Chapter 77: The Financial Netori

The Financial Netori

New York City in the late autumn of 1991 was a biting, aggressive metropolis, its towering steel-and-glass canyons funneling the frigid wind like an aerodynamic wind tunnel. It was a city designed for commerce, ruthlessness, and the unapologetic display of wealth.

Elias van Kempen, Paul Rudd, and Owen Wilson stood on the corner of 5th Avenue, staring up at a massive, newly erected billboard that dominated the skyline.

The image was stark, entirely in black-and-white, and captured with gritty, raw authenticity. It featured Elias, wearing nothing but a pair of white Calvin Klein boxer briefs and his signature vintage leather jacket, draped lazily over a rusted motorcycle. Leaning against his chest, projecting an aura of unattainable, waif-like beauty, was Kate Moss. The tag read simply: Calvin Klein. Escape.

"Wow," Owen murmured, zipping his flannel jacket tight against the cold wind. "That is... that is a very intense level of public exposure, man. You’re like a fifty-foot-tall monument to intimidating genetics. I feel physically inadequate just looking at it."

"It’s a masterpiece," Paul breathed, clapping his gloved hands together. "Elias, this is the launch! Tonight is the official Calvin Klein VIP release party at The Tunnel. The entire fashion press is going to be there. We’re going to be swamped with interviews. You’re officially a global icon! Let’s get back to the hotel and prep."

Elias turned away from his own fifty-foot torso with absolute, chilling indifference.

"Do not let the aesthetics fool you, Paul," Elias corrected, his breath pluming in the cold air. "A billboard is merely a depreciating marketing asset. The true value lies in the backend options we secured when they thought the campaign would fail. Now, let us return to our quarters. We have strategic networking to plan."

An hour later, they arrived at the Carter Hotel in Times Square.

In the 1990s, the Carter Hotel was a notoriously dingy, depressing establishment known primarily for its stained carpets, questionable plumbing, and rock-bottom nightly rates.

Paul dragged his suitcase into Room 412, stepping over a mysterious wet patch on the linoleum. He stared at the two sagging twin beds, a look of profound, soul-crushing despair washing over his face.

"Elias," Paul whimpered, clutching his head. "We have four hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars in cash. You just knocked out a movie star in an illegal underground casino for twenty grand. Why are we staying in a two-star hotel that smells like bleach and despair?! We are attending a Calvin Klein VIP party! We should be at The Plaza!"

"The Plaza charges four hundred dollars a night for the privilege of a mint on your pillow, Paul," Elias stated flawlessly, placing his small duffel bag on the floor. "I secured this room for a total of one hundred dollars for two nights, using a bulk-booking discount code intended for traveling circus performers. That is a preservation of three hundred dollars per night."

"I am going to get a respiratory infection from this wallpaper!" Paul groaned.

"A minor medical liability compared to the catastrophic loss of operational capital," Elias replied smoothly, unbothered by his assistant’s suffering.

The digital loan shark, sensing a transaction, immediately chimed in to collect its toll.

[CHA-CHING!][SYSTEM WARNING: DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DEDUCTION INITIATED.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

Elias felt the phantom pain in his chest. Combined with the extortionate economy flights from LA and the depressing hotel bill, his liquid cash reserves settled at exactly $432,630.00. The bleeding never stopped. He needed to extract value from tonight’s party.

Five hours later, the Sovereign Media team arrived at The Tunnel, one of New York’s most legendary and exclusive nightclubs.

The interior was a cavernous, pulsating expanse of raw brick, neon lighting, and pounding house music. It was packed with the global fashion elite: designers, supermodels, European aristocrats, and the heavy-hitters of the New York publishing world.

Elias, dressed in a sharp, dark vintage suit that made him look like a lethal, aristocratic hitman, bypassed the velvet rope with effortless authority. Paul and Owen followed closely, both wearing suits that Paul had frantically ironed on a towel in the hotel room.

They walked toward the VIP section reserved for the Calvin Klein campaign stars.

Paul was Practically vibrating with excitement. "Okay, Elias. This is it. Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Vanity Fair... they should all be waiting in our section for an exclusive. Get ready to turn on the charm."

They reached the elevated VIP booth marked with Elias’s name.

It was completely empty.

There were no reporters. There were no flashing cameras. There wasn’t even a complimentary bottle of champagne on the table. The entire section was a dead zone.

Paul froze, his smile dropping instantly. He adjusted his glasses, looking around in utter panic. "What... what’s going on? Where is the press? Did the publicist give them the wrong time?"

Elias didn’t panic. His dark eyes scanned the massive, crowded nightclub with the cold, clinical precision of a predator identifying a threat.

He found the anomaly in less than three seconds.

Across the dance floor, occupying the largest, most opulent VIP table in the club, was a massive crowd of journalists, fashion editors, and photographers. They were all clamoring for attention, snapping photos and shouting questions.

Sitting in the center of the flashing lights, looking bloated, smug, and intensely victorious, was John Casablancas. The boss of Elite Model Management.

Casablancas wasn’t alone. Sitting next to him, looking slightly overwhelmed by the aggressive media attention, was a striking, incredibly young girl with piercing blue eyes and a unique, fierce beauty.

Elias recognized her instantly. Milla Jovovich.

In the fall of 1991, Milla was fifteen years old, a rising star who had just landed her first major movie role in Return to the Blue Lagoon. She was Elite Management’s newest, most prized golden goose, and Casablancas was currently parading her in front of the press like a trophy.

"Oh my god," Paul whispered, following Elias’s gaze. "Casablancas. He hijacked our press line. He called in every favor he had with the editors to boycott our section and cover his new girl instead. He’s retaliating for what you did to him in Milan!"

"That is... incredibly petty, man," Owen drawled, shaking his head. "Like, high-school mean girl energy, but with corporate budgets."

"It is a standard institutional embargo, Paul," Elias stated, his voice a smooth, unbothered purr. He didn’t look angry. He looked deeply, profoundly entertained. "He believes he can freeze my brand equity by monopolizing the distribution channels. He assumes I require the validation of Vogue to survive."

"Elias, what are we going to do?" Paul panicked, tugging at his collar. "Our entire PR strategy for the month was built on this launch! If we don’t get press, the studio executives will think your momentum is dead!"

Elias turned away from his empty booth. He began walking directly toward the massive crowd surrounding Casablancas.

"We are not going to complain, Paul," Elias murmured over his shoulder. "We are going to execute a hostile acquisition."

Elias moved through the crowded nightclub with a terrifying, magnetic elegance. The crowd naturally parted for him. He didn’t push; he simply projected an aura of such absolute, undeniable dominance that people instinctively stepped out of his path.

As he approached the Elite Management VIP table, he mentally engaged the digital loan shark. He needed forensic leverage.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: CORPORATE X-RAY SCAN][COST: -10 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 10 CP - WARNING! LOW RESERVES!]

[CHA-CHING!]

The retro, red-tinted grid snapped over Elias’s vision. He bypassed the flashing cameras and the expensive champagne bottles, focusing his scan entirely on Milla Jovovich and the invisible, suffocating web of legal contracts binding her to the man sitting next to her.

The system processed the financial data in a millisecond.

[SCAN COMPLETE. THREAT ANALYSIS: PREDATORY EXPLOITATION DETECTED.][VULNERABILITY: ELITE MANAGEMENT IS DEDUCTING 35% OF GROSS EARNINGS FOR ’ADMINISTRATIVE OVERHEAD’. FURTHERMORE, THE COST OF TONIGHT’S $15,000 VIP PARTY IS BEING CHARGED DIRECTLY TO THE TALENT’S ESCROW ACCOUNT AS A ’MANDATORY PR EXPENSE’.]

Elias’s eyes darkened into absolute, terrifying voids of sociopathic capitalism. The system overlay vanished. He had the bullet. Now, he just needed to pull the trigger.

He stepped into the ring of flashing cameras, his tall, imposing frame immediately drawing the attention of the surrounding journalists.

Casablancas looked up, his smug smile widening as he saw Elias approach. The agency boss leaned back into the plush leather sofa, swirling a glass of expensive cognac.

"Well, look who finally decided to join the real party," Casablancas sneered loudly, ensuring every reporter within earshot caught the insult. "Kau lihat ini, Nak? Elite Management mengendalikan pers. Pestamu kosong. Nikmatilah minuman gratis sebelum kau kembali menjadi gelandangan." (You see this, kid? Elite Management controls the press. Your party is empty. Enjoy a free drink before you go back to being a bum.)

The reporters chuckled nervously, sensing blood in the water.

Elias didn’t blush. He didn’t look humiliated. He simply slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket and offered Casablancas a smile of such profound, devastating pity that it caused the older man’s smirk to falter.

"I appreciate the hospitality, John," Elias purred, his baritone voice effortlessly cutting through the noise of the club, commanding absolute silence.

Elias didn’t look at the press. He turned his dark, mesmerizing eyes entirely onto Milla Jovovich.

He deployed The Paper Trail Bluff.

"Minumannya mungkin gratis untukku, John," Elias stated flawlessly, executing the financial decapitation. (The drinks might be free for me, John.) "Tapi menurut laporan audit terbarumu, tagihan sampanye di meja ini akan dipotong langsung dari uang saku Milla bulan depan sebagai ’Biaya Humas’." (But according to your latest audit report, the champagne bill for this table will be deducted directly from Milla’s allowance next month as a ’PR Expense’.)

The flashes of the cameras abruptly stopped. The music in the club seemed to dull.

Milla Jovovich, who had been smiling politely for the cameras, suddenly froze. She turned her head, looking at Elias with wide, confused eyes.

"What?" Milla whispered.

Casablancas shot up from the sofa, his face instantly turning a violent, panic-stricken purple. "Shut your mouth, kid! You don’t know what you’re talking about! Security! Get him out of here!"

Elias didn’t move. He kept his eyes locked on Milla, speaking with the calm, relentless logic of a forensic accountant.

"My private intelligence firm intercepted the billing manifest, Milla," Elias lied seamlessly, establishing his Alibi. "Elite Management views you as a walking line of credit. They are charging you thirty-five percent gross for management, and then billing you for the very parties they use to inflate their own corporate image. This entire table, this champagne, these photographers—you are paying for all of it. Milla, apakah kau menikmati membayar pria tua ini untuk mabuk?" (Milla, do you enjoy paying this old man to get drunk?)

The silence in the VIP section was absolute and terrifying.

Milla Jovovich looked at the $500 bottles of champagne on the table. She looked at the smirking, bloated face of John Casablancas. And then she looked at the fiercely intelligent, devastatingly handsome teenager who had just exposed the predatory machinery of her life.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. The glamour evaporated, leaving only the cold reality of exploitation.

"John," Milla said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. "Is that true? Am I paying for this party?"

Casablancas was sweating profusely, looking wildly at the reporters who were now scribbling frantically in their notepads. This was a catastrophic PR disaster.

"Milla, sweetheart, it’s standard industry practice!" Casablancas stammered, desperately trying to grab her arm. "It’s an investment in your future! The kid is twisting the numbers! He’s trying to ruin us!"

Milla yanked her arm away with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust.

Elias van Kempen stepped forward, offering the teenage star a polite, aristocratic nod.

"Sovereign Media operates on a flat, transparent fifteen percent commission, Milla," Elias stated smoothly, offering the lifeline. "We do not charge mandatory PR fees. We do not bill our talent for our alcohol. If you are tired of financing the ego of a decaying agency, my legal team can execute your contract termination by tomorrow morning."

Milla Jovovich didn’t hesitate. She didn’t look back at Casablancas. She stood up from the plush leather sofa, her fierce blue eyes locked onto Elias.

"Where is your table?" Milla asked, her voice steady and resolute.

"Just across the floor," Elias smiled, a dark, triumphant expression. "Please, follow me."

Elias turned and began walking back toward his empty VIP booth. Milla followed closely behind him.

The entire pack of journalists, photographers, and editors—scenting the ultimate scandal and the birth of a new power dynamic—instantly abandoned Casablancas’s table and swarmed after Elias like a flock of hungry seagulls.

Within thirty seconds, Elias’s booth was packed to capacity. Flashbulbs exploded like a lightning storm. Reporters were shouting questions about Calvin Klein, about Sovereign Media, and about his shocking, public execution of Elite Management.

Across the club, John Casablancas was left sitting alone at a massive, $15,000 table, surrounded by empty champagne flutes, utterly and completely destroyed.

Paul Rudd, standing next to Elias in the blinding flashes of the cameras, leaned in and whispered frantically. "Elias... you didn’t just get our press back. You just stole his biggest star right in front of him! You executed a financial Netori! The man is going to hire actual assassins!"

"Let him hire assassins, Paul," Elias murmured, turning to flash a devastatingly perfect, million-dollar smile for a Vogue photographer. "I will simply acquire the assassination firm and bill him for the service."

Deep in his mind, the system remained silent, offering no CP for a transaction executed purely through the ruthless application of financial truth. But Elias didn’t need points today.

He had just expanded the Dynasty. The third pillar of Sovereign Media was unassailable.