Sunday- 06:58 A.M.
Ethan's Apartment, Downtown Brooklyn
The morning air was clean, humming with early sunlight. Ethan was already up, stretching in the living room — slow, precise movements honed from Muay Thai and calisthenics. Each muscle lock was timed like a meditation.
His phone buzzed later .
John [7:35 A.M.]:
I'm up. Don't start the party without me, Lord Gotham.
Ethan smirked, cracked his neck, and replied:
Ethan:
Try not to look like a walking neon sign today.
Within minutes, another message landed.
John:
Too late.
9:00 A.M. – Hallway, Ethan's Apartment
Ethan, now dressed in a deep charcoal suit with a muted obsidian tie, sat on the hallway couch — laptop on one knee, black coffee in hand, scrolling through layers of stock forecasts and futures analytics from his personal database.
The knock came sharp and loud.
John arrived in a teal blazer with golden buttons, loafers that looked borrowed from a 70s disco scene, and sunglasses that probably cost a mistake.
"Bro. You look like the villain of a chessboard. And I look like... a mistake," John laughed, spinning in place.
Ethan closed the laptop. "At least you're self-aware."
10:00 A.M. – En Route in a Black Cadillac
The car smelled of leather, ozone, and ambition. The driver knew the address — the reserved beachside estate that belonged to Marco Valentino, heir to a billion-dollar private fund.
John kept fiddling with the tinted window, while Ethan watched the skyline fade into ocean air, scanning the docks and palm-fringed architecture ahead.
"This guy throws parties like Bond villains build lairs," John muttered.
"He is a Bond villain," Ethan replied dryly, adjusting his cufflink.
11:03 A.M. – The Valentino Estate, Private Beachside
The Cadillac slowed near a coastal fortress of glamour — white sand stretched with designer tents, ivory banners fluttered in the sea breeze. Supercars sat in perfect symmetry, like a showroom for spoiled royalty. High-end models, finance moguls, and even rumored political figures lingered near the champagne gardens.
At the arched security gate, two black-suited guards halted them.
But just as one stepped forward, a voice cut the air:
"That's Ethan Vale. Don't insult his time."
A tall man in a fine black three-piece suit approached. Sharp, minimal beard, gloves on, cold presence. He nodded slightly — clearly Marco's personal butler or fixer.
"Mr. Valentino is expecting you," he said. "Apologies, sir."
11:12 A.M. – Inside the Mansion
Past crystal staircases and carved archways, the two were led through a hallway of golden sculptures and historical paintings — a mix of old aristocracy and modern debauchery.
The butler opened a tall door without knocking.
Inside: dimmed lights, scent of roses and liquor, laughter faintly echoing from within.
Marco Valentino stood on a velvet carpet, shirt unbuttoned, hair slicked back, and two half-conscious models barely wrapped in silk sheets on the couch behind him. His charm lingered in the air like cologne and conquest.
He glanced at Ethan, unbothered. "Welcome to the east wing. Sorry for the mess — I tend to multitask in the mornings."
John blinked. "Holy hell... is this a deleted scene from Succession?"
Ethan didn't react. He simply moved past the chaos, hands in pockets.
Marco pointed toward the glass doors. "Balcony's yours. Let me freshen up before we talk money, war, and whatever world you plan to build."
Ethan gave a half-nod and stepped onto the marble balcony, ocean wind catching his suit, eyes scanning the golden sea ahead — calm, unbothered, already ten moves ahead.