived with two men in tow: broad, silent shadows who remained standing behind her chair. It had become a silent tradition by now. Each Russian family head arrived with two lieutenants, uniform in posture but varied in temperament: some alert, some bored, all armed with watchful eyes even if they were weaponless.
All except one.
Mikhail had appeared quietly earlier, relatively unobtrusive in his entrance compared to what it might have been and without entourage or theatrics. A man who represented no family but wove among each as if he belonged to all. He took up a position near the wall, having found himself a champagne somewhere along the way, silent but unmistakably observing. A one-man syndicate, unpredictable and wholly self-contained.
Zixin leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he surveyed the room. The players had taken their places. Now, the game could begin.
Zixin gave it just enough pause to let the silence stretch. Then he spoke.
“This,” he began, voice quiet but clear, “is a first.”
He looked slowly down the line of faces. Zixin clasped his hands in front of him, loose at the fingers. No flash of rings. No thumping fists.
“I grew up in rooms like this,” he said, gaze flicking across the Russians. “Men who carved up cities like bread. Who thought empire could be fed one bite at a time.”
He let that settle, then continued with something close to reverence.
“And yet, none of them did this.”
A small gesture to the table. The gathered storm. “None of them brought enemies and allies together in one room to break bread.. figuratively, of course. Apparently the Radiance catering doesn’t offer pastries.”
A few faint exhales of amusement, though no one truly reacted.
“I haven’t asked you here to posture. Or to claim a title. I have no crown to wear, and even if I did,” he shrugged one shoulder. “I’m far too practical to wear jewelry to a knife fight.”
That got a smirk from Adrian, a tilt of the head from Yuta, a cold nothing from Konstantin.
“I asked you here to propose something more useful than dominance. But structure.”
He didn’t move from his seat but his voice hardened slightly. “A truce, yes. But more than that. A shared vision.”
Zixin’s hand unfurled, palm up, as if offering something precious.
“The five Companion Clubs will open in the coming days. Not brothels. Not drug dens. Institutions. Veins of profit that will run through every corner of this city.”
His eyes landed on Adrian. “For those of you who do not know him, allow me to introduce to you Mister Adrian Kane,” he gestured, “who has provided the land, the leases, the laundering, and the linens. He has graciously volunteered his resources and discretion: two things that don’t often coexist among people like us.”
A nod. “The Yakuza, under the excellent eye of Mr. Hayashi, have designed and built the clubs. Elegantly. With an eye toward longevity and respectability. I’m particularly excited about Hikari, myself.”
Another gesture, now toward the Russians. “You will stock the shelves, so to speak. Your men will oversee liquor, betting, and protection. You already do this for half the city. Now it will be done under one roof.”
Then, finally, his voice cooled.
“My people will provide the entertainment. The companions. Special companions. Human channelers: weak ones that we can control. Carefully sourced. Discreetly trained into cooperation without loose ends. And no unwanted eyes.”
“This alliance is built on one shared truth: if we fracture, the Ascendancy will come for us no matter how high of friends we have. If we overlap, the Atharim will hunt us. If we draw too much blood, the politicians will pretend they never knew our names.”
“But if we work together? We won’t just survive. We will be the shadow behind the spotlight. The real council behind the Sphere.”
Then, finally, Zixin leaned back and folded his hands.
“This is not a monarchy. There is no king here. Only partners. And if any of you feel otherwise: now is the time to speak.”
"Its better to bleed in training than die in war."
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Zixin Kao - Valtin Korsak - Aži Dahāka - Jörmungandr - Beowulf’s Bane