Chapter 16: Delaware Shield
The ride back from the San Pedro docks in Mickey "Pops" Gold’s rusted 1988 Ford Taurus was accompanied by the rattling of a loose muffler and a heavy, incredulous silence.
Pops gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his eyes locked on the foggy road ahead. Every few seconds, he would glance over at the passenger seat, half-expecting Alex to peel off a latex mask and reveal he was actually a cyborg sent from the future.
Alex, true to form, was practically asleep. He was slouched down into the cracked vinyl seat, his knees resting against the dashboard, casually flipping through the thick stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills illuminated by the passing streetlights.
"Ten thousand dollars," Pops finally muttered, breaking the silence. His voice still carried the frayed edge of adrenaline. "Ten seconds of work, one punch, and you walk out with the biggest purse in the underground circuit. You know what you could do, kid? With my training and your natural power, we could go pro. We could clear the local circuits in six months. In two years, you’d be fighting in Vegas for millions!"
Alex stopped flipping the bills. He let out a long, exaggerated sigh, tilting his head to look at the old trainer.
"Pops," Alex said, his voice smooth and incredibly patient. "Did you see the size of that guy’s head? Hitting bone hurts my knuckles. And training camps require waking up before noon. I’m profoundly allergic to both of those things. I’m officially retiring with an undefeated record of 2-0."
Pops groaned, shaking his head in sheer exasperation. "You’re throwing away a gift from God because you want to sleep in? It’s unnatural! It’s a tragedy!"
"It’s called a healthy work-life balance," Alex corrected lazily.
He split the stack of cash on his lap. According to their verbal agreement, Pops was entitled to ten percent—one thousand dollars. But Alex had no intention of being a cheapskate. Loyalty in 1996 Los Angeles was rare, and the old man, despite his grumpy demeanor, had actually tried to protect him.
Alex tossed two banded stacks of bills into the center console. Two thousand dollars.
Pops glanced down at the money, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "That’s twenty percent, kid. We agreed on ten. I don’t take charity."
"It’s not charity, it’s a retainer," Alex smiled, closing his eyes and resting his head against the cold window. "I might need a personal trainer eventually to hold the focus mitts when I want to stretch my shoulders. Consider the extra grand a down payment on your future services. Plus, you need to fix your muffler. It’s giving me a headache."
Pops stared at the two thousand dollars. For a man living in a cramped apartment above a dingy gym, it was a small fortune. A rare, begrudging smile tugged at the corner of his scarred mouth.
"You’re a weird kid, Turner," Pops grunted, pocketing the cash. "But you hit like a freight train. If you ever change your mind about Vegas... you know where to find me."
"I’ll keep it in mind, Pops."
Alex slept through the rest of Friday night and didn’t wake up until noon on Saturday.
His cramped, dusty apartment was completely silent. He sat up, stretching lazily, and looked at the eight thousand dollars in cash resting on his wobbly bedside table.
For a normal twenty-two-year-old in 1996, eight grand was party money. It was enough to buy a used sports car, a ridiculous wardrobe, or rent a penthouse for a weekend. But for Alex, who possessed the absolute certainty of his impending musical dominance, eight grand was merely seed capital.
Mariah Carey was currently in the Record Plant, laying down the master track for a song that was mathematically guaranteed to top the Billboard charts. Once that song was pressed onto millions of physical CDs and blasted across global radio stations, the royalties would begin to flow.
And when Tommy Mottola realized the immense, culture-shifting value of the track, the Sony Music legal department would unleash an army of private investigators to find "The Ghost." They would try to hunt him down, corner him, and lock him into an ironclad, exploitative long-term contract.
Alex had absolutely no intention of signing a contract with Sony, or anyone else.
If he wanted to remain completely unbothered, he couldn’t just walk into a bank and open a personal checking account with the royalty checks. He needed a corporate shield. He needed an impenetrable legal entity to hold his intellectual property, accept his money, and keep his name entirely out of the public eye.
"Time to build the moat," Alex murmured to himself.
He summoned the holographic blue screen of the system interface.
HOST STATUS
Current Funds: $8,000.00
SYSTEM POINTS (SP): 180
Available Upgrades:
[Upgrade ’Business Management’ from Level 1 to Level 5 (Wall Street Titan)? Cost: 50 SP.]
Alex didn’t hesitate. Confirm.
[DING!]
[Upgrading ’Business Management’ to Level 5...]
[Current SP: 130]
The sensation was entirely different from the physical rush of the Boxing upgrade or the creative warmth of the Music Composition upgrade.
This was a profound, icy restructuring of his analytical mind.
A vast, terrifyingly complex labyrinth of corporate law, tax codes, international banking regulations, and intellectual property loopholes downloaded directly into his cerebral cortex. In a fraction of a second, he understood the precise mechanisms of Delaware LLCs, offshore shell companies, copyright reversion clauses, and hostile takeover strategies.
He didn’t just know the law; he understood the psychology of leverage. He knew exactly how billionaires hid their money, how major labels exploited artists, and exactly how to dismantle those systems using their own paperwork.
Alex blinked, the glowing blue screen fading from his vision. His posture remained perfectly relaxed, but his obsidian eyes now held the cold, calculating depth of a veteran Wall Street shark.
"Well," Alex smiled lazily, grabbing the stacks of cash and stuffing them into a faded canvas duffel bag. "Let’s go buy a company."
Downtown Los Angeles. 2:00 PM.
The towering glass-and-steel skyscrapers of the financial district reflected the harsh afternoon sun. Alex walked through the revolving doors of a high-end corporate law firm, Sterling, Hughes & Vance, located on the thirty-fourth floor of an imposing high-rise.
The reception area was a masterclass in intimidation by design: imported Italian marble floors, abstract modern art, and a hushed, sterile silence.
The receptionist, a sharp-eyed woman in a tailored blazer, looked up from her computer. Her gaze immediately locked onto Alex’s faded white t-shirt, worn-out jeans, and the cheap canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
"Excuse me, sir. The courier drop-off is in the loading dock on the ground floor," she said, her tone dripping with polite condescension.
Alex didn’t break his relaxed stride. He walked straight up to the mahogany desk, leaning against it with a soft, effortless grace. The [Aura of Tranquility] pulsed through the room, immediately dampening her annoyance, while his [Charisma: Level 2] coated his words in a magnetic resonance.
"I’m not a courier," Alex smiled warmly. "I’m a prospective client. I need to speak with a corporate structuring attorney immediately. A junior partner will do, provided they aren’t completely incompetent."
The receptionist blinked, her brain struggling to reconcile his homeless-chic attire with the absolute, unshakable authority in his voice.
"Sir, our attorneys require appointments weeks in advance, and our minimum retainer fee is—"
Alex unzipped the canvas duffel bag just an inch, tilting it so only she could see the neatly banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside.
"—five thousand dollars," she finished, her voice suddenly an octave higher as her eyes widened.
"Perfect. Let them know I have cash in hand, and I don’t like waiting," Alex said smoothly.
Ten minutes later, Alex was sitting in a glass-walled conference room overlooking the Los Angeles skyline. Across the polished mahogany table sat Richard Vance Jr., a junior partner in his early thirties wearing a custom three-piece suit. Richard looked at Alex with a mixture of intense curiosity and barely veiled skepticism.
"Mr. Turner," Richard began, steepling his fingers. "My receptionist informed me you require corporate structuring. While we do accept cash retainers, I must advise you that our firm caters to high-net-worth individuals and corporate entities. We don’t typically handle small-scale sole proprietorships for... freelance endeavors."
Richard was trying to establish dominance, attempting to make the kid in the t-shirt feel small in the expensive room.
Alex leaned back in his plush leather chair, crossing his arms comfortably. With his [Business Management: Level 5] fully active, Richard’s attempt at intimidation was as transparent as a glass window.
"I’m not here to open a lemonade stand, Richard," Alex replied, his voice dropping into a cool, professional register that completely commanded the acoustics of the room. "I need you to file the articles of organization for a Delaware Limited Liability Company. The parent company will be named Tyrant Group LLC. It will be member-managed, with myself listed as the sole managing member. However, I want a double-blind privacy structure utilizing a registered agent in Wilmington to ensure my name does not appear on any publicly searchable state database."
Richard’s smug expression faltered. He un-steepled his fingers, sitting up slightly straighter. "A Delaware privacy shield? For what purpose?"
"Intellectual property holding," Alex answered smoothly, without missing a beat. "Once Tyrant Group is established, I need you to immediately file a DBA—a ’Doing Business As’—in the state of California for a subsidiary entity named Tyrant Records. The Delaware LLC will hold the intellectual property rights and copyright registrations, while the California DBA will act as the operational face to process royalty streams and vendor contracts. This separates the operational liability from the core assets."
Richard stared at him. The kid hadn’t just used the correct legal terminology; he had casually dictated a flawless, highly sophisticated corporate shield structure typically reserved for veteran executives protecting multi-million-dollar portfolios.
"Furthermore," Alex continued, suppressing a yawn, "I need the operating agreement drafted today, stipulating that all intellectual property generated by ’The Ghost’—my registered pseudonym—is the sole and exclusive property of Tyrant Group LLC. We file the copyright registrations under the LLC’s name, not mine. When the major labels come looking to pay royalties, they cut the check to Tyrant Records. I remain entirely anonymous."
Richard was absolutely floored. The skepticism had completely evaporated, replaced by the distinct, terrifying realization that he was sitting across from a financial savant.
"Mr. Turner," Richard said, his tone entirely stripped of its previous condescension. "That is an exceptionally aggressive and airtight structure. But filing expedited paperwork in two states, drafting custom operating agreements, and retaining a Delaware registered agent... it will consume your entire five-thousand-dollar retainer by the end of the week."
Alex reached into the duffel bag, pulled out five banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them casually onto the polished mahogany table. The cash landed with a heavy, authoritative thud.
"Then I suggest you get to work, Richard," Alex smiled, standing up from his chair. "I want the tax ID numbers and the finalized articles of incorporation on my desk by Wednesday morning. If you do this quickly and quietly, Tyrant Group will keep this firm on retainer when our tax bracket adds a few more zeroes."
Richard Vance Jr., a highly educated corporate lawyer who charged five hundred dollars an hour, stood up and instinctively extended his hand, treating the twenty-two-year-old slacker with the utmost professional reverence.
"It will be filed by Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Turner," Richard promised, shaking Alex’s hand firmly.
"Glad to hear it," Alex replied.
Alex walked out of the towering glass skyscraper, leaving the canvas bag behind and stepping back out into the Los Angeles heat.
The pieces were on the board. The corporate shield was forged. When the shockwave of his acoustic masterpiece finally hit the industry, the explosion would wash harmlessly against the walls of Tyrant Records, quietly filtering millions of dollars directly into his bank account while he napped in the shade.
The slacker king had just built his castle. Now, he just had to wait for the Queen of Pop to bring him his crown.
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