The number burned across the 8K screens, white-gold against a midnight field, arrogant and pristine.
A beat.
Another.
Then—first blood.
Khalid Al-Fahd lifted his paddle. Dove-gray thobe crisp, expression saintly, ego humming beneath the surface. He didn't bother speaking. His wallet did.
"Six hundred million to Mr. Al-Fahd."
Valentina's smile cut clean, surgical.
"Do I hear six-ten?"
A second paddle rose. The London partner. Pearls catching light like they were begging to be worshipped.
"Six hundred and ten million."
The number shifted onscreen, smooth as a vein opening.
The room leaned in. Shoulders squared. Breathing deepened. The real game flexed its knuckles.
Valentina pivoted, scanning the battlefield.
"Six-ten from London. Six-twenty?"
Hiroshi Tanaka's aide raised his paddle. No theatrics. No breath. Just that quiet, lethal rhythm old money uses when it's about to break someone's spine politely.
"Six-twenty to Tanaka Holdings."
$620,000,000.
