Chapter 252: Dan’s Request
<🎧 Song Recommendation: Through Da Storm by Polo G>
...
Dan Viking was considerably larger in person than his profile photo suggested.
Standing at least six-foot-three with a heavy, powerful frame, he wore a tailored charcoal jacket over an open-collar shirt. On his wrist rested a platinum timepiece that easily cost more than the Maybach parked down on the street.
He extended a large hand, gripping Von’s firmly.
"Mr. Varley."
"Von’s fine," Von replied, returning the grip.
"Dan." Viking gestured toward the leather chair opposite him. "Please, sit. Thank you for coming. I mean that sincerely. I know what I asked for, and I know your schedule doesn’t leave much room for detours."
Von took his seat, keeping his sunglasses resting lightly in his lap. "I was expecting a larger table."
"There were supposed to be others." Dan sat back down, sliding his water glass slightly to the left. "I sent the legal team away."
’Interesting.’
Von subtly shifted his focus, letting the System interface materialize at the corner of his vision without breaking eye contact.
[Unequip: The Visionary?]
[Equip: Mogul (S)?]
[Confirmed.]
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. It wasn’t a visible change in lighting or décor; rather, it was like moving from hearing a raw voice to reading a multi-track master board.
The subtle shifts in Dan’s posture, the micro-tensions along his jawline, and the underlying commercial dynamics of the room laid themselves out.
Dan Viking was nervous.
Which made no sense. Men who held the venue keys to four continents didn’t sweat over a standard contract signing.
"Emily mentioned the merchandise clause was still open," Von said, cutting straight to the core of the discussion.
"Yes, it is."
"Then let’s settle that first," Von continued smoothly, recalling what he read in the car.
"The standard venue cut for merchandise across Canadian arenas sits around thirty percent. I’m not paying that. What we’re selling isn’t generic screen-printed cotton; it’s a proprietary fashion capsule that pulled over four hundred thousand dollars in Miami on opening night alone."
Dan’s eyebrows twitched faintly at the figure, though anyone following the viral traction around the Exo boots could have guessed the volume.
"I want the building cut set at five percent," Von stated calmly, picking up his glass to take a sip of water.
’And here comes the pushback,’ Von thought, calculating the standard corporate dance. ’He counters at twenty, we negotiate down to twelve, and we both walk away ahead of Emily’s original fifteen-percent target.’
"Done."
Dan didn’t hesitate for a single second.
Von paused, the water nearly catching in his throat as he set the glass down.
"...Five percent. Across all three arena dates?"
"Five percent," Dan repeated firmly. He reached into his inner pocket, produced a sleek fountain pen, and scribbled the updated term directly onto a napkin on the table, signing his initials with a decisive stroke.
"I’ll have the formal legal addendum drawn up and executed before three o’clock. Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver. Identical terms."
"Alright," Von said, locking down the confirmation before anything could shift. "I’m satisfied with those terms."
Securing a five-percent building fee on arena merchandise was a massive commercial victory. The extra margins would significantly accelerate the revenue targets Vanguard had set for V-OMEN.
Yet the ease of the concession only deepened the mystery.
Von leaned forward, his gaze locking onto the older man. "What made you concede that so easily?"
Dan exhaled slowly, looking out over the grey skyline before turning back. "Because I never doubted your drawing power for a single second, Von. I’ve spent a long time in this industry. I know what a generational talent looks like, and you’re even bigger than what they give you credit for."
"I appreciate the compliment," Von replied evenly. "But that doesn’t explain why you demanded I fly here in person."
Dan’s jaw tightened, his polished composure cracking to reveal something raw underneath.
"...Because offering money and contract points was the only leverage I had left to get you in front of me."
The silence in the penthouse stretched out for a while.
***
Her name was Nora.
She was nine, and she had been at SickKids since June, and in eleven days she was going into isolation for a bone marrow transplant, which meant a minimum of six weeks in a room with filtered air supply.
The Toronto show was on the eighteenth of November.
Dan looked up with bloodshot eyes.
"The Toronto show is on November eighteenth."
Von listened in silence.
"She’ll be forty days into isolation by then," Dan continued, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping his throat. "I own an equity stake in Scotiabank Arena, Von. I could put her in the owner’s luxury box. I could build her a viewing platform right next to the stage. Hell, I could buy the entire building if I wanted to. And yet, I can’t get my little girl out of that room for even an hour."
The room was dead quiet.
"She has every single track you’ve ever put out," Dan murmured. "She played that gaming single on loop every single day during the lockdown. And she has the other track you wrote for your fan president."
A slight pang hit Von’s chest. "Sasha’s Song."
"That’s the one," Dan said with a cracking voice. "She plays it before every single spinal tap and chemotherapy session. It’s the only thing that keeps her calm."
Dan took a slow, ragged breath, running a heavy hand over his face.
"I know how this looks," Dan said, gesturing toward the signed napkin. "A grown man using corporate leverage and arena deals to buy an hour of a twenty-year-old artist’s time. If you want to walk out that door right now, walk out. The Canadian dates are yours regardless. I signed my name to those terms, and I don’t go back on my word."
Von stared at the older man for a moment, letting the weight of the room settle.
Then, without a word, Von pushed his chair back and stood up.
He walked around the long table, stopping beside Dan’s chair, and placing a hand on the man’s broad shoulder.
"How far is the hospital?"