Kai watched him from the corner of his eyes and thought, This guy— is he putting on the leader act? He held back and studied Ryan's face.

Maya looked at Ryan too. A tiny smirk appeared on her lips and she thought, So he finally took the role. The smirk didn't mean she doubted him; it meant something like relief and amusement at seeing him start to carry weight.

Luka's smirk turned mean. "You're so eager?" he said, the words almost a blade.

Ryan paused for a second, then answered in a plain tone, "I don't want to be here, you know. I got more work to do."

Arthur's mouth curved in a small smile at that. It was rare to see Arthur smirk and the gesture carried a soft approval. Daniel, bright and loud, chimed in with theatrical pride: "Yeahhhh, our leader is busy, you know." His voice tried to turn the moment into a joke and push away the edge.

Ryo, still leaning, tapped the desk with his fingers and added, "Should we wait for South High then?"

Luka's laugh was flat and humorless. "You believe they'll come? They haven't come in the last year."

When Luka said those words something in the room changed. The sentence landed like a stone. Everyone heard it not just as a fact, but as a measure of the balance of power. South High's absence had meaning.

It meant a gap. It meant history and rumor and danger. It made the empty chair heavier than any one person's presence.

Ryan looked at the empty desk. He felt a flicker of something like unease. South High had been a name that used to mean movement, influence, and trouble. Their silence over the past year had been a rumor turned into a fact:

no shows, no messages, nothing. Theories about what happened to them had floated in the city—some said internal collapse, others said leaders changed sides, some whispered that outside forces had driven them underground. The truth was messy and none of it was comforting.

Still, that truth also meant the immediate problem was real and present: the three crews in the room had to talk to each other and make some decisions. They could not rely on the missing group, and the negotiation would go on without them.

That brought structure to the issue. It meant the work in front of them was not speculation. It was territory, trade paths, and old grievances that needed careful handling.

The air in the room felt close. Dust hung in the light from the window. Chairs creaked when someone shifted. Small noises sounded louder because of the tension. Ryan's fingers tightened around the edge of his desk for a second.

He felt the weight of the crew behind him, small but steady and real. He felt something else too: the small sense that he had to be clear in his voice and quick in his thinking. He could not let the mocking move them. The group needed direction.

Ryo leaned back, looking bored, and said again with a little jab in his tongue, "So are we talking territory lines or you're here to talk about that rumor that West High has some new kid?"

He looked directly at Ryan now, like a gladiator wanting to see if his opponent blinked. The question was half challenge, half curiosity. It put Robert—no, Ryan—on the spot, making clear the unspoken rule of the room: everyone had to show a face.

Ryan did not answer with heat. He kept his tone level. "The business is what matters. Jokes won't fix anything."

When he said that, there was a brief silence. A few people shifted in their chairs. Some watched his eyes to measure if he meant it. Some looked away, like people who wanted to hide their own uncertainty.

Luka, as if to break the tension in his own way, shrugged. "Fine. But South High hasn't come for a year. If they don't come now, why would they come later?"

That question landed on everyone as a practical worry. Negotiations with a missing partner changed the shape of any agreement. The crews had to plan for the absence. They had to consider gapping alliances, old debts, and how to divide things left in the shadow of South High's silence.

Ryan let his hands rest flat on the desk and looked at the other leaders. He felt the responsibility move from a word into a pressure that required action. He was not going to be loud; he was not going to act reckless. He had to keep the talk focused. He had to make sure that even if South High stayed missing, West High would not be blindsided.

The leaders began to speak in small circles, proposing small sane moves—who would take what route, how to keep peace on disputed corners, where to set neutral markets that all crews could use. The planning talk was practical and quiet, not glamorous.

It felt like the real work of leadership—agreement on small steps that kept people alive and business moving. The mocking and the ego had their place, but in the end the crews needed safe roads and steady supplies.

As the talks moved on, Ryan listened. He felt fatigued in the way a person feels after a long day of standing, ready but aware of the cost. He heard proposals and counter proposals. He heard old grudges and new compromises. He heard the small math of survival in a place where territory meant everything.

Through it all his thought returned to one constant: South High's empty desk. That missing presence was a hole in the map. It meant decisions without closure. It meant the crews had to act like adults and not wait for ghosts. The absence forced them to make choices now, and choices have consequences.

Ryan sits back and breathes. The knot in his stomach loosens a little. He knows he will have to speak when the time is right. Forssjdjss now he listens, learns, and holds the line. The meeting goes on, and the empty chair remains.yeuduwiwjjrjt

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