Inside the venue, on the grand ground floor of the mountain-top restaurant, Montez and Chrono still sat opposite one another at the long rectangular table. The heavy air between them was thick with unspoken history , years of turf wars, grudges, and bloodshed reduced to pen strokes and paper.
Stacks of contracts were spread neatly across the polished surface, the ink still drying on some of the earlier pages. In the underworld, such matters were never handled remotely. Deals of this magnitude , especially those involving organized gangs , were signed face-to-face, in rooms like this, where every nod and every glance carried weight.
Chrono leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You know," he said, voice dripping with casual confidence, "I have to admit, I'm surprised this is going through so smoothly. After how long you fought back, I expected today to be a fight-to-the-end kind of day. Maybe even a last stand."
