The smell of stale coffee, cheap printer toner, and nervous sweat hung heavy in the air of the Folly Comics bullpen. It was a cacophony of odors that clashed violently with the glossy, high-end production value I usually maintained at Meteor Studio. This place felt like a garage band practicing on instruments perpetually out of tune.
And right now, the central focus of this discordant atmosphere was Mike, the alleged former CEO, who was currently performing a dramatic impersonation of a beached whale on the industrial carpet.
He was groaning, a low, guttural sound of theatrical agony, clutching at the few strands of thinning hair remaining on his scalp. He writhed just enough to make his distress obvious, yet not so much that he couldn't keep an eye on my reaction through his tear-smeared vision.
Standing over him, chest heaving like an overworked steam engine, was Steve. He was the picture of righteous, subordinates-beating fury. His fists were clenched so hard the knuckles were bone-white, and his breath came in short, jagged gasps that made the air around him seem electrically charged.
To the handful of terrified junior artists huddled behind their cubicle walls—or to the security guards who were wisely pretending to check their phones outside the inner circle—it must have looked like a genuine, high-stakes brawl between a furious boss and a disgraced subordinate who probably knew too much.
But to me? Something about the whole spectacle felt utterly, painfully staged.
I didn't need the Sunday System running a complex facial micro-analysis to pick apart the flaws in their performance. Their movements were too clumsy, too exaggerated, like bad actors overplaying a pivotal scene in a B-movie. There was no real heat in the air, no genuine, skull-rattling fury. The violence was performative, designed to inflict maximum visual impact with minimum actual damage.
Mike's groans, for instance, were timed perfectly between Steve's labored breaths. It was a call-and-response routine, a pathetic duet of corporate drama.
'Tch….' I leaned slightly against the jamb of the doorway, folding my arms across my chest, letting my analytical gaze sweep over the scene.
'Is this what Steve thought would impress me? A schoolyard brawl masquerading as a corporate coup?'
Did he genuinely believe that demonstrating his willingness to physically abuse his superior—or, in this case, his former superior—would somehow sell me on his "dedication" to serving Meteor Studio? Loyalty forged in a cheap, self-inflicted spectacle. It was transparent, insulting even.
My internal voice, usually reserved and factual, layered on a dry, almost clinical amusement.
'They're trying too hard. If you want to sell a fight, Steve, you need to commit…. You need the blood spatter to be accidental, not carefully smeared.'
However, I couldn't dismiss the damage entirely. Steve's lower lip was split, a thin, bright line of crimson welling up and running down his chin, quickly absorbed by the rough stubble he hadn't shaved this morning.
His glasses were crooked, one arm jarringly higher than the other, giving his already frenzied face a bizarre, asymmetrical focus. His breathing was indeed heavy, ragged, suggesting that even if the blows weren't aimed to kill, the adrenaline and the sheer effort of maintaining the illusion of rage were exhausting him.
It raised a crucial question: Was he simply a very bad actor, dedicated purely to the theatrics? Or was he desperate enough to mix performance with reality, forcing the facade by actually hurting himself just to make the consequences look tangible? Either way, it spoke volumes about the precarious position he felt he was in—a position I was keen to exploit. Desperation was a lever, and Steve had just handed me the handle.
I let the moment stretch into an uncomfortable silence, watching Mike try to subtly adjust his tie while still feigning crippling agony. The air grew thick with unspoken expectations. I wasn't going to applaud their efforts. I just waited. The moment they realized their performance wasn't working, the faster we could move on to the actual reason I was here.
As Steve finally straightened up, trying to wipe the blood from his lip with the back of a shaking hand, my attention drifted past him. If Steve and Mike were the pathetic main event, the crowd gathering outside was the real drama.
I lifted my eyes to the massive, sound-dampening glass doors that separated the chaos of the Folly Comics production floor from the sterile, polished hallway outside. This entire building, built in the classic California style of glass and concrete, offered zero privacy.
Outside, a cluster had formed. It was a growing, predatory gathering of tailored suits and silk scarves—studio executives from rival cinematic houses, music representatives angling for soundtrack deals, and the slickest Hollywood agents known to prey on rising talent. They were pressed against the glass like tropical fish looking into a cleaner tank.
Their expensive smiles and whispering lips were a clear, undeniable translation of their true motives. They weren't here for Folly Comics, the crumbling empire that Steve had just symbolically overthrown. They were here for me.
'Vultures. Every single one of them. And they smell the fresh meat.'
They saw the potential acquisition, the intellectual property goldmine, the face—or rather, the carefully crafted, proprietary digital likeness—of the future of entertainment. They weren't here to admire the art; they were here to carve up the carcass and claim rights.
If I stepped out into that hallway, even just for a breath of the polluted L.A. air, they would mob me. It would be a relentless, suffocating assault involving shoving contracts, unsolicited offers printed on thick, embossed paper, and endless streams of fake promises about "synergy" and "creative control." They would promise me the moon and then charge me a royalty fee for the view.
My patience for that nonsense, for the typical Hollywood circus of superficial connections and opportunistic grifting, was not just low—it was at absolute zero. I didn't fly out of New San Antonio, enduring hours of cramped travel and the specific discomfort of being gawked at by my own entourage, just to shake hands with a bunch of overly tanned men in ill-fitting suits.
I came for something else entirely. I came for the IP, if I can get them, and for the stories buried beneath Folly Comics' poor management, and, perhaps most importantly, I came to take the precise measure of the people I needed to crush or recruit.
I held Steve's gaze across the width of the floor. He knew those people were out there. He knew their existence validated my power. His eyes flickered nervously, calculating how long I would stand there, using the tension of the crowd as a silent intimidation tactic.
I gave a fractional, almost imperceptible shake of my head, a dismissal of the outside noise. The suits could wait. Their time was coming, but I would invite them to the table when I held all the chips, not when they thought they could still bluff me with their empty smiles.
My focus returned to Steve, who was still trying to look intimidating despite the split lip and the lingering scent of desperation radiating off him. We had a business conversation to finish, one that actually mattered. The lingering tension from the staged fight was thick enough to chew on.
"Please come, follow me to the office,". He tried light talk, forcing a chuckle that sounded like stones grinding together. He adjusted his bent glasses, making his nose crinkle in discomfort.
"So," Steve started, trying to sound casual, though his voice was rough from the artificial exertion. He gestured vaguely at the scattered piles of comic books nearby, their cheap, glossy covers depicting hyper-muscled heroes and impossibly proportioned heroines—a perfect reflection of this hypersexualized society.
"Do you… like comics, Sael? I mean, beyond the obvious financial interest, do you enjoy the medium itself?"
It was a standard, almost cliché attempt at corporate small talk, reaching for common ground. He was hoping I'd say something vague about 'the potential of serialized storytelling' or 'the nostalgia factor.'
I kept my gaze level, enjoying the way he squirmed slightly under the scrutiny.
"I do," I replied simply, my tone flat, factual. Then I paused, just long enough to ensure he was fully committed to listening. "I kinda like, Captain Dicks."
Steve blinked once, then his entire demeanor shifted. The faux-aggression vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense flood of genuine, unadulterated pride. His eyes, magnified slightly behind the crooked lenses, lit up with an almost boyish excitement. He actually forgot, for a fleeting second, that half the studio thought he'd just committed corporate assault.
"That's the one! Really!" he exclaimed, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if we were two kids sharing a secret under the library table.
"I know you're a man of taste! That series… it's a passion project. The social commentary, the subversive humor, the way we tackle—" he caught himself, remembering my age and the formal context, "—the way we tackle mandated reproductive cycles and government overreach. That is truly mine. My proudest work, Sael. Why that one specifically?"
I gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real expression I'd shown since arriving. Captain Dicks was one of the few original, non-Earth IPs in this world that actually had a decent premise and sharp writing, even if the subsequent issues spiraled into predictable filth. I appreciated that he had retained some standard of quality.
"It's got guts… It's not afraid to be funny while being critical. Most importantly, it has a character you actually want to follow, not just look at."
We shared a brief, isolated bubble of agreement, a moment of shared creative appreciation that cut through the surrounding corporate sewage. We actually laughed, a brief, sharp noise that startled Mike on the floor into an unintentional, high-pitched squeak of pain.
But the moment of levity was fleeting. Steve, emboldened by the positive feedback, pushed further, trying to solidify his status as a creative partner, not just a disposable lackey.
"Right, exactly! You get it, Sael. You see the vision. So, tell me, looking ahead, where do you see the future of comics going, now that Meteor Studio is shaking up the whole entertainment industry? What do we do next?"
I didn't sugarcoat it. I was here to provide clarity and demonstrate that my vision was not just bigger, but fundamentally better.
Moving a step closer so he had to crane his neck slightly to meet my eyes. My voice dropped, losing all comedic inflection.
"Kinda Bleak," I stated plainly. The single word hung heavy in the air.
Steve's face immediately tightened, the genuine joy fading like a burst bubble. He cleared his throat.
"Bleak? But… the market is huge. The demand for IP is unprecedented, especially with the GMRD Support creating endless escapism needs…. Not to mention many loved it,"
"The market is huge, Steve…. But the art is dead." I articulated my critique slowly, deliberately, driving the point home.
"Right now, every single title on those shelves is either a clone of whatever's currently popular or it's a recycled attempt at a ninety-year-old archetype that no one under thirty actually cares about."
I gestured toward a stack of books titled Crimson Vows—a thinly veiled clone of the Twilight aesthetic.
"Look at this…. Too much sex, and not enough story. You have characters existing purely as delivery systems for gratuitous exposition and forced sexual tension. There's no subtext…. There's no struggle that isn't solved by pheromones or mandated breeding Scene…. You've sacrificed narrative complexity for immediate, shallow arousal."
The truth of my statement was undeniable, especially in a world where media often felt like compulsory foreplay, tailored to ensure compliance with governmental population quotas. Steve, however, had built his career feeding that beast.
"But… that's what sells, Sael. That's the cultural mandate! The norms!" he protested weakly, his earlier fire completely extinguished.
"Selling and leaving a legacy are two different things, Steve…. Anyone can sell sex when the government dictates that sex is the primary focus of civilian life. That's low-hanging fruit…. It requires zero creativity."
I leaned in, my gaze locking onto the panic starting to ripple behind his eyes.
"Nobody's writing anything worth remembering. Nobody is creating characters that will resonate fifty years from now…. You're giving the population exactly what they think they want—empty calories—instead of giving them what they need: meaningful escapism, true emotional depth, and stories that challenge the status quo, even slightly."
The smile on his face didn't just falter; it cratered. Mike, sensing the shift in the power dynamic and the sudden, clinical dismantling of Folly Comics' entire business model, stopped groaning entirely and lay perfectly still, pretending to be a discarded office appliance.
Steve opened his mouth, probably to defend his decades of work producing this very content, but nothing came out. He looked crushed, realizing that the new boss didn't just want to buy his company; he wanted to reinvent the very definition of his art form, condemning everything he had previously stood for in the process.
This was the core difference between Meteor Studio and Folly Comics. They chased the market; I created it by introducing forgotten masterpieces from the old Earth—titles like Warhammer 40K and Silent Hill—that offered the genuine, non-sexualized depth this society craved.
"We're here, Steve," I finished, my voice softening slightly, injecting a hint of calculated encouragement, "because Captain Dicks showed a glimmer of hope…. It showed you understand narrative, even if Folly Comics forced you to bury it under the themes…. Now, we're going to dig that narrative back out. But first, we deal with the old ghosts."
I glanced deliberately at Mike, still prone on the floor, and back at the cluster of vultures pressing urgently against the glass doors. The real work of acquisition was about to begin, and Steve just learned the price of entry: absolute creative and moral alignment with the future I was building. He had to shed the old ways completely. The staged fight—the pathetic display of aggression—was now irrelevant. The only currency that mattered was intellectual vision, and in that regard, Steve was currently bankrupt.
The air in the studio grew cold, heavy not just with coffee and toner, but with the specific weight of unavoidable, impending change.
The office smelled like stale coffee and desperation. It was a faint, sour aroma that clung to the particleboard desks and the threadbare carpet of Folly Comics. We were crammed into what looked like Steve's private office, though 'private' was generous; the walls were thin enough that I could hear the muffled, weary tapping of keyboards from the bullpen outside.
Kate, stood behind me, ramrod straight, radiating the expensive cologne and confidence that only a fully-funded legal department could afford.
Opposite her, Sabine, our creative lead, looked like she wanted to sterilize the room with a flamethrower. She was used to the bright, airy, digitally optimized space we called Meteor Creative's main hub, not this dusty historical relic.
Steve, in his late forties whose suit looked slightly too shiny and whose brow was permanently furrowed with worry lines. He had been pacing a small, worn path in front of his desk for the last five minutes, touching a stack of old comic book galleys, then straightening a framed poster—anything but looking me in the eye.
My knee was starting to bounce slightly under the table. I was operating on a tight schedule. We had just launched Silence Hill: First Fear, the buzz was insane, my VTuber channel was demanding new content, and the development team for Warhammer 40K: Space Marine was waiting for final concept agreements. I didn't have time for this corporate dance.
I leaned forward, planting my elbows on the faux-wood surface. The cool air conditioning of the building was fighting a losing battle against the heat emanating off Steve's nervous energy.
"Enough." My voice, still possessing the slightly lighter tone, cut through the tension with surprising sharpness.
"Why did you want me here before selling your company, Steve? Just ask me directly."
Steve froze mid-pivot, caught like a deer in the high beams. He cleared his throat, a wet, rattling sound, before finally settling into the chair opposite me. He wrung his hands together once, hard, and then met my gaze—or rather, the spot just above my left shoulder.
"Right. Directness. Of course, Mr. Sael." He swallowed hard.
"I know you're acquiring the physical assets, the IP rights we have left, the contracts… everything is prepared for the sale to whoever is willing to pay. But before I finalize the standard auction paperwork, I wanted to know—" He paused, the words seeming to catch. "Would you… want to fully own Folly Comics yourself?"
The question was posed as if he had just offered me the keys to a kingdom. I suppressed a sigh. Full ownership was the only reason I was sitting in this mausoleum. I didn't just want to acquire Folly; I wanted to dismantle it and weld the best parts onto Meteor Creative.
My answer came instantly, flat and decisive, mirroring the finality of a gavel drop.
"Yes…. Folly Comics will cease to exist."
Steve's already pale face lost a shade of color. I hadn't meant to be cruel, only efficient, but sometimes those two things overlapped in business.
"I'll buy it whole... Every single artist contract, every piece of technology, every stick of furniture, and every contract you have with retailers. But Folly is dead weight, Steve. The brand has been struggling for months," I continued, leaning back. I glanced toward Kate, who already had the appropriate legal documents cued up on her tablet.
"Your people, however, are not dead weight…. Their style is exactly what I need… They will move immediately to Meteor Creative."
I didn't need to look at the bullpen, but I could feel the ripple effect. Steve's office door was thin, and the adjacent glass wall offered a view of the desks outside. Whispers spread like wildfire across the cramped office space. Heads snapped up from keyboards.
Hope, raw and intoxicating, returned to tired faces. I saw several staff members exchange wide-eyed glances, clutching the mouse or stylus in their hands. They had waited months for this salvation. They weren't waiting for a bailout; they were waiting for an escape pod.
It was obvious the staff was ready to jump ship, but Steve wasn't quite done clinging to the mast.
Steve's expression soured, his jaw tightening into a stubborn line as the reality of the clean sweep hit him. The initial nerves of selling were replaced by a bruised ego. His tone, previously deferential, now turned awkward and defensive.
"If—if you would allow it, Sael…" He dabbed a bead of sweat from his temple with a cheap paper napkin.
"Could Folly Comics at least remain in name? As a subsidiary? Under Meteor Creative?"
The question was frankly insulting. It showed a fundamental misunderstanding of what Meteor Creative was doing. We weren't interested in acquiring sub-brands; we were interested in building a monolithic entertainment empire with a unified vision focused solely on Earth's media I was feeding it.
Kate folded her arms instantly, the material of her tailored blazer rustling faintly. Her expression went tight, visually irritated that this amateur was attempting to challenge the terms of a massive acquisition.
Sabine, who was usually softly spoken, pressed the point of her pen harder against her notepad, ready to shoot him down with a dozen reasons why the Folly brand identity was creatively bankrupt.
I raised my hand, a small, subtle gesture, but it was enough to silence them both. I didn't need the legal or creative backup yet. This needed to be a personal decree.
"No, Steve." I kept my voice low, but it held the weight of my convictions.
"You misunderstand the nature of this inquiry, and of Meteor Creative."
I gestured vaguely toward the glass window overlooking the bullpen, where the artists were still buzzing with the sudden influx of hope.
"My inquisition isn't about saving Folly Comics…. Folly Comics is failing because its creative output has stagnated and its business model is unsustainable in the current market. Your name carries baggage, Steve. It smells like old paper and delayed paychecks to the public."
Steve flinched visibly, a sharp retraction of his shoulders, as though I had struck him with a ruler. The harsh truth burned the air.
"To me, It's about your artists," I continued, relentless.
"Their style, their work ethic, their capacity to produce output—it fits my vision perfectly…. We are building massive properties right now. Comics, manga adaptations, visual novels, and heavy concept art for VR titles like Space Marine…. I already know what I want drawn and painted, down to the panel layouts. Your brand isn't part of the future…. The talent is."
The clarity in my statement seemed to rob him of any remaining corporate facade. His shoulders slumped, and he looked smaller in his chair.
I didn't dislike Steve; I just viewed him as a weak link who had proven incapable of running a sustainable business. If he had been a sharp, strategic leader, I would have been negotiating a partnership. But he was floundering, and Meteor Creative never partners with the drowning. We acquire them, pull them out, and tell them to start swimming for us.
Steve suddenly shifted tactics. Realizing the corporate talk wasn't working, and that I was completely immune to the idea of brand loyalty, his tone changed again, becoming softer, more pleading, and laced with manufactured sentimentality.
"Sael, please." He leaned forward earnestly.
"Think about the legacy. Folly Comics has been publishing for thirty years. My father built this from nothing. It's more than just a name, it's a—"
"A poorly run business," I finished for him, entirely without malice.
He ignored me, barreling forward with the emotional appeal. "It's about dreams, Sael. The soul of Folly Comics. The artists who stayed loyal—"
He tried to guilt trip me—talking about history, about dedication, about the 'spirit' of the company. But this was the same man who had already agreed to sell Folly to the highest bidder, months ago, before I even showed up as an option.
He had already signed declarations of intent to sell 100% of assets. He wasn't protecting a dream; he was desperately trying to keep a shred of control, a visible tie to the past he was abandoning.
So that's it. I thought, watching the subtle tremor in his hands. You called me here saying you'd sell everything for cash and talent integration, and now that the staff is listening, you're twisting the story? Trying to keep the Folly name alive by tugging at my sympathy?
I felt the familiar chill of analytical focus settle over me. This was a purely emotional, manipulative play, and it triggered my aversion to corporate deception. I was here to provide security and opportunity, but I would not be played for a fool. Especially not when my own team—Kate and Sabine—were waiting just behind me, ready to execute the acquisition I had promised them.
My voice hardened, shedding the casual, polite veneer I usually employed. It was the sound of a CEO who knows he holds all the cards.
"No. You already gave your word, Steve." I tapped the desk once, mimicking the sound of the gavel I had been thinking of earlier. The sound was sharp, final.
"When you sent me your preliminary prospectus, the only thing you were concerned about was the valuation of your human capital and the immediate liquidity you'd receive upon closing…. We are honoring the former, and Kate has the documents for the latter. The brand ceases to exist."
I held his gaze this time, forcing him to meet the eyes of the kid who was about to decide his future. The nervousness returned to his features, but this time, it was laced with defeat.
"Now you're playing games, Steve. And you're playing them badly. Don't think I can't see it... You want to talk to me in person… now I am here, you were trying to go on a roundabout?"
The air in the office felt heavy and gray, tasting faintly of stale coffee and desperation. Steve Kisonli, standing just five feet away from me, was still milking his performance, his chest heaving with theatrical sighs that were supposed to convince me he was a good man unfairly maligned.
"Please, it's not like that, Mr. Sael...and I know you think I'm responsible for the decay, Sael, but I've been fighting tooth and nail for this team. They are family," he whined, dragging out the last sentence like a martyr.
I didn't need to look at him to know he was sweating. His long-winded guilt trip grated on me like gravel dragged across glass. It wasn't just the lies; it was the sheer waste of time. I had Kate and Sabine handling billion-credit legal disputes and I was stuck here listening to a middle-management theater production.
"….This is getting very long winded… and extremely annoying…". I turned away from him entirely, pivoting on my heel and scanning the cavernous, poorly lit office.
The desks were haphazardly arranged, cluttered with empty energy drink cans and monitor glare reflecting off tired faces. The atmosphere screamed low morale. Ramona's team, the designated muscle and distraction unit, stayed tight against the far wall, their presence a silent deterrent against any sudden moves from Folly's remaining security.
My focus wasn't on the décor or the disgruntled employees; it was on the potential. I was hunting for the spark that hadn't been extinguished by months of corporate starvation.
My eyes landed on a woman tucked into a corner cubicle. She wore oversized, thick-rimmed glasses that made her eyes seem enormous, and she was clutching a large sketchbook tightly against her chest, treating it like a fragile, priceless artifact—a lifeline in this sinking ship. She looked tense, ready to flee, but her eyes, darting from my entourage to the pile of dust-covered character models on her desk, were intensely observant.
I walked toward her, the sound of my expensive, newly shined boots echoing slightly off the cheap linoleum floor.
"You. Name?" My voice cut through the low, nervous murmur that had settled over the office.
She flinched, clutching the sketchbook tighter. "J-Jackie. Comics division manager… I'm also the primary artist for Mint-Man."
I tilted my head, recognizing the title. Mint-Man was a low-selling, overly sanitized superhero title that Folly had clearly mandated to appeal to the lowest, safest demographic. A waste of talent, seeing the nervous energy radiating off her.
Understanding my intent, she rushed over, practically shoving the sketchbook into my hands.
"This is my personal work," she stammered. "It's… unpublished."
I flipped through the pages quickly. The art was excellent—dynamic lines, incredible use of shadow, and bold character work that demanded attention. It was leagued beyond the insipid Mint-Man covers I'd seen online. My internal assessment was immediate: Top-tier skill, wasted on dreck.
There was, however, a noticeable motif. Every female character in her personal portfolio, regardless of genre or archetype, seemed to possess improbable curves and outfits that defied gravity and basic fabric science.
'Too much erotic flair, but it is quite good,' I thought, a small, knowing smirk touching my lips. In this world, that wasn't a flaw—it was the default setting, and Jackie's skill in depicting the human form, even the exaggerated hyper-sexualized form, was undeniable.
I held the sketchbook loosely, still ignoring Steve's low, persistent murmuring of corporate excuses. I walked past him and continued my circuit, holding Jackie's work as a standard.
"Alright! Everyone! Show me," I commanded the room generally. "Show me why you still come here every morning."
The floodgates opened slowly at first, then rapidly. Ramona, Kate, and Saiko formed a tight perimeter, keeping the remaining corporate drones at bay while the artists surged forward. Manuscripts, concept art, storyboards, and scripts piled immediately into my hands.
The paper felt brittle and thin, likely cheap print jobs, but the creative density of the stack was palpable. These people hadn't stopped creating, they had just been forbidden to share it properly.
I settled into the nearest empty chair, the stack of creative output beside me. My eyes burned as I speed-read through concepts for gritty sci-fi epics, dark comedies, and dramatic character studies—none of which Folly Comics would ever greenlight.
After what felt like three minutes, but was probably closer to ten, I scanned everything quickly, internalizing the overall mood and the specific talent distribution.
Then, I clapped my hands once, sharply. "CLAP!"
The sound echoed off the high ceiling, instantly cutting through the nervous chatter and the rustling of paper. The room fell silent, the nervous energy spiking.
My gaze turned immediately to Samantha Myers. She was blonde-haired, sitting stiffly at an organized desk, radiating a quiet, focused energy. She had only handed me a single page—a tightly written pitch for a historical fantasy graphic novel—but the clarity of her prose had been startling. Shy, yes, but clearly sharp. The type who observes everything and keeps the running tally.
"Samantha Myers," I called out, using the full name, making it formal.
"List out Folly Comics' problems. All of them…. Don't hold back."
She blinked, startled that the new owner—or potential owner, depending on Steve's narrative—had called her out immediately.
She swallowed hard, adjusted her glasses, and finally spoke. The flood, once opened, was articulate and damning.
"D-Delayed salaries," she started, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm.
"Eight months now, for most of the core team. Copyrights for five of our most promising new IPs were sold off last month to creditors merely to keep the lights on—without notifying the artists. Our environment is… toxic. We are required to meet quotas on mandated VR content, content that none of us believe in, and we're forbidden to write or draw what we truly want."
I nodded once, letting the truth hang in the silence. Eight months of delayed pay in this economy was effectively a death sentence for independent artists. They were trapped, forced to produce garbage just to service the debt of waiting for their next paycheck.
"Thank you, Samantha," I said. I stood up, leaning against the edge of the desk.
My voice shifted, dropping the casual conversational tone for something deeper, more authoritative—the voice of Meteor Studio.
"Then here is my offer to all of you…. I'll pay all overdue salaries immediately, processed by end of business today. I will double your wages effective tomorrow…. Full housing stipend, relocation benefits, and premium medical coverage under the Meteor Studio umbrella."
Gasps spread wave-like through the office. That alone was enough to solve years of trauma. But I wasn't selling benefits; I was selling freedom.
"Here is the real difference," I continued, locking eyes with Samantha and then sweeping my gaze across the stunned faces.
"You will create freely… No mandated content, no restrictions on expression, erotic or otherwise, IF you don't want to…. You will choose your projects, and unless Meteor Studio purchases the IP separately for a negotiated sum, you—the creators—will own the rights yourselves."
A stunned silence followed. Owning their own IP in this corporate landscape was unheard of. It meant sovereignty; it meant they controlled their future, not some nameless board of shareholders.
Kate and Sabine, my legal and creative anchors, stepped close to me, their expressions a mix of awe and concern.
Kate, ever the pragmatic lawyer, spoke low, her voice just for my ears. "Sael… this is bold, even for you. The immediate expenditure on back pay, coupled with guaranteed IP rights…"
Sabine, who had built her career on nurturing talent, was more worried about the emotional cost. "It's a heavy responsibility. If they all jump ship, we're absorbing a massive, traumatized workforce overnight. Are you certain?"
I allowed myself a genuine, cold smirk.
"I didn't come here for a company, Kate…. The building, the debt, the name—it's garbage. I came here for artists. For the people who hate this toxic reality and still have the energy to draw better worlds in their sketchbooks. I'll leave with them, one way or another."
The silence held for another excruciating five seconds. Every single person in that office seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for someone else to make the first move.
Samantha Myers, the quiet, sharp observer, broke the tension. She rose from her desk, the movement deliberate and strong. In her hand, she held a single, neatly folded sheet of paper.
She walked directly to Steve Kisonli's desk—the man still standing there, mouth slightly agape, trying to formulate a denial—and placed the resignation letter directly in the center of his blotter.
"I… accept," she announced, her voice clear and ringing. She turned away from Steve and walked toward Ramona, ready to be processed.
"Me too…".
"Me as well! I quit!".
The dam broke.
It wasn't a gentle stream; it was a flood. The years of pent-up exploitation, the delayed pay, the creative suppression—it all channeled into a physical rush. One after another, employees surged toward Steve's desk. The sound of their footsteps, their relieved sighs, and the thwack of papers hitting the wood was deafening. Resignation letters, some neatly typed, others scrawled hastily on Post-it notes, piled high, burying the man's organizational tray.
They hadn't needed convincing. They had only needed a window of escape, and they had been waiting years for this moment.
Sabine, pulling out her secure digital tablet, didn't hesitate. She began drafting the preliminary employment contracts immediately, her fingers flying across the screen. Kate, meanwhile, started coordinating with Ramona's team to secure the artists' personal effects.
I turned back to Steve Kisonli. He was pale, silent, and entirely speechless, watching his entire workforce walk away from him in a matter of thirty seconds.
I leaned in, my voice dropping back to that casual, slightly bored tone that often carried the most menace.
"By the way…Next time you fight, Steve, make it real…. Don't waste my time with staged drama."
As if on cue, a familiar, smooth voice whispered only in my head. Sunday.
'You're right, Sael. Steve was in on it. That entire outburst, the shouting, the fake collapse into misery? It was a show—a calculated attempt to make your arrival here look like a desperate rescue, to sell your sympathy and raise the acquisition price. He was hoping to leverage your perceived generosity.'
My jaw tightened, the analysis clicking into place with cold precision. The manufactured chaos, the timing of the 'discovery' of the unpaid wages—it was all designed to pressure me into a more emotional, and thus more expensive, buyout.
'So that's how it is. A setup from the start. They thought they could play the savior card against the otaku kid from Meteor? Pathetic.'
Out loud, I finished my warning, my eyes boring into his.
"I came in good faith, Steve. I wanted to help your team and offer them a future, which I am now doing independently of you. But don't mistake me for a bottomless piggy bank or a naive hero." I let the final threat hang heavy in the air, a promise cut from steel.
"Try that low-effort corporate manipulation again—and I'll bury you, your company, and whatever miserable shell corporation you crawl into next…. Try me,"