SHINKI
The afternoon sun slants through the bulletproof glass of my Kage Capital penthouse office, casting long, clean shadows across the polished concrete floor.
I take a slow sip of ice water from a heavy crystal tumbler, the chill a precise, satisfying sensation. On the massive silent-screen television mounted on the wall, a financial news anchor is dissecting my morning's work.
"…a clear question of leadership," the man says, his face a mask of faux concern. "Can a twenty-two-year-old with undeniably brilliant ideas but no proven track command the helm of a company facing such significant technological hurdles? The offer from Kage Capital might be seen as a lifeline."
A faint, cold smile touches my lips. They're all reading from the script I indirectly provided. It's almost too easy.
Jiro stands beside me, a silent, brooding statue in his black suit. His arms are crossed, his usual grunt replaced by a tense silence I can feel radiating from him.
"This is petty, you know," he finally rumbles, not taking his eyes off the screen.
I don't look at him. My gaze stays fixed on the news, on the scrolling ticker that mentions Rory Robotics every third cycle. "It's a sound business decision. The company is undervalued and poorly managed. I'm correcting a market inefficiency."
"You're throwing a multi-billion-dollar tantrum because she called you a child," he states, his voice flat.
Now I turn my head. The smile is gone. "She didn't call me a child. She called me a 'cold, empty shell of a man.' There's a difference."
"Is there?" Jiro meets my gaze, his dark eyes unimpressed. "The result is the same. You felt a sting. So you escalated. From a boardroom insult to a hostile takeover in under twenty-four hours. That's not strategy. That's a reaction."
A flicker of irritation, hot and sharp, cuts through my calm. He sees too much. He always has.
"It's a proportional response," I counter, my voice dropping into a quieter, more dangerous register. I set the tumbler down on my desk with a soft, definitive click. "She publicly challenged my competence. I am now publicly, and factually, challenging hers. It's not personal. It's… corrective."
Jiro lets out a short, dismissive breath. "You have always been petty, Shinki. Even when we were kids. You never let anything go. Especially the little things. The things no one else would even notice. A sideways glance. A whispered comment you weren't supposed to hear. You'd store them all away in that vault you call a mind."
He takes a step closer, his voice low. "This is just a very, very expensive version of that. This is you, unable to let a single insult from a woman you'd never met until last night just… slide."
The truth of it hangs in the air between us, as palpable as the New York skyline through the window. He's right, of course. The big betrayals, the business rivalries—those are just chess moves. They don't get under my skin.
But the small, personal slights? The subtle dismissals? The implication that I am less than, that I am lacking in some fundamental human way? Those are the splinters I cannot abide.
I am a man built on control. My childhood, spent watching Kenji from the sidelines, was a lesson in powerlessness. I built this empire, this persona of unshakable logic, as a fortress against that feeling.
And she, with her fiery hair and her messy emotions, saw through the walls in a single glance and named the hollow space inside.
Empty shell.
The words are still there, echoing. A tiny, hairline fracture in my composure.
"It doesn't matter why I did it," I say finally, turning back to the screen. The news is now showing a graph of Rory Robotics' stock volatility. It's spiking. Perfect. "The result is what matters. I have her cornered. She's reacting. She's emotional. And when people are emotional, they make mistakes."
I pick up my glass again, the cold seeping into my palm.
"Let her be the raging fire. I will be the ice that eventually smothers it. And if enjoying the process makes me petty…" I take a slow sip, the ice clinking softly. "…then so be it."
– – –
MAISIE
The boardroom air is thick with panic and the stale smell of coffee.
I'm standing at the head of the long glass table, my knuckles white where I'm gripping the back of my chair.
Every person in this room is supposed to be a leader, a expert, and all I'm hearing is a symphony of cowardice and incompetence.
"We could issue a statement expressing our confidence in our long-term strategy," someone from PR suggests, their voice timid.
I stare at them, dead-eyed. "So, a polite 'we're not scared'? That'll really stop the vultures. Next."
"We could reach out to Kage Capital privately," our lead counsel offers, adjusting his tie. "See if we can negotiate the terms before this goes any further."
A hot, sharp laugh escapes me. "Negotiate? He didn't send an invitation to negotiate, David. He launched a missile. You don't negotiate with the bomb after it's already gone off. You try to deflect it. That's a coward's move. Next."
A junior marketing manager starts talking about a social media campaign to rally public support. It's sloppy, emotional, and would make us look like a bunch of kids begging for help.
I can't take it anymore. I slam my palm flat on the table. The sudden crack of sound makes everyone jump.
"Enough!" My voice rings in the sudden silence. "Can someone, anyone, in this goddamn room give me something that doesn't fucking make me cringe? Something that doesn't sound utterly, pathetically stupid?"
I'm breathing heavily, my chest tight. The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. They're all just staring at me, a bunch of deer in the headlights of a crisis I saw coming from a mile away.
Then, a small, hesitant voice comes from the far end of the table. It's Sarah, from the legal team. Her cheeks are flushed.
"I… I'm not sure, Maisie. It might be too aggressive, but…" She takes a shaky breath. "What if we don't play defense? What if we go on the offensive? We release our own statement. We don't just deny his claims. We sue him for defamation and corporate sabotage. We publicly allege that he orchestrated the leak of our stress-test data to deliberately devalue the company and enable this hostile bid."
The room stays silent, but the energy shifts. It's no longer just fear. It's calculation.
I don't look at Sarah. My eyes lock with Lena's across the table. Her CFO brain is whirring, I can see it. Her initial panic is gone, replaced by a sharp, analytical focus.
She gives me a slow, deliberate nod. "It's a hell of a risk. But it reframes the entire narrative. It stops us from being the victim and makes him the predator. It just might work."
A slow, fierce smile spreads across my face. The tightness in my chest unravels, replaced by a cold, clear purpose.
"Finally," I breathe, my voice low and steady. "A fucking idea."
I pull out my chair and sit down, leaning forward, my focus narrowing to Sarah and Lena. "Alright. Details. Sarah, walk me through the legal threshold for proving corporate sabotage. Lena, I want models on how this impacts our shareholder sentiment. Let's turn his goddamn missile right back around."
– – –
AUTHOR
The air in the boardroom crackles, no longer with panic, but with a fierce, focused energy. The shift is palpable. Maisie's explosive frustration has been funneled into a razor-sharp point.
"Alright, Sarah," Maisie says, her voice a low, steady command. She leans over the table, her finger tapping the polished glass. "The defamation angle. Walk me through it. What's the exact line he crossed?"
Sarah, emboldened, sits up straighter. "His letter, combined with the leaked narrative, doesn't just state an opinion. It presents a false fact—that our leadership is incapable due to age and inexperience, which is a demonstrably discriminatory claim. And by linking it to the stolen stress-test data, we can argue he's knowingly making false statements to manipulate the market."
A grim, satisfied smile touches Maisie's lips. "So we're not just calling him a bastard. We're calling him a lying bastard, with legal footnotes. I like it."
Lena chimes in, her fingers already flying across her tablet. "Okay, financially, this is a gamble. Our stock might tank on the initial volatility. But if we frame it as a righteous fight against a predatory billionaire trying to steal a brilliant, woman-led American innovation…" She looks up, a spark of her old humor returning. "We're not just a company; we're a cause. People eat that shit up with a spoon. We can spin this. The narrative is everything."
"The narrative," Maisie repeats, her eyes gleaming. "Yes. We're not defending. We're exposing. We paint him as the villain in his own story." She points at Lena. "I want a financial model that shows the potential upside of winning this PR war. New investors who back us out of principle. The value of looking like the brave underdog."
"On it," Lena says, a real grin spreading across her face. "I'll make a spreadsheet so beautiful it'll make Shinki Soma weep into his abacus."
The next several hours are a blur of concentrated chaos. The room becomes a war room. Whiteboards are covered in frantic, color-coded markers.
Legal pads are filled with Sarah's precise script outlining the tort of interference with business relations. Lena projects financial models onto the main screen, her commentary a mix of sharp analysis and irreverent asides.
"Look at this," she says, pointing to a projected graph. "If we can stabilize the sell-off here, and then get a sympathy bounce from our public statement… we could actually come out of this stronger. It's like financial jujitsu. Using his own attack to throw him."
"Jujitsu requires getting close to your opponent," Maisie mutters, not looking up from the draft legal complaint she's scrutinizing. "The thought makes my skin crawl. But if it works, I'll happily wipe the floor with his five-thousand-dollar suit."
As the afternoon sun fades into the deep indigo of evening, the frantic energy settles into a weary, determined rhythm. Empty coffee cups and wrappers from a rushed Thai food order litter the table. The initial, brilliant idea has been forged into a concrete plan.
The legal team has a solid draft of the complaint, ready to be filed first thing in the morning. PR has a blistering public statement prepared, ready to fire the moment the lawsuit hits the docket. Lena has a full financial and media rollout strategy mapped to the minute.
Maisie finally leans back in her chair, rubbing her tired eyes. She looks around the room at her exhausted, but now resolute, team.
"We're really doing this," she says, her voice hushed but firm. "We're not just saying 'no.' We're suing the pants off him."
Lena collapses into the chair beside her, kicking off her heels. "Damn right we are. And may I just say, for the record, that this is the most fun I've had with a spreadsheet since I figured out how to automate my holiday gift list." She lets out a tired but triumphant laugh. "Take that, you emotionally stunted iceberg."
A genuine, weary smile breaks through Maisie's grim determination. The fear is gone. The anger has been refined into a weapon. The room is quiet now, save for the hum of the climate control and the distant sirens of New York City.
They have burned the day, and much of the night, building their arsenal. The battlefield is set. The results of their labor will be evident to the world in the morning.
And for the first time since that damned folder arrived, Maisie Rory feels not like a victim, but like a general. And she is ready for war.