Business Proposal

Sunlight streamed through the vast windows of the Emerald Tower penthouse, casting a million-dollar glow over everything it touched—which was appropriate, given the ridiculous sum of money I'd just found myself unable to pocket. I was sprawled on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee that cost more than the average meal, and staring at the latest message from the Broke Man's System.

I glanced at the other notification on my phone. It was from Mr. Long, the not-so-cuddly bear who ran the boxing show and apparently, now played Santa Claus with a twist. He wanted to give me $10,000,000 as a prize for turning Viktor "The Viking" into a floor decoration. Nice, right? Except I couldn't take it because of the damn cap on my earnings.

[Error: Your earning cap is full, please spend money.]

"You gotta be shitting me," I muttered to the empty room, still in disbelief. Just yesterday, I was brawling for bucks, and today I was too rich to be paid. Irony really loved to dance on my last nerve.

In a move that would make my late gambler uncle proud, I decided to gamble a bit myself. I shot a message back to Mr. Long, trying to keep it casual.

"Hey Mr. Long, thanks for the generous punch-out prize. Cash is a bit tight on space right now in my accounts. How about we trade that for something less... liquid? Like a nice $10,000,000 home? You know, real estate—no maintenance for you, and I get to keep collecting assets without overflowing my cap. What do you say?"

Dropping my phone on the coffee table, I leaned back, waiting for the blowback or blessing. It wasn't long before the phone buzzed.

"Mr. Ashburn, your knack for negotiation is as impressive as your right hook. Consider it done. Let's meet to finalize the details."

Well, fuck me sideways with a ledger, it worked. I was getting a house instead of cash. Who knew boxing could be so real-estate profitable?

With the house business pending like a storm on the horizon, my thoughts drifted to the bigger problem: the Broke Man's System and its goddamn rules. I needed a plan to keep all this money juggling under wraps. If Uncle Richard or any of my dear, money-hungry cousins caught wind of how I was lining my pockets, they'd swoop in like vultures on a three-day-old carcass.

That's when it hit me like a slap from an angry ex: I needed a front. A legit, squeaky-clean business to launder my not-so-dirty money through. Something that said, "Look at Damon, the entrepreneur," instead of "Damon, how the hell did you afford that?"

Brainstorming session in full swing, I mulled over a dozen ideas. Tech startup? Too cliché. Restaurant? Hell no, I couldn't even cook toast without triggering the smoke alarm. Then, like the punchline of a bad joke, it struck me—sports management. I already had the boxing angle, and with the right setup, I could parlay that into managing other sports stars. It was perfect. Low-key, profitable, and just boring enough to keep most people from digging too deep.

I decided to call it "Ashburn Athletics." Catchy, right?

The rest of the day was a blur of activity. I called a lawyer to set up the business, met with a real estate agent to talk shop about office spaces, and even started sketching out a logo. It was all coming together like a well-executed uppercut.

Alright, so there I was, juggling calls like a circus clown high on espresso. I roped in a lawyer, Harold, a guy who could probably argue that water isn't wet and get away with it. "Listen, Harold, I need Ashburn Athletics up and running like yesterday. Can we speedrun the boring stuff?"

Harold, in his monotone that could put insomnia to shame, was like, "We'll need to file several forms, establish a corporate structure, discuss tax implications..."

"Whoa, Harold, hold up. I'm an entrepreneur, not a damn accountant. Make it happen, but keep the legalese to a minimum, will ya? I need brain space for more important stuff, like what kind of fancy-ass coffee machine we're putting in the lobby."

Next up, the real estate agent, a too-slick dude named Marty who wore suits so sharp they could slice through your self-esteem. "Damon, baby, I found the perfect spot for your office. High-rise, glass walls, views of the city that scream 'I'm a big deal.'"

"Marty, as long as it doesn't scream 'IRS, audit me,' we're golden. Set up a viewing, and let's keep the price tag reasonable. I'm not trying to fund a new space program here."

By the end of the day, my brain was spinning like a hamster wheel. I needed a break. I needed a beer. I needed to not think about tax structures and employee benefits packages for a hot minute. But, just as I was about to call it quits and crash on the couch with a cold one, the system pinged me.

[Ding! Reminder: Creating a legitimate business is a mission. Do not forget to align your business goals with the System's rules.]

"Yeah, thanks, Mom," I muttered at the system, which, if it had feelings, probably didn't appreciate my sarcasm. "Align my ass. As long as it keeps Uncle Richard and his band of merry gold-diggers off my back, it's as aligned as it needs to be."

So, Ashburn Athletics. It wasn't just a front or a pet project. It was my ticket to keeping the wealth from the system under wraps while making a name for myself in the legit business world. Plus, who knows? Maybe I'd actually get a kick out of playing Jerry Maguire to some up-and-comers. "Show me the money!" I practiced in front of the mirror, chuckling at my own reflection.

The next few weeks were a slog of meetings, phone calls, and decisions about things I never thought I'd care about. Color schemes for the office. What kind of ergonomic chairs to buy. Whether we should go with the espresso machine that has a touchscreen or the one that could probably also file my taxes.

And through it all, I kept one eye on the prize and one eye on my bank account, which, thanks to the system's earning cap, needed some creative juggling. Harold kept on top of the legal mumbo-jumbo, Marty hooked us up with an office that didn't bankrupt us, and I? I focused on learning everything I could about sports management—mostly by watching old YouTube videos and reading "Sports Management for Dummies."

"Guess I'm really doing this," I said to myself one night, looking out over the city from my penthouse, the lights below twinkling like a field of stars. Ashburn Athletics wasn't just a name or a scheme. It was becoming a part of who I was—a businessman, a mogul in the making, a guy who might just have more to offer than a wicked right hook and a sarcastic quip.

But as I turned away from the window, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Mark, reminding me of drinks at Paddy's to celebrate the new venture. "Time to put the mogul on hold and let the man have some fun," I thought, grabbing my coat.

Ashburn Athletics was off the ground, but Damon Ashburn? He was still just a guy trying to make sense of a world where punches could be both literal and metaphorical. And as I headed out the door, I couldn't help but think, "Bring it on, world. I'm ready for the next round."

Stepping into Paddy's was like walking onto a movie set where everyone knows your name, and they're all ready to treat you like the hero who just saved the town—or at least knocked out a few bad guys. The usual suspects were all there: Mark, a couple of gym rats from the boxing club, and even a few curious onlookers who probably just wanted to see if the rumors about me were true.

"Hey, there he is! The man of the hour!" Mark bellowed, nearly toppling his beer as he waved me over. The table was cluttered with empty glasses and the remnants of what could only be described as a nacho cheese massacre.

"Hope you saved some liver function for me, boys," I joked, sliding into the booth. The guys clapped me on the back, and I soaked up the camaraderie like it was the last round of drinks on Earth.

"To Damon and Ashburn Athletics!" Mark toasted, raising his glass. The clink of glassware felt like a knell for my previous life as a not-so-humble underdog.

The night rolled on, fueled by laughter, beer, and too many shots of something Mark swore was just "slightly stronger than vodka." Lies. All lies. As the evening wore on, and my head began to feel like it was hosting its own boxing match, I realized this was exactly what I needed—a night to just be Damon, not the entrepreneur, not the boxer, just the guy who loved a good laugh and a cold beer.

But as every fighter knows, no victory lap is complete without the next challenge peeking over the horizon. And mine came in the form of an unexpected text message, cutting through the haze of my beer buzz. It was from none other than Mr. Long, and if I wasn't already sitting down, I'd have needed to.

"Meet me for breakfast. 8 AM sharp. The usual place. We need to discuss your future," the message read, as cryptic as a riddle in a fortune cookie.

"Shit, can't this guy take a hint? I'm retired for the night!" I muttered under my breath, showing the message to Mark.

"Dude, that sounds serious. You think he's going to make you an offer you can't refuse?" Mark quipped, wiggling his eyebrows like he was auditioning for a role in a mob movie.

"More like an offer I'll need a team of lawyers to understand," I sighed, draining the last of my beer. "Guess I'm playing in the big leagues now, huh?"

"You're not just playing, man, you're rewriting the rulebook," Mark said, slapping me on the shoulder a little too enthusiastically.

As the night drew to a close, and Paddy's started to empty out, I found myself staring at my phone again. Mr. Long's message was like a beacon, or maybe a warning light, and I knew that no matter how much I wanted to just be Damon Ashburn, regular guy, those days were slipping through my fingers like sand.

I paid the tab—much to Mark's mock dismay—and we stumbled out into the cool night air. "Thanks for the backup tonight, man," I said, giving Mark a half-hug. "Wouldn't have survived it without you."

"Anytime, brother. Anytime," he replied, clapping me on the back one last time before we went our separate ways.

Walking back to my penthouse, the city lights blurred into a neon tapestry, beautiful and distant. I thought about Mr. Long's message, about the business, about everything that was suddenly part of my life. It was overwhelming, exhilarating, terrifying—all at once.

But hey, that's life in Dragon City. You roll with the punches, you take your shots, and you never, ever let 'em see you down for the count. Because in this game, the only thing more dangerous than a left hook is complacency, and Damon Ashburn was nobody's fool. Not anymore.

So bring it on, Mr. Long. Let's see what you've got. Because I'm ready for whatever comes next. After all, isn't that what champions do? They fight. And they keep on fighting, no matter who's in the other corner.