4:00 PM — Inside Bellingham Tower, Media Relations Floor
Clara paced like a tiger, phone glued to her ear, barking orders at legal, PR, and security all at once. The tension in the room was thick enough to slice with a credit card. One intern was quietly sobbing into her sleeve near the coffee machine—beats from panic, beats from adrenaline.
{They had managed to get through the media without them knowing.}
Across the glass-paneled war room, Tony sat in a leather chair—unnerved by nothing, sipping bottled water, a single Band‑Aid plastered near his jaw over the bruise. He was the eye of a hurricane: still, composed, dangerous.
[Must I always be involved in problems in every life]
"Tony," Clara snapped, pivoting on her heel, eyes blazing. "You need to lie low. Let legal handle this. We spin it as self-defense, issue a formal apology—"
"No."
Her brow shot up. "Excuse me, wasn't that the plan?"
Tony pushed himself up, adjusting cufflinks as if preparing for a duel. His reflection shimmered on the glass wall—an image both regal and ready for battle.
"I'm not hiding. I'm not apologizing. I'm not some fragile mascot they prop up with bad headlines."
He clicked the remote. The huge screen flickered to life, showing a mosaic of tabloid and outlet front pages. Frozen frames of his punch. Zoomed shots of bloodied knuckles. Headlines like
"Unhinged Heir!",
"Billionaire Goes Berserk!",
*"Fist of Fortune: Tony Bellingham's Violent Outburst"—all screaming for damage control.
"They want power plays?" Tony said quietly, venom in his calm voice. "Fine. Let's show them I don't fold."
(Yeet!!!!! Btw, he could use his street smarts to just run through them)
Clara looked ready to pounce on the table.
"You just triggered every crisis manager in England!"
Tony's....no. Kai's smirk was casual—deadly casual.
"Good. Keeps them sharp."
---
4:30 PM — Live Stream: Bellingham Official Broadcast
The live feed whirred on. No fluff intro music. No crisis-controlled script. Just Tony, stark against a deep-blue Bellingham Industries backdrop.
He wore a crisp black suit; his bruise under the eye was obvious. Scars, not hidden scars. His stance—square shoulders,
grounded feet—said challenge.
Clara looked at him, with both worry, and confidence. "Kai? You ready?"
"Yeah!!! I am!"
(Alright People, let's get this show on the road)
"Good evening," he began.
Silence—but for the hum of notifications and viewer count skyrocketing. Chat exploded, few managing to catch his attention:
@BigCoolJack
> "Whoa."
@VenomKing
"He's admitting it?"
@D_Phantom1
"Respect = 300%."
Tony didn't flinch. He leaned forward and pressed palms on the podium.
(I believe in you!!!!!)
"You've probably seen the footage. Yes, there was a fight."
Another heartbeat. Another scan of silent shock that pulsed across comment feeds.
"But let me explain. Those men weren't guests. They were sent to attack me, sent as a plan towards a corporate saboteur—bribing me and of course harming my staff, threatening our safety."
He paused again. Let it sink.
"When words fail and justice stutters, sometimes—your fists have to speak."
In that moment, #TonyUnfiltered surged sky‑high.
"I don't claim perfection. No one does, because no one is. But I protect what's mine. Bellingham isn't just a name—it's a legacy. And I'll not let cowards in suits or cameras smear it with lies."
Eyes locked on camera. Blunt. Unforgiving.
"If any competitor's watching: consider this a warning. I hit back harder. I always do. So give up while you still can!"
Screen cut to the logo. Then silence.
Backstage — Just Moments Later
Applause erupted. Nervous but ecstatic. Some PR juniors were blinking at each other.
"Did… did he just go full gladiator CEO on live TV?" one whispered.
Clara stepped up beside Tony, arms folded. "Well. That wasn't exactly damage control."
Tony's lips curled. "Wasn't trying to do damage control. Gotta speak the truth, only way I can be free."
Her breath caught. Then she almost smiled. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, walking off-stage, "they'll remember this."
5:11 PM — Back to the Bellingham Log Warehouse
He stepped into the quiet lounge. All evidence of earlier violence had vanished.
The glasses were cleaned, floors wiped, chairs realigned—sterile perfection.
Tony poured water into a glass, then stared through the window. Liverpool's horizon glowed in dying light, its reflection trembling in his gaze.
His heartbeat was the only sound. One punch had triggered events like dominoes: media frenzy, board whispers, competitor scrutiny. He flexed his jaw beneath fresh bruising.
Exactly the direction he wanted. Maybe what we needed to fight Dent!!!!
His phone buzzed.
From Aaron:
AARON: Nice work Boss!!!!
TONY: Thanks!!!! I got tons of questions, but first. Why the hell weren't you here?
AARON: Can't always protect you, now can I? Gotta deal with some things by yourself. Besides it was good training.
TONY: Yeah, whatever you say, Aaron. Catch ya later?
AARON: Sure....Master Tony!
The Fight was getting harder as the days reduced. Less than 35 days before the main war that would possibly decide Tony.....No Kai...No The Bellingham Industry Fate.
5:30 PM — Clara's POV, Media Room
Clara stood amid the quiet chaos: desks covered in reporters' tweets, legal memos, leaked document printouts. Media relations experts hovered over screens, calibrating the tone of the next press release, vetting interview requests.
She checked trending data—
#TonyUnfiltered climbing faster than any CEO hashtag in memory.
Her phone buzzed.
CEO's Assistant: Board members demanding explanation. Shareholders calling. Market reacting. Construction of defensive paper trail requested.
She sucked in breath. This was going nuclear.
But clarity sharpened. His live message had anchored the narrative: he admitted it, he justified it, he claimed it. That truth—raw, brutal, unapologetic—would bleed out through the daily build of news cycles. Managed spin would follow.
Every crisis handbook said apologize, express regret, promise investigation, move along.
He'd thrown it all out the window.
Clara activated her team chat.
"To all media: we stand by the s**t he just said. No scripted regrets. He protected Bellingham. The rest is speculation."
Her finger hovered above "send." She pressed it. Then looked at the frame where Tony's bruised face still glowed on the screen of a staff monitor.
She shrugged. The board might riot. Lawyers frantically draft disclaimers. The media would spin it every which way.
But sometimes… resistance is its own strategy.
5:45 PM — Stock Price Monitoring
On her screen: ticker SPICE = BIND (Bellingham Industries stock).
Phones dinged. Share value wobbling like a small boat in rough water. Down 3.2%.
Usually a CEO losing control spells investor panic. But now—thin breath—Clara saw patterns. They'd rebound once the shockwave passed and clarity of motive became narrative.
Volume spiked. Confusion. Then interest. They were watching the gladiator. He just hadn't stopped at the threshold.
She flagged Finance. "Hold the line. We ride this storm. Well, It's back to business!