The room was filled with smoke and shadows, the air thick with the scent of fine cigars and aged whiskey. It was a place where deals were made in whispers, where fortunes were won and lost over a single glass of liquor. The walls were lined with dark wood, the dim lighting casting long shadows that danced with the flicker of the flames in the fireplace. This was the kind of place where powerful men gathered — a sanctuary of wealth and sin, hidden far from the prying eyes of the public.

At the center of it all, sitting back in a leather armchair with a glass of whiskey in his hand, was Jaune Arc.

He looked entirely at ease, the picture of confidence. He wore a tailored suit, black as midnight, with a crisp white shirt and a gold tie that glinted in the firelight. His blond hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. His blue eyes — normally warm and kind — were cold tonight, like chips of ice. He was a predator here, and everyone else in the room knew it.

Across from him, an older man in a military uniform sat stiffly, his face lined with worry. General Vasquez of Mistral — a man who had once commanded respect but now looked like he had aged a decade in a single night. He had come to Jaune because he had no other options left, and both men knew it.

"You know why I'm here," Vasquez said, his voice rough. He took a drag from his cigar, but it did little to calm his nerves. "The rebels in Mistral are gaining ground. They've taken three of our supply lines already. If we don't get reinforcements—"

Jaune raised a hand, cutting him off with a smile that was all teeth. "If you don't get reinforcements, your precious kingdom falls," Jaune finished for him. He leaned forward, setting his glass down on the table with a soft clink. "Yes, I'm well aware of your situation, General. But let's not pretend this is about saving Mistral. You're here because you want me to arm your men with weapons your government would never approve of."

Vasquez's jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it. He couldn't. "Your drones," he said, lowering his voice. "The VT-12s. I need a shipment of at least fifty, fully operational. We'll pay whatever price you ask."

Jaune chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down the spine of everyone in earshot. "Fifty drones?" he mused. "A bold request. But I'm not in the business of charity, General. You know how this works."

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and steepled his fingers. "You're not just asking for drones. You're asking for an edge. You want to turn the tide of this war and crush the rebels before they can take another step forward."

Vasquez's eyes narrowed. "And you can give me that edge. You're the only one who can."

Jaune's smile widened. He spread his arms, as if embracing the entire room. "Of course I can," he said smoothly. "But at what cost, General? You say you'll pay any price, but have you considered what that really means?"

The room went silent, the only sound the crackle of the fire. Vasquez's hand trembled slightly as he set down his cigar. "Name your price," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Jaune's eyes gleamed with something dark and predatory. He stood up, pacing slowly around the table, his movements as fluid as a panther stalking its prey. "It's simple, really," he said. "I want control of the southern ports in Mistral. Complete control. No questions, no interference."

Vasquez's face turned ashen. "The southern ports? That's our main trade hub. If I give you that—"

"If you give me that, your kingdom survives," Jaune interrupted, his voice hardening. He stopped behind Vasquez, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. The general flinched at the touch, as if he'd been burned. "Or you can refuse, and watch as your enemies march through your capital, armed with weapons I've already sold to them."

He leaned down, his lips close to Vasquez's ear. "Make no mistake, General. I profit from both sides of this war. But I'm giving you a choice — a chance to save your people, at a cost that is far less than what you'll pay if you lose."

Vasquez swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked up at Jaune, and for the first time, he seemed to understand the man he was dealing with. This wasn't just a merchant. This was a man who held the fate of nations in his hands, and he reveled in it.

"Fine," Vasquez whispered. "The ports are yours."

Jaune's smile softened, almost affectionate. He patted the general on the shoulder, as if consoling an old friend. "Good man," he said warmly. He straightened up, adjusting his cufflinks. "You'll have your drones by the end of the week. Consider this a new beginning for your kingdom."

He turned away, walking back towards his chair, but paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Oh, and General?" he added, his voice dropping to a whisper. "If you ever try to go back on this deal, I'll make sure the rebels know exactly where to find you."

Vasquez's face went pale, but he nodded, unable to speak.

Jaune sat down, picking up his glass of whiskey once more. He took a sip, savoring the taste, as the general rose shakily to his feet and stumbled out of the room.

The door closed behind him, and Jaune was left alone in the smoky darkness. He smiled to himself, tapping a finger against the rim of his glass. He knew how this would play out. The drones would turn the tide of the war, yes, but they would also set off a chain of events that would plunge the entire region into chaos. And when the dust settled, he would be the one standing, ready to pick up the pieces and sell them back at a premium.

He raised his glass in a silent toast, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp features. "To the future," he murmured, his voice filled with the confidence of a man who knew he had already won. "May it be as profitable as the past."

And as he drank, the shadows seemed to twist and bend around him, like smoke from a fire that would never be extinguished.

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