Tyrel Booker sat behind a black-lacquer desk, the neon glow of a sign above his head spelling out Tyrel’s Tank.  He was dressed for theater rather than business—golden cufflinks catching the light, oversized sunglasses masking his eyes, a toothpick rocking lazily at the corner of his mouth.  The room around him was an altar to excess — dark wood polished to a sheen and a baby shark drifting in lazy circles inside the tank that lined the back wall. The faint hum of the filter filled the silence, broken only by the muffled shuffle of nervous voices waiting outside his office.

He leaned back in his chair, every inch the predator at rest. Tyrel Booker wasn’t just a man who loaned money. He was a man who collected it, one way or another. And everyone who walked through his door knew it.

The assistant opened the door with her clipboard. “Next pitch, Mr. Booker.”

Tyrel leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Send them in. Let’s see who bleeds.”

The first hopeful shuffled forward: Grandma Edna, wobbling on her cane, a basket of cookies balanced against her hip.

“Mr. Booker, I run a knitting club,” she said, her eyes warm as though she were greeting a grandson. “We make cozies—for motorcycles.”

Tyrel let out a bark of laughter. “Motorcycle sweaters. That’s new.”

She nudged the basket toward him offering him a cookie “Guaranteed to keep your hog warm in the winter.”

He took a bite, surprised by the rich sweetness, and with a smirk of approval tossed the remaining cookies into the shark tank. The baby shark darted, jaws snapping.

The next was Tammy the Tarot Reader, bangles jangling, a crystal ball tucked under one arm. She spread her cards across his desk.

“Back my business and watch your fortunes rise. I foresee low risk, high return.”

Tyrel raised a brow. “And what do your cards say about you paying me back?”

Tammy flipped a card: The Fool. Her smile faltered. "The Fool represents new beginnings, Mr. Booker."

Tyrel’s laugh was merciless. “Next.”

Chad, the Startup Bro, swaggered in after her, hoodie sagging, smoothie in hand.

“Bro, this is gold. Beard oil delivered by drone. You in?”

Tyrel simply pointed to the door. “Out.”

Then the assistant glanced at her notes. “Last pitch today—Damilola Agbaje. Event-tech app.” She paused. "Eni's referral."

She walked in with the kind of composure that silenced a room: heels sharp on the marble, tablet in hand, eyes locked on Tyrel without hesitation. Where others had fidgeted and pleaded, Dami moved like someone accustomed to winning her place at the table.

“Mr. Booker,” she began, her voice smooth, deliberate. “I’m here to pitch Parti Place — an app designed to revolutionize event planning. Eni speaks highly of your eye for opportunity, and I'm seeking an investment of two hundred and fifty thousand to scale. With your… particular range of interests, I believe this could be profitable for both of us.”

Tyrel flicked an invisible speck from his cuff and nodded. “You’ve caught my eye, now reel me in.”

Dami swiped across her tablet, slides glowing with color. “Think Uber, but for events: venues, DJs, catering, photographers. We don’t just plan events. We make dreams tangible. Fire dancers, silk performers, yacht parties—if they can imagine it, we can make it happen.”

Tyrel found himself reluctant to look away from her. There was conviction in her voice that demanded respect.

“You’re talking about turning dreams into reality,” he said.

“Isn’t that why we’re both in business?” she shot back.

For a long beat, silence stretched between them, charged and dangerous. Tyrel slipped his sunglasses from his face, exposing a glint of genuine interest. He studied her like a puzzle, then asked in a clipped rhythm:

“Competition?”  he pressed.

“Exists, but none with our level of personalization.”

“Profit margins?”

“Twenty-five percent in year one, with growth projected at forty percent the next.”

“Risks?”

Her mouth curved in a sly smile. “No greater than lending money at predatory rates.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Finally, someone unafraid to bite back.

“And if this app fails?” he asked.

“Then we pivot, learn, rebuild. What do you do when a debtor can’t pay?”

Tyrel leaned forward, toothpick rolling from one corner of his mouth to the other. His grin was wolfish, intrigued. “I make alternative arrangements.”

She didn’t blink. She leaned closer, her voice just as calm.“So do I.”

The shark swam past the glass, silent and sharp, as the two of them locked eyes. Two predators circling, trying to decide who would bite first."