Part XXXII - The Phoenix Gambit
The cold of the garage clung to Maria's clothes as she carried the sleeping Isaiah across the small, cracked yard to the back door of the house. He was a small, dense weight in her arms, his head nestled into the curve of her neck. The air, thick with the smell of ink and the metallic tang of ozone from the overworked printer, felt a world away from the quiet stillness within. She pushed the door open with her hip and stepped inside, leaving the war room behind.
She moved directly to his small bedroom, the floorboards sighing softly under her feet. She gently placed Isaiah in his bed, the mattress dipping under the weight of the tiny colossus. She pulled the thin blanket up to his chin, her calloused fingers lingering as she brushed a stray black curl from his forehead. She watched the peaceful, innocent rise and fall of his chest and felt the immense, terrifying weight of what she was protecting—a weight far heavier than the child in the bed. This was the reason for it all.
Maria finally turned and left his room, closing the door until only a silent crack of wood remained. For the first time in six days, she was alone and had nothing immediate to do. The silence of the small house was deafening.
The adrenaline that had sustained her for nearly a week finally drained away. A wave of physical and emotional exhaustion hit her so hard she had to brace herself against the wall, her legs suddenly unsteady. The brittle armor of her composure cracked, and the full, crushing weight of their situation flooded in. She thought about the last six days of non-stop work—a blur of coffee, fear, and the frantic scratching of pens on paper. She knew she hadn't just missed shifts; she had abandoned both of her jobs—the hospital and the laundromat. There was no going back to the smell of antiseptic or the heat of the dryers. The Phoenix Empire was no longer just a dream; it was the only path forward. The thought sharpened her fear into a fine, needle-like point. She pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to break down. Not yet, she thought. I have to be ready when he gets back.
To fight the feeling of utter helplessness, her gaze, searching for something to cling to, didn't land on a task. It landed on the closed door to Isaiah's room.
An undeniable, magnetic pull drew her toward him. She didn't go inside, not wanting to risk disturbing the deep, healing sleep he so desperately needed. Instead, she sank to the floor in the hallway and leaned her back against the solid wood of his door. This was her post now. She wasn't waiting; she was standing guard.
She closed her eyes, and her world shrank to this single spot. She tuned out the hum of the refrigerator and the groan of the old house settling, straining to hear the one thing that mattered: the faint, rhythmic sound of her son's soft, even breathing through the door. That steady, quiet rhythm was her anchor in the storm of her fear, the single, perfect note that calmed her own racing heart and gave her the strength to endure.
Miles away, in another world of polished concrete and silent, reverent air, the fight was about to begin. Marcus stood on the quiet street in front of The Collector's Vault, a world away from the garage, from the smell of ink and the sound of a child's breathing. He straightened his jacket, the cheap fabric feeling thin and inadequate before the polished brass and heavy glass of the entrance. He took one final, steadying breath—a breath for them, for everything—and pushed the door open.
A small, polite bell chimed, announcing his arrival in the hushed, reverent atmosphere. The air was cool and still. It felt less like a shop and more like a gallery, with perfectly lit, museum-quality comics displayed in glass cases. He felt acutely aware of his own exhaustion, of the grit under his fingernails and the cheapness of his shoes on the polished concrete floor. He was an invader in this pristine world.
He spotted Gary at the back of the store, behind a wide, uncluttered counter. He was leaning over a comic, examining it with a jeweler's loupe, the picture of meticulous control. Gary didn't look up, forcing Marcus to wait in the heavy silence, a subtle but clear assertion of dominance.
The seconds stretched, each one tightening the knot in Marcus's stomach. He fought the urge to shift his weight, to clear his throat—any small sign of weakness. He pictured Maria's face, the exhaustion in her eyes, and the small, sleeping form of Isaiah. This is for them, he thought, the mantra hardening his resolve.
Finally, Gary set the loupe down with a soft click, his movements unhurried. He leveled a calm, neutral gaze at him, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Marcus."
This was the opening. Taking a slow breath, Marcus pushed off from the spot where he'd been rooted, his footsteps sounding unnaturally loud on the polished concrete floor as he walked forward, the portfolio clutched in his hand like a shield.
"I have something you need to see," he said, his voice coming out steadier than he felt.
Gary gave a slow, deliberate nod and gestured to a clear space on the counter. From a drawer, he produced a small, rolled-up mat of black velvet, which he unrolled with a soft whump. It was a gesture of professional respect for the art he was about to see, but it felt more like a priest preparing an altar. The ritual only heightened the tension.
His own hands feeling clumsy and rough, Marcus placed the portfolio on the mat and unzipped it. He carefully slid the single, perfect sheet of artwork from its protective sleeve. In the hushed, almost sterile environment of the Vault, the poster was a raw scream of color and energy, a supernova of defiant life that seemed to suck all the air out of the room.
Without a word, Gary opened another drawer and produced a pair of thin, white cotton gloves, pulling them on with a practiced snap at the wrist. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the counter on either side of the piece. Marcus stood frozen, every muscle tight. He forced himself to stay silent, to not fidget, to not betray the desperate hope churning in his gut. He watched Gary's face, searching for a sign—a flicker of an eye, a tightening of the jaw—but there was nothing. Only the cold, focused mask of a professional.
Gary's gaze was methodical, sweeping from the top left corner down to the bottom right, logging the overall composition before zooming in. He leaned closer, his eyes tracing the aggressive, clean lines of the boy's form, then the swirling, violent energy of the cosmos behind him. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
"The linework is aggressive, but clean. Almost surgical," Gary said finally, his voice a low murmur. He pointed a single, manicured finger toward the background. "And this... the use of color in the cosmos. It's not just black with white dots. It has energy, depth. The artist is treating it like a character. And the kid's expression..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "It's not heroic. It's feral." His finger then moved to a dark, swirling nebula in the corner of the piece, tapping the glass. "And what's this back here? Almost hidden... a throne. And a little king watching it all. It's a strange detail. It's like you're trying to tell more than one story at once."
Gary leaned back then, breaking his intense focus on the art. He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed not with suspicion, but with a profound, calculating intrigue. The professional veneer had cracked, replaced by the genuine excitement of a true collector who has stumbled upon something genuinely new. For Marcus, holding his breath, this silence was the real test. Gary was no longer just evaluating a piece; he was evaluating an entire universe.
He leaned forward again, his gaze sharp and analytical. "Who's the artist?"
"He's the maker of Dragonball," Marcus said, his voice calm and clear.
The simple, audacious claim hung in the air. Gary let out a short, dry chuckle, a sound of appreciation for the sheer nerve of the statement. He knew the comic's origins. He understood Marcus wasn't claiming to be the literal creator, but something else: an heir, an interpreter with a vision.
"The maker of this Dragonball, you mean," Gary clarified, his tone shifting from art critique to business analysis. He leaned on the counter, his professional mask now one of shrewd assessment. "The first three chapters you sold me—they were raw, but they had a spark. That's why I'm looking at this incredible piece of art instead of throwing you out. But it leads to a question: When are you going to finish chapter 4? A pretty picture is one thing. An empire needs products."
This was the test. "It's already written," Marcus said, a calculated bluff. "Production is ready to begin as soon as we're funded."
Gary held his gaze for a long moment, a flicker of something—amusement, respect?—in his eyes. He saw the bluff, Marcus was sure of it, but he also seemed to recognize the steel behind it. He was evaluating the nerve of the man as much as the quality of the art. Finally, Gary tapped a single finger on the counter.
"A strong piece, and a strong vision," he said, his voice quiet. "But you're asking for a collector's price for an unknown with an unfinished product. Why so high?"
Marcus met his gaze, unflinching. This was the final push. "Because we believe he's going to be the most important voice in the medium," he said, his voice low and intense. "This isn't just a poster; it's the first piece from a master. It's an investment in what's coming next."
He had laid his cards on the table. The words hung in the air, a final, all-in bet. Gary fell silent again, his gaze locked on the art. The silence stretched, becoming its own form of pressure. This was the longest moment of Marcus's life, the single point upon which their entire future balanced. Finally, Gary leaned back. He didn't smile, but his eyes held a new, sharp light in them—the unmistakable look of a man who has just recognized lightning in a bottle.
He named his price: "$12,500."
The number landed in the quiet room, seeming to hang in the air. For a heartbeat, Marcus's mind went blank. He had been so braced for a fight, for another round of negotiation, that the simple, clean finality of the offer caught him off guard. It was less than his desperate initial ask, but it was a lifeline. It was more than enough.
A wave of relief, so profound it almost made his knees weak, washed over him. He held it back, forcing the emotion down, maintaining his composure. He gave a single, professional nod. "We have a deal."
Gary gave a single, sharp nod in return. He turned his back to the counter, and Marcus heard the distinct, heavy thump and soft click of a tumbler lock on an old safe. A moment later, Gary turned back, holding a thick, sealed bank envelope. He didn't slide it. He placed it deliberately on the velvet mat next to the portfolio.
"Don't be a stranger, Marcus," Gary said, his voice quiet again. "I'll be expecting chapter 4. And the rest of the chapters for the first volume after that."
Marcus took the envelope, the weight of it feeling both impossibly heavy and blessedly real. He slid the artwork back into its portfolio, zipped it shut, and then, with another curt nod, turned and walked out of the Vault, the bell chiming his exit.
The cool night air hit him like a physical blow. He didn't stop until he was back in the driver's seat of his car, the door shut, cocooned in the darkness. Alone in the quiet, the mask of the negotiator finally dropped. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, the coarse plastic cool against his skin, and let out a single, shuddering breath that seemed to carry six days of fear and exhaustion out with it.
He picked up the envelope from the passenger seat. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the flap just enough to see the neat stacks of cash inside. It was real.
They did it.
A raw, unfamiliar laugh bubbled up from his chest. They had actually done it. His first thought was of Maria, waiting. He started the car, the engine roaring to life, ready to bring the news home.