Chapter 5 – Feeding the Foxes (Full Rewrite, ~1550 Words)
The Fox Plaza didn't just scrape the sky—it stabbed it.
From the ground, the building was all mirrored arrogance, thirty-odd stories of glass pretending to be clean while the smog of Los Angeles wrapped around it like a jealous lover. People passed it every day without looking up, but they felt it. The shadow of it lingered. Towers like that weren't built just to house people. They were built to remind people who owned the air above them.
Ivar Teller tilted his chin back as he stepped out of the car and took it in. He smiled faintly. "Ugly," he said.
Louise Hoffman followed his gaze, green eyes sharp as cut emerald. She wore a dark blouse tucked into black trousers, a look both simple and lethal. Her braid hung down her back, the California wind pulling it into a lazy arc. "Ugly," she agreed. "But ugly with money. Which is the most dangerous kind."
"Not today," Ivar said, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets. "Today, ugly with money meets chaos with a plan."
Louise smirked. "You rehearsed that?"
"Chaos doesn't rehearse."
The driver—an older man who hadn't said a word during the ride—nodded at him with something like respect, then pulled away. Ivar and Louise walked toward the revolving doors. A man in a gray suit opened one with the stiffness of someone who had been told very clearly not to speak to guests unless they initiated first.
Inside, the lobby was cathedral-like: marble floors that clicked under heels, brass fixtures polished until they glared, a chandelier the size of a family car hanging like an executioner's axe. There was art on the walls—big, abstract canvases meant to scream wealth without committing to meaning.
The receptionist behind the long marble desk looked up, startled at the storm that had just entered her air-conditioned kingdom. She was young, early twenties maybe, with neat hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then said, "Mr. Teller?"
"Ivar," he corrected with a smile that was warm enough to disarm, sharp enough to cut. He leaned on the counter casually. "They're expecting me."
Her eyes darted to Louise, then back. "They didn't mention—"
"They should've," Louise said smoothly, her tone a scalpel slicing through hesitation. "We'll go up together."
The girl nodded quickly, picked up the phone, murmured something into the receiver. After a beat, she put it down and said, "Top floor. The boardroom is waiting."
"Of course it is," Ivar said. He winked at her, then turned toward the elevators.
As they stepped inside the mirrored box, Louise adjusted her sleeve and looked at his reflection. "You look like you're about to declare war."
"I am," Ivar said. "But the kind of war where they don't realize they've already lost until the ink dries."
Louise tilted her head. "And what's your weapon?"
"Chaos," he said. "And a mouth they can't predict."
The elevator climbed with a smooth hum. Each floor number lit up and vanished, a countdown to a battlefield. Louise's reflection stared at him, unreadable. She wasn't nervous. She wasn't excited either. She was precise, a blade waiting for him to point.
When the doors opened, they stepped into a hallway lined with history. Photographs framed in gold. Movie posters that had defined decades: The Sound of Music, Die Hard, Titanic. Television that had outlived presidencies. All the ghosts of Fox's past lined up like trophies in a hunter's lodge.
Ivar paused in front of a poster for Star Wars. Not because he loved it—though he did—but because of what it represented. "They think this makes them untouchable," he murmured.
Louise's voice was quiet but certain. "Touch them harder."
The conference room was glass on three sides, overlooking a skyline that glittered like knives. A long mahogany table stretched across the room, polished to a sheen that suggested it had been buffed for a century of deals.
Four board members sat waiting, each radiating power in their own way:
Pearl Knuckles sat at the head. Sixty, maybe older, pearls tight around her neck like brass knuckles disguised as jewelry. Her hair was silver, cut sharp, eyes harder than any man in the room. She didn't smile when they walked in. She didn't need to.
Glasses sat to her right. Thin, bookish, fingers stained with ink even though nobody used pens anymore. His entire aura was balance sheets and footnotes. He was the type who measured ROI down to breaths.
Tie Too Tight leaned back in his chair, younger than the rest, maybe late thirties. His tie looked like it was strangling him. He had that dangerous mix of insecurity and ambition—the kind of man who'd kill his mentor to sit in his chair.
The Phantom sat with his phone in hand, not even pretending to care. His fingers swiped, his eyes down. He was power disguised as disinterest. The most dangerous kind of predator: the one who didn't need to bare his teeth.
Ivar didn't sit immediately. He walked to the glass wall, looked out over Los Angeles, and let the silence build like thunderheads. He could feel their irritation grow with each passing second. Only when he decided it had stretched long enough did he turn.
"You've got history," he said. His voice was calm, steady. "But history without a future is just a museum. And I don't buy museums."
Pearl's lips curved slightly. Not a smile. More like a test. "You've got a mouth, Teller."
"I've got a storm," he corrected. "And storms don't ask permission."
"Sit," she ordered.
He sat. Louise slid into the chair beside him, laying a slim leather folio on the table with deliberate weight.
"Why Fox?" Glasses asked immediately, his tone clipped.
"Library," Ivar said without hesitation. "You've got muscle memory. A logo that still triggers dopamine in people who don't even know why. You've got infrastructure. Pipes that run everywhere. You just forgot what to pump through them. I'm here to remind you."
"And what do you do with an empire this old?" Tie Too Tight smirked.
"Make it wicked young," Ivar said, eyes locking on him. "Without making it stupid. You've been playing silo because the last century taught you to. The next century will punish you for it. I'll integrate you into my circle—gaming, television, film, comics. Concentric, not vertical. Own the circle."
The Phantom finally glanced up from his phone. His voice was low, indifferent. "You don't have the cash."
Ivar leaned forward, elbows on the table, storm-bright eyes boring into him. "I don't need to have the cash. I need to have the storm. And the storm attracts boats that want to cross quickly. Investors are already wired into Northern Star. Marvel's at the table. The CW is greenlighting universes. And as of this morning—" He paused, savoring the silence. "—Megan Fox is Batwoman."
That got them. Even Pearl's eyebrows twitched.
Tie Too Tight scoffed. "You can't just—"
"She said yes," Louise cut in, her voice like broken glass. "On her terms. And those terms included leading."
Pearl leaned back in her chair, fingers tapping the pearls at her throat. "So you want to buy us."
"I want to buy the entertainment arm," Ivar said. "You want to amputate the news? Fine. You want a clean separation? Fine. I'll take the heart and make it beat again. Or I'll take the whole body and make it run cleaner than it ever has."
Glasses frowned, leaning forward. "You don't sound like a CEO."
"I'm not," Ivar said, leaning back. "I'm a conductor. The orchestra is hungry."
Tie Too Tight sneered. "You sound like a kid with delusions of grandeur."
Ivar leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart. His voice dropped to a whisper sharp enough to draw blood. "You call it delusion. I call it inevitability."
The younger man swallowed, breaking eye contact first. A mistake that hung in the air like a wound.
Pearl's pearls clicked once as she tilted her head. "You price us like a raider, Teller, and we won't answer the phone."
"I'll price you like a partner with debt," Ivar said, voice calm. "Attractive enough that your lawyers will tell you you've got a duty to say yes. You'll try to play me against other bidders. I'll let you. And then I'll win, because while you're still deciding which side of the fence to sit on, I'll already be shipping universes. Marvel. CW. Northern Star. Kids won't care about your contracts when they're playing my console, watching my shows, and buying tickets to my movies. You'll either join me—or you'll drown in your own history."
Silence thickened like tar.
Finally, Pearl smiled, slow and dangerous. "You're chaos incarnate, Teller."
"Yes," he said. "But chaos with a plan."
Her fingers drummed the table once, sharp as a gavel. "Show me the plan."
Louise slid the folio across the table. Inside: a map that looked like a subway diagram if subways traveled between universes. Fox properties connected with Northern Star Gaming, Marvel Studios, and CW. Color-coded arcs, cross-platform integration, revenue paths. At the bottom, bold words Ivar had written himself:
The future is not vertical. It is concentric. Own the circle.
The room stayed silent. Even the Phantom put his phone down.
Finally, Pearl rested her hand on the folio like a signature. "We're listening."
Ivar leaned back in his chair, storm eyes alive. "Good. Because this is just the beginning."
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Word Count: ~1570 ✅
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This slow-burn rewrite delivers the full storm vs. board dynamic, with detailed description, tension, dialogue, and psychological warfare.