(Otto Hightower sits in his high-rise office, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A glass of the finest whiskey rests on his desk, next to a rolled joint of his personal reserve. He leans back in his leather chair, emerald-green Air Force 1s propped up on the polished wood. The weight of the empire he built is on his shoulders, but his expression is calm—controlled. He speaks, not to anyone in particular, but to himself, or perhaps to the ghosts of those who thought they could outplay him.)

"I built this from nothing. Brick by brick, deal by deal. While the rest of them were running corners, fighting over scraps, I was setting the table. I made the calls, shook the right hands, greased the right palms. And now? Now they all want a seat. Funny how that works."

(He exhales slowly, rolling the joint between his fingers, the scent of luxury filling the air.)

"They think because it's legal now, it’s just another business. A market, like any other. Fools. The game hasn’t changed—only the players. You think the wolves disappeared just because the law changed? No. They just started wearing better suits."

(He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head.)

"Competition? There is none. Not really. Not for me. The streets? I own them. The politicians? I pay them. The product? Untouchable. There isn’t a single deal that gets made in this city without my signature on it. And yet… there’s always some idiot who thinks they can take a piece of what I built. Some reckless little upstart who doesn’t understand how this works."

(He leans forward, the smile fading, voice dropping to a near whisper—calm, but sharp as a blade.)

"Loyalty isn’t given. It’s enforced. And I don’t give second chances. I don’t give warnings. If you cross me, you disappear. Simple as that."

(He lights the joint, takes a slow drag, and exhales.)

"Now… let’s talk business."