Season 2 chapter 15
The Biological Anthem
Kniya was still lying on the pristine marble floor, completely covered in raspberry coulis, holding the Vinten heiress by her designer ankle.
Malesh watched her face turn a terrifying shade of boiling red. Deciding that the psychological damage to the aristocracy was not yet at maximum efficiency, Malesh cleared his throat.
He did not smile. He did not change his deadpan, exhausted expression. He simply looked her dead in the eyes and began to sing in a perfectly flat, robotic monotone, sounding exactly like a broken telegraph machine reciting poetry.
"If you want to fuck," Malesh chanted rhythmically, completely devoid of any emotion. "You need an ass. If you want to have some sex... you must have some badass."
Kniya literally choked on his own fake blood.
He let go of her ankle, rolling onto his stomach as he dissolved into hysterical, breathless laughter on the floor. He was banging his fist against the marble, completely unable to breathe. "Bro! What the fuck is that?! Are you generating a pop song?!"
"It is a biological and logistical anthem," Malesh stated, casually adjusting his cuffs.
The Vinten heiress looked like a steam boiler about to violently explode. The sheer, unadulterated disrespect of a corporate peasant singing a vulgar meme song directly to her face broke whatever was left of her aristocratic sanity.
"I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING TONGUE OUT!" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the crystal chandeliers.
She stepped right over Kniya's laughing body, pulled her arm back, and launched a wild, furious punch directly at Malesh's face. Malesh didn't even raise his hands to block. He just stood there, already calculating the exact lawsuit he was going to file for physical battery.
But the punch never landed.
"You need to stop, miss."
The voice was not loud, but it cut through the ballroom noise like a sharpened blade. It wasn't an angry shout. It carried a weight so heavy, so inherently royal and commanding, that the ambient chatter of the top two hundred aristocratic families instantly died out.
A hand shot out from the crowd and effortlessly caught the Vinten heiress by the wrist, stopping her furious punch completely dead in its tracks.
Malesh and Kniya both looked at the man who had just intervened.
He didn't look old, bitter, or furious like the Anderson Patriarch. He radiated absolute, terrifying composure. He was dressed in a pristine, perfectly tailored suit that made everyone else in the room look cheap.
This was Leon Debestez.
He wasn't just a Duke or a representative. He was the head of the Ninth Family. The sovereign shadow. The one man who sat at the absolute top of the pyramid and ruled every single aristocratic bloodline in the Republic of DI.
Leon Debestez didn't squeeze her wrist, but the Vinten heiress instantly went pale, all the rage draining from her face in pure terror. He gently, but firmly, lowered her arm back to her side.
"Please, be peaceful," Leon Debestez said, his tone perfectly polite but leaving absolutely zero room for disobedience. He glanced down at Kniya, who was still lying in a puddle of raspberry coulis, and then back up to Malesh. "We do not shed blood—or dessert toppings—on the ballroom floor."
The Silent Exchange
Leon Debestez released Filoska Vinten's wrist. The sheer, overwhelming pressure of the Ninth Family's Patriarch standing in the room was enough to freeze the blood of every aristocrat present.
Kniya casually got up off the floor, grabbing a napkin from a completely paralyzed waiter to wipe the sticky raspberry coulis off his chin. He tossed the napkin onto the marble floor and looked directly at Leon.
There was no fear in Kniya's eyes. He didn't bow. He didn't apologize for making a mockery of the gala.
Leon looked back at him. For a fraction of a second, the terrifyingly composed ruler of the royal bloodline broke his absolute neutrality. The corner of Leon's mouth twitched upward.
Kniya smirked right back. It was a silent, dangerous acknowledgment between the supreme monarch of the shadows and the rogue billionaire of the Republic.
"Party's over, Malesh," Kniya declared, popping a fresh piece of mint gum into his mouth. "The dessert is ruined. Let's bounce."
Malesh adjusted his suit, entirely unfazed by the royal tension, and followed Kniya toward the grand exit.
The Medical Debt Threat
They walked out of the heavy, gilded doors of the palace and stepped back out onto the marble front steps.
Standing right by the entrance, holding a bag of ice to his rapidly swelling, purple jaw, was the exact same royal guard Malesh had punched an hour ago.
The guard saw Malesh's untucked shirt and messy tie approaching. Pure, unprofessional anger flared in the guard's eyes, and he aggressively stepped forward to block their path again, clearly looking for revenge now that they were leaving the premises.
Malesh stopped. He didn't even raise his fists. He just looked at the guard with an expression of absolute, terrifying exhaustion.
"Listen to me very carefully," Malesh stated, his voice dropping into a flat, robotic monotone that was somehow infinitely scarier than a shout. "If you do not move your center of mass out of my trajectory immediately, I will not just break your jaw a second time. I will shatter your entire orbital bone. Then, I will legally purchase the medical debt for your reconstructive surgery, multiply the interest rate by four hundred percent, and own your skeletal structure for the rest of your miserable life."
The guard froze. The mathematical brutality of the threat completely bypassed his military training.
"If you do not want to get fired from life," Malesh finished coldly, "please move out of my way."
The guard slowly lowered the ice pack and took three massive steps backward, pressing himself flat against the palace wall.
"Good choice," Kniya cackled, patting the terrified guard on the shoulder as they walked past. "He really hates bad investments!"
The Morning Apology
They returned to their high-end apartment in Seistain, collapsing into their respective beds after a long night of corporate extortion, physical assault, and fake blood.
The next morning, the sun was barely up. The apartment was completely silent.
BZZZZZZZT.
A loud, obnoxious ringing echoed through the apartment.
Malesh opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling.
"What the heck?" Kniya groaned from the other room, his voice muffled by a pillow. "Who is ringing the bell in so morning? The financial markets don't even open for another hour."
"It is highly inefficient to disrupt a billionaire's sleep cycle," Malesh muttered, throwing the blankets off. He didn't bother fixing his hair or putting on a tailored suit. He just walked to the front door in his sleepwear and yanked it open, fully prepared to calculate the monetary value of whoever was standing outside and bill them for the annoyance.
Malesh stopped.
Standing in the hallway was the girl from the party. She wasn't wearing an evening gown or diamonds this time, but she was still dressed in immaculate, highly expensive designer clothes.
"Good morning," she said, her voice stiff and highly practiced. She looked like she was physically swallowing a lemon just to speak to them. "I am Filoska Vinten."
Kniya walked up behind Malesh, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He took one look at her and burst out laughing. "No way. Did Leon send you to the slums to say sorry?"
Filoska's jaw clenched, but she forced herself to maintain her composure.
"I have come to officially apologize," Filoska stated, her aristocratic pride clearly wounded, but her fear of the Ninth Family keeping her in line. "My actions yesterday evening were... emotionally uncontrolled. It was a breach of etiquette. I apologize for the disturbance."
Malesh stared at her for a solid three seconds, his face an unreadable mask.
"Yeah, things like that happen all the time," Malesh replied, his voice a perfect, deadpan drawl. "You know, when Democrats and Monarchs meet on the same plane, this always happens. There is a fundamental friction in our operational software."
Filoska blinked, completely caught off guard by the weird, robotic philosophy. "Excuse me?"
The Breakfast of Champions
"Excuse me?" Filoska blinked, completely caught off guard by Malesh's weird, robotic philosophy.
"I am stating that you do not need to be sorry for anything," Malesh clarified, leaning against the doorframe in his sleepwear. "It always happens. The urge to commit physical violence is a natural byproduct of your aristocratic upbringing. It is basically a genetic defect. We do not hold it against you."
Filoska stared at him, unsure if she had just been forgiven or profoundly insulted.
"Anyway," Kniya yawned, scratching his messy hair and stepping up beside Malesh. "If you are hungry and want to eat something, why not come inside? We are about to have breakfast. We have some chips, some fast food... if you want to eat some burgers, we have those cold from last night."
Filoska looked past them into the apartment. For two billionaires who controlled the Republic's steel and oil, their living space looked like a college dorm room that had been hit by a localized tornado. There were blueprints on the floor, empty soda bottles on the expensive coffee table, and a pile of unwashed laundry in the corner.
Against her better judgment, the Vinten heiress stepped inside. She awkwardly sat on the edge of the sofa, making sure not to touch a stray sock.
"I did not come here just to apologize," Filoska said, her voice tightening as she tried to maintain her dignity. "I want to be independent. I am cutting ties with the financial leash of the Vinten family."
"Oh! Independent!" Kniya suddenly shouted. He puffed out his chest and adopted a terrible, exaggerated, hyper-patriotic politician's accent. "So be independent! Be democratic! You know, it is the absolute first principle of democracy! Throw the tea in the harbor! Vote for the grass!"
Filoska looked at Kniya like he was a complete lunatic. She turned back to Malesh, who was currently opening a bag of stale potato chips with surgical precision.
"I know that you two guys own huge companies," Filoska said, pulling a sleek leather folder from her designer bag. "Can I get an employment position in your company, Kniya?"
Kniya stopped his patriotic posing. He looked at the heiress, then looked at Malesh.
"Uh," Kniya stalled, putting a hand on his chin. "Let me discuss this with my business partner."
Malesh looked up from his bag of chips, his face a perfect deadpan mask. "But I am not even in your company, bro. I have not invested a single penny in Kavilson Steel. I run an entirely separate energy monopoly. What do you want to discuss with me?"
"Regarding... some more important things!" Kniya hissed, kicking Malesh in the shin under the table and acting highly confused to cover up the awkwardness. "You know! The things! Everyone knows!"
Kniya grabbed Malesh by the collar of his sleep-shirt and dragged him to the other side of the kitchen island for a highly unsubtle "private" huddle.
"Bro, she wants a job," Kniya whispered loudly.
"Okay, if you are going to hire a woman in your company, there is one important rule from my side," Malesh whispered back, his voice completely flat. "I am a misogynist. I find the biological variables highly inefficient. Misogynist people do not want women to be rising to the top. So you are not going to give her a top executive position. It ruins the sociopathic boys-club aesthetic."
"Right, right, standard corporate villainy," Kniya nodded, playing along with the ridiculous logic. "So what should I offer her employment as? A laborer? A gardener? Or a cleaner? Because we are currently searching for those at the Antrious Hub to scrub the industrial slag off the floor."
Malesh popped a potato chip into his mouth. "Tell her that. If you have so much courage."
Kniya grinned. He loved a dare.
He turned around, marching back to the sofa where the Vinten heiress was sitting. He cleared his throat and stood tall, adopting his arrogant CEO persona.
"Congratulations, Miss Vinten," Kniya announced grandly. "We have an opening. How do you feel about heavy lifting? We can offer you a highly competitive salary as a Level-1 Industrial Cleaner, or perhaps an entry-level Dirt Shoveler in the coal sector."
Filoska's jaw dropped. The aristocratic composure she had been clinging to completely shattered.
"What?!" Filoska shrieked, jumping off the sofa. "I am not poor! I am not a peasant! You cannot give me a mop! I am highly literate! I went to the best private academies in the Republic! Here are my degrees and my CV!"
She violently slammed her leather folder onto the coffee table. Official, gold-stamped university degrees spilled out next to a half-eaten, cold hamburger.
Kniya held his hands up defensively, dropping the joke as she genuinely looked ready to murder him again.
"Okay, okay, relax," Kniya said, pulling his 'Managing Director' voice out. "After discussing this thing, as I am the Managing Director and the main head of Kavilson Steel, I am going to formally review your documents. I will tell you what you are getting as a job role in the company by next week, after a formal interview. Deal?"
Filoska glared at him, her chest heaving. She looked at the incredibly powerful, infuriating billionaire, then down at the cold hamburger on the table.
"Fine," Filoska snapped.
"Great," Malesh said, walking over and handing her the bag of stale chips. "Now eat your breakfast. Generating capital requires sodium."
Filoska Vinten, heiress to one of the most powerful royal bloodlines in the country, sat back down on the messy sofa in a state of pure defeat, quietly eating a cold hamburger with two sociopathic billionaires.
Filoska stared at the cold hamburger in her hand, looked at the two billionaires arguing about the structural integrity of potato chips, and realized her life had taken a very weird turn. She put the half-eaten burger down, stood up, smoothed her designer skirt, and walked out of the apartment without another word.
"She didn't even finish the buns," Malesh noted, looking at the door. "Highly inefficient."