Megatron

(SATOSHI)

I thought him a megacon, but he's a Megatron. Now I'll need an Optimus in his prime, else he's going to take my seat in this game of thrones. He is too good to be allowed to live. Gotta kill him like the mockingbird he is.

Satoshi bellows into the phone. His subordinates look on, unsure how to react.

Should they chime in and rhyme along to this poetic justice, or will that just earn them some sword justice? It is what it just is, they think as they flow along like water snaking its way around a dark forest.

A dark forest—that is what best describes Satoshi's mind in this state. The last thing you want is for him to say he thought of you. So they all hold their tongues as Satoshi negotiates with the man on the phone on how much it would cost to eliminate Romeo before he became too big a problem for him.

"Make it clean," he says, voice dropping an octave. "No loose ends."

The response on the other end is cold, professional. The deal is done. And Satoshi, despite his usual composed self, feels a rush. A mix of power and paranoia. Because deep down, he knows—men like Romeo don't go down easy.

---

(EMI)

So worked up, so angry, yet so horny. The boiling point of magma couldn't reach the levels of heat she was on. She was like an Omega during her heat cycle—all she desired was to be mounted by her Alpha, Romeo.

Under house arrest with her hormones raging, calling out for Romeo's touch. Is she in love, or is it just her nymphoid nature calling out for his stick? She wonders. She wants to hold it, shift it to drive, then ride him like a Ducati.

The one moment they shared had him driving her nuts. He was now cruising through her memory lane like a Bugatti.

And that kiss they shared in the middle of a gun battle—a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie. Her life really was a movie. A movie with a lunatic for a director and a bunch of amateur writers high on mushrooms.

The events of the past few days were stranger than fiction. But then, that's just how she likes it. She has a thing for the bad boys. The good boys ain't no fun. And she loves to live dangerously.

Her father's men had skirted her away from the scene before the cops got to the crime scene. Her name could never be stained with a police record. They made sure of that, or their shirts would be stained by their own blood… after having their heads knocked off their necks quite literally.

Knowing that gave her the confidence to drive right into the middle of a fight scene.

Was she just a spoiled brat? Or a girl with a death wish? She wouldn't know, possibly because she was just too blonde to digest such complex thoughts. Or so she thought.

Her fingers hover over her phone.

Should I text him?

A stupid, reckless thought. But then, wasn't that just who she was?

She presses send before she can stop herself.

EMI: I hate you.

EMI: I want you.

Seconds pass.

Her heart pounds.

Then—her screen lights up. A response.

ROMEO: Door's unlocked. Come find out what you really want.

Her breath catches.

She's already moving.

---

(IVAN)

He goes back to his bedroom after the showdown with Romeo and stands still as a mannequin. Eyes locked on the giant painting of Leonardo da Vinci above his king-size bed's headboard.

He had commissioned that painting to serve as a reminder of how great he is. He sees himself as Leonardo da Vinci reincarnated—a gay genius.

The gay part was obvious, of course, but his level of genius being comparable to Leonardo the Great is open to debate. What can't be disputed, though, is that he was a genius—at least in the context of underworld power plays.

"They are playing checkers. I am playing chess," he said out loud as he broke from his trance. He methodically unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a hairy chest with nipple piercings.

He then unhooked his belt, letting his pants drop to the floor, admiring his big cock traced against the white set of boxers he still had on in the giant mirror lining the wall facing the bed.

He entertained the thought of watching himself deflowering Romeo as he walked toward the bathroom. His cock jerked to life like it just got called up for duty. He thought of jerking off but decided to bathe first.

He opened the bathroom door and stopped immediately. Something was not right.

He let out an audible gasp as he stared into the mirror in front of him.

The fuckening—someone had left him a message, clear as day.

"MAY THE GAMES BEGIN" read the writing in what was unmistakably blood.

"Rigor!!!" he yelled out Rigor's name as he stepped back. No answer.

He started turning to head for the main door of his room... only to come face to face with the head of a man, a pool of blood in the bathtub, fresh blood still dripping from where it had once been attached to its owner's neck.

It immediately made sense why Rigor had not responded to his call. He was too dead to respond. That was his head right there.

For the first time in ages, Ivan felt fear. His head got dizzy. For once, he was unaware of what to think. Whoever did this was not your regular degular assassin.

This was a super-professional ninja assassin's hit. Someone that could penetrate Ivan's security and take out his main man could have only been trained and sent by one man.

Mobutu. The Tsar of the North. The King of Assassins.

Ivan exhales slowly, forcing himself to stillness. He cannot afford to panic. Panic gets men killed.

He steps closer, observing the message on the mirror.

The blood is fresh.

Whoever did this—they might still be in the room.

A shiver crawls up his spine.

Then, from the hallway—footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate.

Ivan turns. Eyes narrowing. Heart rate steadying.

If Mobutu wants a game... Ivan will give him one.