The Billionaire's Final Venture

    Ojo Grande. Ang Matarik na Mata. Dagko Mata    Or in English, the Giant Eye. It's used as a scare tactic for kids by parents around Antipolo, and reaching the urban city of Manila. Always blabbed by elders that there's a red eye that will always know what they're doing and they will be punished for it if they lie about it. As the eye always knew everything.    But in reality, it was just an eye-shaped building made of glass, flaming red glass that burned through the verdant green of the mountainside. Wedged between two dull skyscrapers–that blended with the surroundings–with pointed peaks that blinked red from time to time that created the illusion of the Eye blinking.    People coming in and out of the Eye, with their leather shoes clacking  on the cemented floor. Either clutching briefcases while on their phones in a heated argument, a laptop bag slung on their shoulders as they chatted with their colleague side by side into the Eye. Some not even going in, but seated at one of the metal benches that alternated with trees. A true concrete jungle.    A woman letting her scarlet handbag swing on her elbow pit while clad in a navy pantsuit, a mole above her lips and square thick-framed glasses. She struts through the people on the cemented floor, and into the glass doors, her ears invaded with chatter of her workmates, and ringing of telephones from the reception desk. Her heels clacking on the black tiles speckled with rhinestones that gleam from every angle. Pressing the call button of the elevator, she crosses her arms, her handbag dangling from one side as the glass doors part.    Everyone inside that prattle and babble fall silent, only the impatient tapping of the woman's heels and her the puckering of her scarlet lips. Eyes agape at the woman's presence, horror-stricken. All of them push past each other to exit the elevator. Once empty, she goes inside rolling her eyes before pressing the 20 button and tapping a key card on a panel . Everyone eyeing the woman dispersed into different directions as the glass doors shut. The elevator ascending in a soft whirr, passing by multiple floors filled with computers on desks. She checks her watch which read 5:00 PM. A wave of relief evident on her face as the glass doors slide open.    "20th Floor." A womanly, mechanical voice announces.    She proceeds through the carpeted white hallway, passing by the reception desk as she nods at the man working behind it, also catching a glimpse of 'Oculi Technologies' written in lustrous gold.    "Mr. Hearst is in a meeting for a potential partner." The man informs her, giving a polite smile.    "Exactly why I am here." She casts a sinister grin amplified with her devilish eyes.    The man nods. "Right this way." He walks out of the desk and heads to the full-length double doors lined with gold, and a gold handle resembling an eye. He opens the door for her, silencing the presentation going on inside.    She struts inside, clutching the handle of her handbag.    "Continue Mr. Bryan." A man with a scar on his right dark brown eye bellows from his seat from the far end of the long table, his hand gripping his chin as he casts a terrifying scowl at the man presenting in front–who squirms and downs a large gulp.    The woman plops at a swivel chair near the Scar, setting her handbag on the large table, she seizes a velvet envelope from inside, handing it to the man.   "Mr. Hearst, there’s something you should know." She flashes a wicked grin once more.    Mr. Hearst nods at the presenter to keep going as he opens the flap slowly, a suspicious eye cast on the woman. He retrieves a lone piece of paper, with CONFIDENTIAL faded on the background. He skims through its contents, eyes darting from word to word. The neutral expression from his face twisting into a scowl as he slams the paper on the mahogany table, casting looks from the other people on the room to him.    He stands from his seat, fixing a button from the bottom of his pinstripe suit, his tall stature looming over the other men and women in suits seated at the long table. Everyone gazes at him, with the presenter restless at what he's going to do.    Hearst picks up the paper, eyeing it viciously as if he was holding a smoking gun and brandishing to the man in front.  "Mr. Declan Bryan, for an anti-theft software, your proprietors participate in a multitude of scams." He casts a tantalizing glare at Mr. Bryan, who turns white as a sheet and is now sweating profusely.      "Are you going to make a fool of yourself here or am I going to have security drag your sorry excuse of a company out of mine?" He fixes the cuffs on his wrist.    Mr. Bryan clears the lump from his throat, coughing as he frantically organizes his documents and thrusting them in his suitcase with shaking hands and a sullen face like all life has drained from it. He glances at Mr. Hearst, whose eyes filled with fury and  hate. A gaze so powerful that he hears a voice in his brain shouting at him to get out. He stumbles to the exit, almost tripping on his way out.    "Hazell." Mr. Hearst announces. "Good job."    The woman beams, fixing the paper back on the envelope and clutching it with her before strutting out the room. Mr. Hearst glowers at the other people in the room. They shoot up from their seat, whispering to hurry as they rush out of the room. Mr. Hearst walks to one of the glass walls.    A perfect view of the bustling city from atop the mountains of Antipolo. The sky painted with splatters of violet and orange. Sparking open the lights of the city in a spectacular array of red, orange, and yellow lights as the night life starts to take over the city below, and as well as Mr. Hearst body. He strides outside the door with his gleaming, brown pointed shoes handmade by one of his many...pursuits.    "Mr. Tristan Hearst, your phone." The receptionist offers him the shiny black phone with a polite smile. To which Tristan replies with a cold nod as he continues to the elevator, pressing the G button.    Even at 6:00 PM, his company is assiduous and sedulous in the night. His workers darting around fueled with coffee and a generous salary, all refusing to turn a gaze to him. Some even covering their line of sight with their hands. He exits the building, a supreme black Mercedes-Benz lined with gleaming silver, awaiting for him as a man wearing a charcoal suit opens the door for him.    "Atkins." Tristan pauses at the open door.    "Mr. Hearst."    Tristan climbs inside, as soon as he sits down, his phone repeatedly buzzes and chimes. Atkins, his driver, climbs in not long after, shutting the door with a slight thud.    "Where to Sir?"    Tristan fishes his phone, pressing a bright yellow app that resembles a mask. Scrolling through the various pictures of men with chiseled bodies and faces–with a red dot at the corner of each photo. Skipping through the other pictures of men that were too straightforward, he finds a guy names himself Mark who only messages a simple 'hi'. Tristan smirks, the photo of the guy didn't show six-pack abs like the others. But an innocent face that Tristan regards so highly.      "What's the nearest hotel here?" Tristan looks up from his phone and questions Atkins with a stern look on his face.    "Le Compania, sir."    "Book the suite right now."    Atkins punches something on the car's monitor and talks with a hotel personnel, asking to book a suite. As soon as the driver says Hearst's name, the personnel cuts in saying it is ready and on the 50th floor.    Tristan presses the banner of Mark, messaging him.    'Le Compania, 6:30 PM sharp, the suite 50th floor. Don't be late.'    He didn't await a reply. He taps Atkins' shoulder, and the car skids to life. They swerve through the zigzag mountainside road and onto the city where a bright orange tower with a 'Le Compania' sign at the very top, decorated with vintage orange lights. The driver parks the car in front of the stairs to the entrance, lined with a red carpet with revolving doors made of glinting gold. Atkins heads out and opens the car door for Tristan, who places the phone back on his pants' pocket.    He heads inside, the bell boy gazing at him as he towers every other guests that went inside. The lobby had a knack for gold and browns, that housed a gleaming chandelier hanging at the center. The floor made of white marble furnished with couches, chairs, plants in orderly fashion.      A man with a golden tag walks to Tristan, who was looking around the place and assessing the technologies his company has provided to the building. Tristan only regarded the Manager part of his tag, didn't even bother to look at his name.    "Here is your card, sir." The man says nervously, hands trembling as he gives the card to Tristan. He points to the elevator that is set apart from the others. "It leads directly to the suite." To which Tristan doesn't even react to.    Tristan strides to the elevator, inserting a key card on to a panel that opens the golden doors of the elevator. As planned, it ascends to the 50th floor. As the door opens, a long foyer meets his eye with a dark wooden door at the end. The floor carpeted with browns. Then, he notices the paintings hanging on each wall with a scrutinizing eye. He opens the door and walks, the room almost looking like one full house. He heads straight to the bedroom just upstairs, not minding any other aspect of the house.    He eyes the large bed with a walnut headboard, grinning as he prepares himself. He heads into the bathroom that had a full-length frosted glass door. Gazing at himself at a mirror, he loosens his tie, then undoing buttons of his suit jacket, and then his undershirt, revealing his bulging pecs and six-pack abs, sculpted by the gods themselves as every sinew and muscle popping seductively. He lets the tie hang on his neck as he nods on the mirror and goes back to the bed.    A sudden ringing of a white telephone on the night stand averts Tristan's attention. "Someone is..."    "Let him in." His deep, promiscuous voice startles the caller that only emitted a mutter.    He grabs his phone, messaging Mark again with 'bedroom' and thrusting it back to his pocket.    After awhile, the door opens. Revealing the man that looks far from innocent. Desire clearly written on his face as he eyes Tristan's half-naked body. Mark about to open his mouth, ultimately stopped with a raised index finger from Tristan.    "Now, I am not for any idle chitchat in this acquisition. I am not into any cheesy relationships, I am here to fulfill my desires and you are only here to please me, understand?"    Mark gulps as he eyes the scar on Tristan's face that amplifies the searing lust inside him as he feels himself harden from his authoritative tone, his lips sealed with a mind stuck in a trance by the man in front of him.    "Now then, shall we?"