The Long Game

The waves rolled in with a leisurely rhythm, softly brushing against the shore—a quiet sound that contrasted with the turmoil within Titan's thoughts. At the Palm Beach restaurant, with its elegant open-air setting—white tablecloths gently swaying in the sea breeze, and candles flickering. It was the sort of venue where people in linen attire and designer shades sipped drinks, feigning indifference while subtly observing one another.

Titan sat rigid at a corner table, phone pressed to his ear, his jaw set tight. A glass of water sat before him, sweating condensation, untouched—a small symbol of patience running dry.

Victor Blackwell's voice flowed smoothly through the line, a voice carefully cultivated to persuade, to pacify. "We'll get there, Titan," Victor said, words polished and even. "But this fight—this rematch—it needs space. Time. We do it right, and it'll be bigger than ever. The world’s still captivated, but we need them ravenous."

Titan's lips twisted into a faint, bitter smile. He recognized this game. Hell, he'd played it himself countless times—dangling bait before desperate promoters, teasing fans until they were begging for satisfaction. And now, the tables had turned. Victor was playing him. Keeping him restless. Keeping him wanting.

Keeping him in line.

His grip tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening slightly. A waiter approached—young, eager, intimidated by the brooding presence of the wrestler he'd surely recognized. The waiter tentatively offered a drink menu, voice betraying his nerves. "Can I get you anything to drink, sir?"

Titan barely lifted his eyes. He shook his head, a curt dismissal. But as the waiter turned away, Titan hesitated. His thoughts shifted—a flash of realization, perhaps resignation. His fingers tapped against the table demanding the attention of the waiter he just dismissed. Titan lowered the phone momentarily, covering the receiver.

"Actually—why not?" Titan murmured dryly, more to himself than the waiter. "I was planning to be ready for a fight, but clearly that's no longer the case." He glanced at the menu, then added, "Bring me a double bourbon. Neat."

The waiter nodded quickly, retreating to fulfill the request.

Titan brought the phone back to his ear.

"You’re dragging this out," Titan said, his voice controlled but edged with something colder.

Victor’s reply came swift and unbothered. "I'm orchestrating something, Titan."

Titan leaned back, eyes drifting toward the endless ocean stretching into darkness—a vast, uncertain horizon. He felt trapped in the same vastness—endlessly waiting, just like the road Victor was making him walk.

"Then orchestrate faster," Titan replied, his words clipped and restrained. He was aware that he had no control in this situation, having finally met his equal in Victor Blackwell. The contract was signed, putting Titan's future in another's hands for the first time in his career.

Victor chuckled softly—a maddening, controlled sound. "Patience, Titan. Timing is everything."

Titan clenched his jaw, a wave of frustration cresting within him. He knew Victor’s tactics too well. And what stung most was knowing that, despite everything, the game was working exactly as Victor intended.