Extra's Ascent-Chapter 107: Life Of A Mundane Man (ii)

Author’s Note: Mistake was made during the posting. This chapter belongs to volume two, second chapter. So read the (i) first before this to avoid confusion.

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Eric took the lead, guiding Dravin through the sleek corridors of the towering complex. They entered the elevator without a word, the polished steel doors closing behind them with a quiet ding.

Their destination was the fifth floor, an exclusive level few ever got access to, and even fewer walked out of with favorable results.

As the elevator slid open, two imposing guards awaited them. Clad in sharp, all-black suits, their expressions were unreadable and their posture unnervingly rigid.

"He’ll meet you now," one of the guards announced, gesturing toward a closed door at the far end of the hallway.

The other stepped forward, pulling the door open with a smooth motion, giving Ramprandt a silent invitation in.

Eric moved to follow, but a firm hand abruptly blocked his path.

"Only Mr. Ramprandt is permitted inside," the guard said without emotion.

Eric stepped back with a respectful nod. "Go on, Sir Dravin. I’ll be fine waiting here."

This wasn’t unusual. Meetings of this nature were often shrouded in privacy, especially when large sums or sensitive negotiations were involved. In such circumstances, any third party was seen as a potential liability. No matter how trusted would not be allowed in.

Ramprandt nodded once, silently acknowledging Eric’s understanding. He stepped forward and passed through the doorway. The guards shut the door behind him with an audible click, leaving Eric alone in the hallway with the two silent statues flanking the entrance.

"Well, gentlemen... how’s the day treating you?" Eric said, forcing a casual tone.

Neither guard blinked.

Their arms folded neatly in front, eyes forward, they might as well have been marble carvings, loyal sentinels unmoved by time or idle conversation.

Eric sighed, strolling to the wall opposite the door and leaning back against it. He reached into his pocket and fished out a small bag of chips, something he’d clearly brought with intent.

He held it out with a grin. "Anyone want some?"

Again, silence.

"Your loss," he muttered. "It’s not like I poisoned it or anything."

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With deliberate exaggeration, he pulled a chip from the bag and tossed it into his mouth, crunching on it with a loud, echoing bite. He repeated this several times, each chew more obnoxious than the last, sending crisp-cracking echoes through the otherwise silent hallway. It was his own littlec rebellion, a passive annoyance aimed at the humorless statues guarding the door.

His way of telling them to learn to loosen up a bit, once in a while even.

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Meanwhile, inside the room beyond the steel and guards, Ramprandt stepped into a chamber that exuded elegance and quiet power. Rich velvet curtains hung along the windows, filtering soft daylight into golden hues. A grand chandelier loomed above, its crystal facets scattering light in every direction, casting faint rainbows onto the pristine marble floor.

The room was wide and immaculate. In the center sat a low glass table surrounded by plush leather sofas. Across from him, at the far end of the room, two additional doors stood closed and silent, mysterious in their presence.

"Mister Dravin, a pleasure to finally meet you in person."

The greeting came from a large man seated comfortably on one of the sofas. He wore a white robe, ornate and embroidered, though the top hung open to reveal a thick, hairy chest. Rings adorned his fingers, and his smile was wide but not warm.

"Likewise, Mister Sabastian," Ramprandt replied, stepping forward and offering a firm handshake.

The moment their hands parted, Sabastian gestured for him to sit. As Ramprandt settled onto the sofa, Sabastian picked up a file from the table and handed it over.

"There it is," he said, his voice laced with a hint of smugness. "The contract, as discussed. All it needs is your signature, and we’ll both walk away with heavier pockets."

Ramprandt gave a small nod, accepting the folder. "Of course. I wouldn’t want to delay the proceedings any further."

He opened the file and began flipping through the pages with practiced efficiency. His eyes scanned each line, his expression unreadable.

Sabastian leaned back, clearly trying to appear relaxed. "The details are as we agreed. No need to dig too deep, unless you don’t trust me."

Why?... He wasn’t being insistent or pushy. Rather relaxed, only that further compelled Ramprandt to want to look more into it.

He glanced up briefly. "Not at all. But businessmen like myself? Well, we prefer certainty over assumption. I’m sure you understand."

"Completely," Sabastian said, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across his face. "It’s all beneficial to both parties. Just a minor tweak to the profit breakdown. Barely noticeable."

Ramprandt’s brow furrowed slightly.

"A tweak?" he repeated, his tone still even but edged with suspicion.

Sabastian shrugged as if brushing off an irrelevant detail. "Yes, yes. Just a small revision to reflect changes on our end. But the numbers are still very much in your favor."

His fingers flipped to the page outlining the profit distribution. As his gaze landed on the figures, his jaw clenched.

"Seventy-thirty?" he said slowly, disbelief creeping into his voice. "With you taking the seventy percent?"

Sabastian raised an eyebrow. "Thirty percent of that total is still a significant chunk. It’s no pittance."

Dravin Ramprandt’s gaze stayed fixed on the document. His tone was controlled, but the tension beneath was undeniable. "That may be true, but that’s not what we agreed on. We discussed an equal share, fifty-fifty."

"Mister Dravin, this is business. Adjustments—

"There’s no adjustment here!" He snapped, his voice rising. "This is outright deception. You took what we negotiated and rewrote it to benefit yourself."

He stood up, the contract slipping closed in his hand. His presence suddenly dominated the room.

"If this is what you’re offering, then I have no intention of continuing this partnership."

Sabastian didn’t move. Instead, he gave a soft chuckle, one hand reaching toward a remote on the table.

"I’m afraid what’s on the table," he said, pressing the remote with his thumb, "isn’t up for negotiation."

A low hiss sounded from behind as one of the doors at the far end creaked open. Ramprandt turned as several men stepped inside, each dressed in black, their own builds powerful, and their movements unmistakably those of fighters. They weren’t here to negotiate. They were here to ensure compliance.

The men spread out, surrounding the perimeter of the room behind Ramprandt, their presence looming like thunderclouds before a storm.

Sabastian leaned back into the sofa, entirely unbothered. "So... what’s it going to be? Are you ready to sign now, or do we take the unpleasant route?"

He stared at the approaching wall of muscle. For a moment, the air was thick with silence, heavy with threat.

Then, slowly, Ramprandt lowered himself back onto the sofa. His hand reached out and took the pen on the table.

"I suppose I have no choice," he said quietly.

Sabastian smirked in triumph.

He flipped the document to the final page and poised the pen above the dotted line.

"Just one question, Mister Sabastian," he said, voice calm, ready to add. "Has it not struck you as odd that a businessman such as myself would come here... with only a single escort?"

Sabastian’s smug expression twitched.

"You—what do you me—

CRASH!