Blood on the Canvas, Gold on the Screen

Chapter 74: Bull from Brooklyn

Trousdale Estates, Los Angeles. Saturday, 10:00 AM PST.

For the majority of Los Angeles residents, the weekend was an illusion. It was a forty-eight-hour window frantically used to complete chores, attend extra auditions, or party to exhaustion to forget the reality of Monday’s work.

But inside the perimeter of the Trousdale Estate, the weekend was treated with a level of seriousness usually reserved for religious ceremonies.

The morning California sun filtered through the eighty feet of sliding glass doors, creating warm geometric patterns across the white terrazzo floor. In the center of the mid-century living room, Alex Turner lay flat on his back on the Italian linen sectional sofa. He was wearing clean grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t fully awake either. He was in a state of metabolic stasis optimized by the [Sanctuary Regeneration] trait. Every breath he took was slow, long, and cellularly restoring the remnants of energy drained from having to walk down the Warner Bros. soundstage the day before.

From the kitchen, the quiet sound of a knife slicing fruit on a wooden cutting board echoed softly.

Jennifer Aniston stood behind the granite kitchen island, wearing Alex’s oversized shirt and a pair of shorts. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun. She was slicing fresh strawberries and arranging them over a bowl of oatmeal.

She paused, staring at the knife in her hand, then looked out the window toward the glittering city skyline.

"This feels illegal," Jennifer murmured, her voice breaking the absolute silence of the house.

Alex lazily opened one of his dark obsidian eyes. "Eating strawberries doesn’t violate any federal laws, Jen. As far as I know."

Jennifer put the knife down and walked over to the sofa with her bowl. She sat on the wool rug next to Alex’s head, leaning her back against the sofa.

"It’s not the strawberries, Alex," Jennifer sighed, a soft laugh tinged with disbelief escaping her lips. "It’s Saturday. Usually, my schedule today would be packed with revised script readings with producers, or hours-long phone calls with my publicist discussing interview strategies for next week. My brain keeps telling me I should be panicking because I’m not doing anything."

Alex slowly shifted his position, turning on his side to look at the Queen of Television. His eyes radiated a calm depth, and his [Aura of Tranquility] instantly adjusted its frequency to suppress the lingering corporate anxiety in Jennifer’s head.

"That’s called Corporate Stockholm Syndrome," Alex diagnosed smoothly. "The television studios have trained you for years to associate your self-worth with your level of exhaustion. They convinced you that free time is a sin, because free time gives you the chance to think clearly. And actors who think clearly are actors who realize they are underpaid."

Alex reached out his large, warm hand, gently touching the top of Jennifer’s head.

"You now own two percent of the gross syndication revenue, Jen. You are no longer paid based on hours worked; you are paid based on asset ownership," Alex continued, his rich baritone voice resonating soothingly. "Your job today is not to read scripts. Your job today is to breathe, enjoy your fruit, and actively let the world spin without you."

Jennifer looked at him, the warmth spreading through her chest having nothing to do with the California sun. The Slacker King’s logic always sounded radical at first, but ultimately, it was the only truth that made sense.

"You are a terrible influence on my work ethic, Mr. CEO," Jennifer smiled, her guilt completely evaporating.

"I am the savior of your work ethic," Alex corrected with a lazy smirk.

Before the conversation could continue, a sharp, rhythmic electronic buzzing shattered the silence. The heavy Motorola cell phone, lying on the teakwood coffee table, began to vibrate.

Alex groaned softly, pulling his hand back and letting his head drop onto the linen pillow. "The world really doesn’t know how to respect this fortress’s operating hours."

He grabbed the phone, extended the antenna, and pressed it to his ear.

"Speak," Alex answered flatly.

"Mr. Turner! Have a great weekend, sir!" Richard Vance Jr.’s voice sounded incredibly cheerful on the other end. The corporate attorney was clearly enjoying his bonus commission. "I’m calling to give a brief report on the status of our assets."

"Brief is a keyword I highly appreciate today, Richard," Alex said, closing his eyes again.

"The first tranche of royalties from the physical launch of the ’Sanctuary’ CD has been cleared by Sony Music’s accounting department, sir. An additional two and a half million dollars has been secured in our offshore accounts. The Billboard chart position is unshakeable. The studio has completely surrendered to our dominance."

"Good. Money working while we sleep is the only acceptable economic system," Alex mumbled. "Is there anything else?"

Richard’s tone became slightly more serious, though his panic was much more controlled than usual thanks to their winning streak.

"Sir, this is regarding your non-corporate portfolio. Your nightlife, so to speak," Richard cleared his throat. "My informants in the underground—the connections I used to secure the purchase of Grizzly’s Gym—reported some aggressive movement. The promoter from the ’Iron Fist’ fight you attended last week is looking for you."

Alex didn’t move. "Is the syndicate boss mad because I took ten thousand dollars from him?"

"Not the local syndicate boss, sir. This is much bigger," Richard explained. "News about you dropping ’The Anvil’ in fifty-eight seconds with one punch has spread like wildfire. But because you don’t have a stage name and aren’t registered with any boxing commission, they’re calling you ’The Pretty Boy Phantom’. And these rumors have reached the ears of Don King."

Alex slowly opened his eyes. Don King. The most legendary, corrupt, and ruthless boxing promoter in the history of the sport, with gravity-defying hair and a mouth that never stopped talking.

"Don King is looking for me?" Alex asked, his tone slightly amused.

"He is furious, Mr. Turner. He apparently had a significant financial investment in The Anvil, preparing to take him to the professional circuit. You destroyed his asset in front of hundreds of gamblers," Richard said warningly. "He has sent his agents to comb through every dingy boxing gym in Los Angeles to find you."

"Good luck to them," Alex snorted softly. "They’re looking for a starving underground fighter. They will never look for the CEO of a multi-million-dollar holding company living in Trousdale Estates."

"Exactly, sir. Our double-identity shield is working perfectly," Richard agreed. "However, I suggest you avoid Grizzly’s Gym for the time being. If Don King’s agents find it..."

Alex paused. His mind, driven by [Business Management: Level Max], quickly processed the logistics of the warning. Avoiding Grizzly’s Gym meant he couldn’t use the canvas boxing ring that gave him the 300% Horizontal Stamina Regeneration bonus. Furthermore, he had just invested thousands of dollars to sterilize the floor and install VIP furniture there.

No spiky-haired promoter was allowed to evict Alex Turner from his nap spot.

"Richard," Alex interrupted with a tone of absolute authority. "Has Mike the contractor finished the VIP corner in Grizzly’s Gym as I ordered?"

"Yes, sir. The custom Italian leather sofa and the La Marzocco espresso machine were installed and functionality tested yesterday afternoon," Richard replied, slightly confused by the topic shift.

"Good," Alex nodded. "I am not going to avoid my own property because some promoter’s thugs are upset. I’ll go there this afternoon to test the pressure calibration on that espresso machine. If Don King’s thugs show up, tell Elias Thorne to call in a Vanguard backup unit and stand guard in the alley."

"Sir, isn’t that taking an unnecessary risk?"

"The biggest risk in life is drinking poorly extracted coffee, Richard. Have a good weekend."

Alex pressed the end button and tossed the phone back onto the table.

He pushed himself up from the sofa with a light, fluid motion. Jennifer looked up at him from the floor, blinking her eyes.

"Don King?" Jennifer asked, catching part of the conversation. "That terrifying boxing promoter? Why is he looking for you?"

"Because I accidentally hit one of his employees too hard at the San Pedro docks last week," Alex replied in a casual tone, as if he were discussing spilling coffee on someone’s shirt. He held his hand out to Jennifer, pulling the actress up to her feet effortlessly. "And because I refuse to hide from a man with terrible fashion sense, I’m going to Grizzly’s Gym to inspect my new sofa. Do you want to come?"

Jennifer laughed, shaking her head. In the real world, an actress currently being hunted by the media would never go to an underground boxing gym. But inside the radius of the Slacker King, it sounded like the perfect weekend date.

"A leather sofa and a coffee machine in the middle of a sweat-smelling warehouse?" Jennifer smiled mischievously. "I wouldn’t miss it for the world."

King Productions Promoter Office, Century City. 12:30 PM PST.

The office space was filled with thick cigar smoke and the smell of corrupt power. The walls were adorned with legendary fight posters—Rumble in the Jungle, Thrilla in Manila.

Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk was Don King. His hair stood on end like it was shocked by high-voltage electricity, and he wore a velvet jacket studded with rhinestones. In his hand, he held a crystal glass filled with brandy, his sharp, opportunistic eyes glaring at two men in cheap suits trembling before him.

"You’re telling me," Don King’s voice boomed, hoarse and theatrical, "that a boy... a pretty-faced amateur in a t-shirt... walked into a syndicate warehouse, defeated my most valuable heavyweight asset in under a minute, took ten thousand dollars, and JUST DISAPPEARED?!"

The shorter suited man swallowed hard. "T-that’s correct, Mr. King. We’ve asked every local promoter. No one knows him. The trainer who brought him that night, an old man named Mickey Gold, also disappeared. His old gym in East Hollywood is permanently closed."

"I don’t care if he’s closed!" Don King roared, slamming his fist on the desk so hard the brandy glass wobbled. "You find out where that old man lives! The Anvil was my ticket to the underground heavyweight championship! Millions of dollars, gone, because of some brat who moves faster than his own shadow!"

In the dark corner of the room, sitting in a large leather chair that looked too small for his frame, was another figure.

The man was silent. He wore a tight black t-shirt that failed to conceal the massive muscles in his neck and shoulders. His face, adorned with a Maori tribal tattoo on the left side, radiated a level of physical threat that made the bodyguards in the room not dare to look him directly in the eyes.

Mike Tyson.

The true Heavyweight Champion, "Iron Mike." In 1996, he was in his most intimidating physical and mental condition. He had just returned to boxing and was destroying every opponent who dared step into the ring with him. He was visiting his promoter’s office to discuss contract issues, but this commotion had caught his attention.

Tyson leaned forward. His movement, though slow, possessed the mechanical grace of a tiger preparing to pounce.

"Hold on a minute, Don," Tyson’s voice sounded with his signature lisp, yet carried a gravity that instantly silenced the entire room. "This kid. You said he dropped The Anvil in under a minute? The Anvil who weighs two hundred and forty pounds?"

The suited man nodded quickly to Tyson, more afraid of the champion than his boss. "Y-yes, Mr. Tyson. But that’s not the craziest part. The guys there said... the kid never raised his hands to defend. He dodged every punch by tilting his head a few inches. And when he hit back... the sound of the punch sounded like a baseball bat snapping."

Tyson’s dark eyes narrowed. To a pro fighter, that description was a myth. The kinetic power required to drop a man the weight of The Anvil with a single punch without even taking a stance defied normal human biomechanics.

Something inside Iron Mike—the pure warrior instinct thirsting for a challenge and seeking his true match—suddenly awakened.

"Where is his trainer’s old gym?" Tyson asked in a low tone, standing up from his chair. His massive posture instantly dominated the room.

"G-Grizzly’s Old School Boxing. In an East Hollywood alley," the man answered nervously. "But like I said, the place is closed. The sign is still there, but the doors are locked from the inside."

Don King stared at his star fighter in panic. "Mike! What are you doing? You have a press conference at three o’clock today! You don’t have time to look for ghosts in a dingy alley!"

Tyson didn’t turn to look at his promoter. He walked past the two suited men without saying a word, the muscles in his arms tensing. He didn’t care about the press conference. He didn’t care about promotional money. Deep in his soul, he wanted to see if the rumor about the young man who dodged punches like a ghost was real, or just a street legend.

"Cancel the conference, Don," Tyson mumbled as he opened the office door. "I’m going for a walk."

Grizzly’s Old School Boxing Gym. 2:15 PM PST.

Far from corporate panic and the intrigues of promoters, Alex Turner’s grimy paradise was operating at the peak of its luxury.

The rusted iron door in the alley outside might give the illusion of bankruptcy, but inside, in the corner where the boxing ring sat, the atmosphere had transformed into a private executive lounge. The oversized, espresso-colored Italian leather sofa was incredibly plush, absorbing Alex’s body like an expensive sponge.

The La Marzocco Linea machine next to him hissed softly. Jennifer Aniston, who surprisingly possessed barista skills from a past role, had just finished extracting two cups of latte with near-perfect latte art on top of the milk foam.

"Here," Jennifer said, placing the cup on the teakwood table in front of Alex, smiling proudly. "Twenty-eight-second extraction. Milk temperature exactly at one hundred and forty degrees. You can’t complain about this, Mr. Critic."

Alex opened one eye, took the ceramic cup, and sipped it slowly. His [Oracle’s Ear] didn’t work on coffee, but his optimized taste buds were enough to recognize perfection.

"Pass," Alex nodded lazily, setting his cup back down. "If your acting career mysteriously explodes and vanishes tomorrow morning, I will officially hire you as the head beverage chef at Tyrant Group."

"A very tempting offer, considering I would never have to wake up before ten in the morning," Jennifer laughed, sitting on the sofa next to him and resting her head on Alex’s shoulder.

In the distance, near the locker rooms, Gus was busy polishing the gym’s old iron bell. The old man was paid an executive-level salary just to make sure the floors stayed clean and no one came in. He felt like he had won the lottery of life.

However, that absolute peace was interrupted by something loud.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

The sound of highly aggressive pounding slammed against the main iron door in the front alley. The pounding was so forceful that the rusted door hinges shrieked softly, echoing throughout the vast warehouse space.

Gus instantly dropped his rag, his old muscles tensing. He walked quickly toward the door, peering through the small, dirty glass peephole.

What Gus saw on the other side made the blood in his veins feel like it froze into ice.

Standing in the hot alley, alone, without bodyguards, was the figure of a thick-necked man with a facial tattoo that had become a symbol of terror around the world. Iron Mike Tyson. He didn’t look like he was looking for a place for a light workout. He looked like he was looking for prey.

Gus turned around, his face pale, staring toward the VIP corner.

"Boss!" Gus called out with a hoarse, trembling voice. "Boss... you have to run out the back door. Now."

Alex, still leaning back on his leather sofa, didn’t move. He sipped his latte again slowly.

"Who out there is foolish enough to pound on my door, Gus?" Alex asked in a lazy baritone.

"I-it’s Mike Tyson!" Gus hissed, his panic unbearable. "The Bull from Brooklyn! He’s outside our door, and he looks ready to tear it down!"

Jennifer gasped, sitting bolt upright on the sofa. Tyson’s reputation in 1996 wasn’t just as an athlete, but as a destructive and unpredictable force of nature.

Alex, however, merely let out a long sigh tinged with deep spiritual disappointment. He placed his coffee cup on the teakwood table.

"Bull or not, he’s interrupting my relaxing coffee time," Alex mumbled, pushing himself up from the comfortable leather sofa. He stood casually, his white t-shirt falling over his sweatpants.

He walked across the linoleum floor with a rolling, calm gait, completely devoid of urgency, toward the giant iron door.

"Open the door, Gus," Alex ordered, his voice containing the absolute authority of [Charisma: Level 3] that rejected any argument.

Gus swallowed hard. With trembling hands, he unlocked the heavy double deadbolts and quickly stepped back.

The iron door was yanked open from the outside with brute force. Sunlight streamed in, framing the massive figure of Mike Tyson in the doorway. The world champion stepped into the darkness of the gym, his fists clenched tightly, his eyes immediately locked on the relaxed young man standing ten feet in front of him.

Tyson stared at Alex. He assessed his posture, the lack of a stance, and that dark, empty gaze.

"You The Pretty Boy?" Tyson asked, his voice heavy, echoing off the brick walls. "I heard you put The Anvil to sleep without breaking a sweat."

Alex returned the World Champion’s stare. He didn’t radiate fear, nor did he project aggression. His [Aura of Tranquility] expanded, colliding directly with the aura of violence Tyson had brought into the room.

"Sweat ruins cotton," Alex replied calmly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "And this is my private gym, Mike. Knock more politely next time."

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!