From A Producer To A Chapter 420: Slow Him Down

Chapter 420: Slow Him Down

The screen in front of Michael replayed a clip again, not because he needed to see it twice, but because he wanted to watch how it moved. Not the content itself. Not the boy, not the road, not even the mont that had pulled everything together. He was watching the reaction around it. The way attention behaved when it wasn’t forced.

His office was quiet, controlled, the kind of quiet that ca from years of decisions being made in that room without noise. The glass walls were tinted just enough to keep the city outside from interfering. Morning had already passed into afternoon, but the light hadn’t shifted much inside. Everything stayed the sa here unless he wanted it to change.

Clara stood across from him, tablet in hand, waiting.

She had already given him the summary. Engagent numbers. Spread velocity. Geographic distribution. Nas of platforms where the traction was highest. The data was clean. Organized. Exactly what she know Michael understood everything in few details.

He didn’t look at her yet.

He let the video finish.

Then he tapped the screen once and paused it on a fra that didn’t matter to most people. A still mont. No action. Just the aftermath hanging there.

"This didn’t happen by accident," he said.

Clara didn’t respond imdiately. She had learned that with him, silence wasn’t hesitation. It was processing. Interrupting it only ant you were about to miss sothing.

"You think it was staged?" she asked carefully.

Michael shook his head slightly.

"No," he said. "I think it was used."

That was different.

He leaned back in his chair, one arm resting on the side, the other still near the screen. His eyes moved once, not back to the video, but to the analytics panel beside it.

Nigeria.

Then beyond.

He had seen this pattern before.

Not here.

Not like this.

But close enough.

"For sothing local, it moved too clean," he continued. "No fragntation. No delay between platforms. It didn’t stall at any point."

Clara glanced at her tablet, then back at him.

"It’s still spreading," she said. "And it’s not slowing."

"I can see that."

He finally looked at her.

"How long has he been there?" he asked.

Clara didn’t need to ask who he ant.

"About two month plus," she replied. "Since his arrival in Nigeria."

Michael nodded once.

Two months.

Not long.

Too short for sothing like this to build naturally.

His fingers tapped lightly against the arm of the chair, not out of impatience, but rhythm. He was aligning things in his head, pulling threads together that didn’t look connected on the surface.

"I missed it the first ti," he said, more to himself than to her.

Clara didn’t speak.

She knew better than to fill that space.

Michael stood up slowly, walking around the desk toward the glass wall, though he wasn’t looking outside. He stopped halfway, hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his mind moving faster than anything in the room.

"When he moved into Asia, it was quiet at first," he said. "No noise. No announcents. Just small signals that didn’t look like anything until they were already sothing."

Clara’s grip on the tablet tightened slightly.

She rembered that.

They hadn’t seen it coming.

Not until it was already established the move was so fast that the whole industry were caught off guard by the ti they realized.

"He built presence before anyone realized he was building it," Michael continued. "And by the ti we noticed, it wasn’t sothing we could interrupt without cost."

He turned slightly, just enough to face her again.

"I won’t make that mistake twice."

That settled the tone.

Clara nodded once.

"So you think this is the sa pattern?" she asked.

Michael looked back at the paused fra.

"Not the sa," he said. "Better this ti he has already engaged and have a strong na in an average Nigeri due to this case."

That was what bothered him.

Improvent.

Growth.

It ant intent.

It ant planning.

And more importantly, it ant this wasn’t reaction.

This was direction.

He walked back to the desk, picking up a pen but not using it, just holding it between his fingers as he spoke.

"He didn’t co back here to make noise," Michael said. "He ca back to build sothing."

Clara exhaled slowly.

"And this..." she gestured lightly toward the screen, "this is part of it."

"It’s the beginning of it."

That landed heavier.

Michael placed the pen down.

"We’re not dealing with a reaction anymore," he said. "We’re dealing with a strategy Dayo is a master of Hype he know exactly what to do to instigate people know exactly how to do it."

Clara stepped forward slightly.

"What do you want

to do?" she asked.

Michael didn’t answer imdiately.

He looked at the screen again, but this ti not at the video. At the nas attached to it. Accounts. Reposts. ntions.

Then he shifted to sothing else entirely.

The industry.

Nigeria.

He had stayed out of it for a reason.

Not because it wasn’t valuable.

But because it wasn’t controlled.

Too many moving parts.

Too many independent forces.

Too much unpredictability.

But that was before.

Before soone like Dayo decided to step in.

"If he builds a base there," Michael said slowly, "it won’t stay there."

Clara understood that imdiately.

Expansion.

Leverage.

Control.

"And if he connects it to what he already has..." she added.

Michael nodded.

"Then we don’t catch up," he said. "We react."

He didn’t like reacting.

Not anymore.

Not after Asia.

He walked back to his chair and sat down, this ti leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk.

"We slow him down," he said.

Clara tilted her head slightly.

"How?" she asked.

Michael’s expression didn’t change.

"We isolate him."

That was clean.à

Direct.

Effective.

Clara frowned slightly.

"In Nigeria?" she asked. "That’s not easy."

"I didn’t say it was."

He reached for the tablet in her hand and pulled it slightly toward him, scrolling through a different set of data.

Artists.

Nas.

Affiliations.

He stopped at a few.

"You see this?" he said, turning the screen toward her.

Clara stepped closer.

"These are the ones that matter," he continued. "The ones with reach. Influence. The ones others follow without thinking."

She nodded slowly.

"And most of them..." she started.

"...aren’t fully independent," Michael finished.

That was the key.

He tapped one na.

Then another.

"They’re tied to international labels," he said. "Distribution. Contracts. Partnerships. So of those structures run through here."

Clara’s eyes sharpened.

"You’re saying we use that."

"I’m saying we remind them who holds the pipe to their source."

That was different.

Not force.

Pressure.

Subtle.

Controlled.

Michael leaned back again.

"If he tries to collaborate," he said, "he needs access."

Clara understood.

"And if that access is... complicated..."

"He slows down and forced to either abandon Nigeria or start without the help of the local star which is a backbone he needs and without it becos incredibly hard to achieve his goal."

That was the objective.

Not stopping him completely.

Not yet.

Just enough resistance.

Just enough friction.

Enough to buy ti.

Clara crossed her arms slightly, thinking.

"And the smaller artists?" she asked.

Michael gave a slight smile.

"They follow the bigger ones," he said. "Always have."

That was the nature of it.

Influence didn’t spread evenly.

It moved downward.

If the top layer shifted, everything beneath it adjusted.

"So we don’t need to control everyone," Clara said.

"No," Michael replied. "Just the ones that matter."

The room settled into a different kind of focus.

Clara tapped her tablet once, pulling up another list.

"Do you want

to reach out directly?" she asked.

Michael shook his head.

"Not yet."

He stood again, slower this ti, walking toward the window and finally looking out.

The city stretched below, distant, irrelevant to what he was thinking about.

"This has to be positioned properly," he said. "No panic. No urgency. Just... alignnt."

Clara nodded.

"Understood."

He turned back.

"Start with information," he said. "I want everything on them."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

She didn’t question it.

"Backgrounds. Current contracts. Who they’re tied to. Who manages them. Who influences them," he continued. "I want to know where pressure can be applied without it looking like pressure."

Clara’s fingers moved quickly across the screen as she noted it down.

"And the labels?" she asked.

Michael’s expression didn’t change.

"Set etings."

That was it.

No explanation.

No elaboration.

Just direction.

Clara paused for half a second.

"With all of them?" she asked.

"With the ones that matter."

She nodded.

"I’ll reach out," she said.

Michael walked back to his desk and picked up the pen again, this ti actually using it, jotting sothing down quickly before sliding the paper aside.

"And Clara," he added.

She looked up.

"Don’t fra it as a problem," he said. "Fra it as an opportunity."

She understood imdiately.

Positioning.

If they thought they were being controlled, they would resist.

If they thought they were being included, they would listen.

"I’ll handle it," she said.

Michael nodded once.

She turned to leave, but he spoke again.

"Keep this quiet."

She stopped.

"Of course."

"No leaks. No signals," he continued. "If he senses this too early, he adjusts."

Clara t his gaze.

"He won’t," she said.

That was confidence.

Not arrogance.

She had earned that.

Michael watched her for a mont, then nodded slightly.

"Good."

She left the room without another word.

The door closed softly behind her.

Silence returned.

Michael sat there for a few seconds, then reached forward and resud the video.

This ti, he didn’t pause it.

He let it play through.

All of it.

Not because he needed to see it again.

But because he wanted to feel the timing.

The pacing.

The way it pulled people in.

By the ti it ended, his expression hadn’t changed.

But his decision had settled completely.

"This ti," he said quietly, "you don’t move unchecked."

He tapped the screen once more, closing the video.

Then he leaned back, eyes steady, already thinking three steps ahead.

Because whatever Dayo was building in Nigeria, it wasn’t going to grow freely.

Not without resistance.

Not without soone pushing back.

And this ti, Michael wasn’t going to be late to the ga.