The bar was the kind of place people came to forget—dim lights, cracked leather booths, and the stale scent of cheap whiskey and old regrets. The kind of place where names didn't matter, and the past weighed a little heavier.
Lex found Benny Caldwell in the back, hunched over a mess of papers and an empty glass. Same old Benny.
Lex slid into the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation.
Benny glanced up, squinting like he wasn't sure if Lex was real.
"Well, if it isn't Young Master Latham," Benny muttered, leaning back. His voice was rough—too much smoking, too much yelling, maybe both. "What brings the little prince to my humble corner of failure?"
Lex smirked faintly. "Thought I'd check in on your latest masterpiece."
Benny snorted, swirling the ice in his glass. "Writing's free. Production isn't." He gestured at the half-finished stack of papers. "Just keeping the dream alive until the landlord kicks me out."
Lex's eyes drifted over the mess of pages. "Script?"
Benny jerked his chin toward the skinny kid beside him—Mikey, barely twenty, nervous and fidgety.
"Mikey's," Benny said. "Poor bastard thinks someone's actually gonna buy it."
Mikey shot him a glare. "It's good."
Benny laughed, patting him on the shoulder. "Sure it is. Just needs fifty grand, a miracle, and someone stupid enough to back it."
Lex leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the table.
"I'm feeling stupid today."
Benny's grin faded. His sharp eyes studied Lex carefully. "You serious?"
Lex picked up the script, skimming the first few lines.
"What's it about?"
Mikey hesitated. "It's a thriller. Corporate corruption. Money laundering through fake real estate deals. The lead starts uncovering secrets his boss buried years ago—ones that tie back to his family."
Lex's hand stilled on the page.
Benny chuckled. "Yeah, I told him it's every white-collar scandal rolled into one. Real original, right?"
Lex said nothing. His thumb traced the edge of the paper, slow and deliberate.
Too close to home.
Benny leaned back, crossing his arms. "So, what? You gonna throw a little cash our way out of pity?"
Lex set the script down, meeting Benny's gaze.
"Rewrite the boss."
Benny frowned. "What?"
Lex gestured at the pages. "Make him more complex. Give him a family, a son—someone who idolizes him at first, but realizes too late that he's in over his head."
Mikey hesitated. "That's not really—"
"It'll work," Lex interrupted, calm but firm. "People like tragedy. They like watching powerful families destroy themselves from the inside."
Benny stared at him for a long second, then grinned knowingly.
"Ohhh, I get it. You're making this personal." He tapped the side of his temple. "Daddy issues, right? You want to immortalize the old man on the big screen?"
Lex smiled faintly. "Something like that."
Benny laughed, shaking his head. "Man, your father—he was something else.
Lex's gaze didn't waver.
Benny exhaled, dragging a hand through his graying hair. "Your old man… he had that look, you know? That weight-of-the-world look. He was one of the few guys in this city who actually had real power, and he knew it. "
The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken.
Lex had spent years chasing the ghost of that king.
Mikey shifted uncomfortably. "So, uh… are we doing this?"
Lex snapped back to the moment.
"How much to start shooting?"
Benny's grin widened. "Thirty grand now. Thirty more in two months."
Lex didn't blink. "You'll get twenty by Friday. Spend it on the crew, get cameras rolling. When editing's done, come for the rest."
Mikey gawked. "Wait—just like that?"
Lex slid a business card across the table. "I want this moving fast. No delays. And when you hit post-production, you bring me back in."
Benny picked up the card, flipping it between his fingers. "What about casting?"
Lex tugged his coat into place. "Not your problem. I'll pick the actors myself. Just get me a list—I may bring in my own."
Mikey still looked stunned, but Benny chuckled. "You got it, boss."
Lex nodded once. "Don't waste my time."
Benny's nodded. "I gotta admit, Lex, you've got an interesting way of dealing with grief."
Lex glanced over his shoulder.
"This isn't about grief." His voice was cool. "It's about control."
The door swung shut behind him.
Outside, Lex exhaled slowly.
The script wasn't just a project.
It was the first shot fired.
Lex walked through the quiet streets, his hands in his coat pockets, mind working faster than his steps.
Quick money.
That was the game. Not just throwing cash at revenge—but turning it into leverage.
Movies were gambling wrapped in art. Studios burned millions on passion projects, but IP? That was where the real power sat. The right story, the right name, and suddenly you weren't just making films—you were making assets.
A script today could be a franchise tomorrow. A single film, flipped the right way, turned into streaming deals, merchandising, licensing rights. The world was built on narratives. If you owned the story, you owned the audience. And if you owned the audience—you controlled the money.
But movies were just one angle.
Startups.
Every month, some bored rich kid with a tech obsession got a VC fund to throw millions at an app that never left beta. But once in a while, one of them stuck. The right investment, the right stake—suddenly you weren't just backing a company. You were in the room where the future got built.
Then there was the stock market.
Barnie played real estate and old money games, but the market was a shark pit—liquid power, shifting every second. A single bad quarter could sink an empire, and a well-placed bet could turn a nobody into a king overnight.
And Barnie?
Barnie wasn't built for that world.
He controlled assets, not momentum. His game was slow, structured, built on leverage and locked doors.
Lex wasn't interested in slow.
Barnie thought he was watching a nephew chasing ghosts.
Let him.
By the time he noticed, Lex wouldn't just be in the game—he'd be the one making the rules.