The academy liked to pretend talent bloomed naturally.
It did not.
Talent required money, land, materials, protection, connections, and someone stubborn enough to keep pouring resources into a furnace that might explode in their face. In this particular case, that someone was Jack Sparrow, and the furnace in question was rapidly expanding into something that made corporate types very, very interested.
Which was why three women who barely tolerated each other were currently crammed into Belle's apartment (Ellen was not happy they moved in), staring at a contract that none of them trusted.
"This is a waste of time," Ellen said flatly, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall. She'd shown up in training gear—practical cargo pants and a tank top that showed off arms built from years of handling Ground-types. "Jack doesn't need sponsors. He needs to focus on his team."
"Jack needs funding," Belle corrected without looking up from her tablet. She sat at the small dining table, posture perfect, hair pulled back in a way that suggested she'd been awake since five AM preparing for this. "His habitat expansions aren't cheap. Neither are the materials he burns through every week."
"He's got money from his mother's side," Ellen shot back. "The Sparrow family isn't broke."
"The Sparrow family also isn't a bottomless well," Mai interjected smoothly. She occupied the third chair, her own tablet open, fingers moving across the screen with surgical precision. "And Jack's spending habits would drain most mid-tier trainers inside six months. We're here because IronPulse Nutrition approached us, not him. Which means they see value he hasn't monetized yet."
Ellen's jaw tightened. "Or they see an easy mark."
"Exactly," Mai agreed, her smile sharp. "Which is why we're vetting them instead of letting Jack handle it himself."
The unspoken truth hung in the air: Jack would probably accept the deal out of politeness or more like cluelessness, then spend the next year trying to make their mediocre products work out of airheadness.
Belle's fingers moved across her tablet, pulling up IronPulse's corporate profile. "They're a regional supplement company. Small but aggressive. Revenue last year was ¥340 million, which puts them in the lower mid-tier bracket. They've been trying to break into academy circuits for three years with limited success."
"So they're desperate," Ellen said.
"Motivated," Belle corrected. "There's a difference."
"Not when it comes to contracts."
Mai glanced between them, expression neutral but eyes calculating. She'd been watching this dynamic for weeks now—Belle and Ellen circling each other like Pokémon establishing territory. Both of them wanted influence over Jack's trajectory. Both of them thought they knew what was best for him.
Neither of them trusted the other not to sabotage their position.
"The offer is ¥200,000 annually," Belle continued, ignoring Ellen's comment. "Equipment stipends, product placement, and co-branding rights at academy showcases. In exchange, they want visibility during Jack's public events and social media mentions."
"That's it?" Ellen frowned. "No training footage? No technique breakdowns?"
"Not in the initial proposal." Belle scrolled down. "Though there's language about 'collaborative development opportunities' that's vague enough to be concerning."
Mai leaned forward slightly. "Let me see the exact wording."
Belle slid her tablet across the table. Mai's eyes moved across the screen, and her expression shifted—not dramatically, but enough that both women noticed.
"Problem?" Ellen asked.
"Potentially." Mai highlighted a section. "This clause here—'Brand partnership visibility during environmental optimization demonstrations.' That's not standard sponsorship language."
Belle leaned over to look. "What does it mean?"
"It means they're not just sponsoring Jack as a trainer. They're trying to associate their brand with his methods." Mai's fingers moved, pulling up a second document. "I checked their other academy sponsorships. None of them have this clause. This is custom."
Ellen pushed off the wall, moving closer. "So they're targeting his habitat systems specifically."
"Yes."
"That's—" Ellen's expression darkened. "That's half of what makes him valuable. If they get credit for his innovations—"
"They don't own anything," Belle interrupted. "Not with this language. But they're positioning themselves to imply contribution. Which is almost as valuable from a marketing perspective."
Silence settled over the room.
Mai set the tablet down, leaning back in her chair. "The question is whether ¥200,000 is worth that risk."
"It's not," Ellen said immediately. "Jack's methods are worth ten times that. More, if he keeps developing them."
"Agreed," Mai said. "But we're not the ones making the decision. Jack is."
"Jack will say yes because he's too dumb and nice to tell them no," Ellen snapped. "That's why we're here, isn't it? To protect him from his own generosity?"
Belle's expression cooled. "We're here to advise him. Not make decisions for him."
"Advise him to reject it, then. As his future wife I will decided for him!"
"I'm not rejecting ¥200,000 without a counter-strategy," Belle said evenly. "That's not advice. That's ego."
Ellen's eyes narrowed. "You think I'm being emotional."
"I think you're being protective," Belle corrected. "Which is admirable. But protection without strategy is just noise."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
Mai watched them both, expression unreadable. This was the part she found fascinating—the way Belle and Ellen approached the same problem from completely different angles. Ellen saw threats to Jack's autonomy. Belle saw opportunities that needed careful management.
Both of them were right.
Both of them were also trying to prove they understood Jack better than the other.
"Let me make a call," Belle said finally, picking up her phone. "I want to hear their pitch directly before we make any recommendations."
Ellen looked like she wanted to argue, but Mai spoke first.
"Good idea. Let's see how they frame it."
Kenji Matsuda's face appeared on the screen three minutes later, all polished teeth and corporate confidence.
"Miss Delphine," he said warmly. "Thank you for reaching out. I hope you've had a chance to review our proposal."
"I have," Belle replied, her tone professional but neutral. "I have a few questions before we proceed."
"Of course. I'm happy to clarify anything."
Ellen stood just out of frame, arms crossed, watching. Mai sat beside Belle, tablet open, already pulling up IronPulse's social media presence and past sponsorship campaigns.
"Your offer mentions 'collaborative development visibility,'" Belle said. "Can you elaborate on what that means in practice?"
Matsuda's smile didn't falter. "Certainly. We're very impressed with Jack's approach to habitat optimization. It's innovative, cost-effective, and frankly, ahead of what most academy-level trainers are doing. We'd like to be associated with that innovation—not as creators, of course, but as supporters of his vision."
"Supporters," Belle repeated.
"Exactly. A few photos during habitat demonstrations, some social media posts highlighting how our products fit into his training regimen. Nothing invasive."
Mai's fingers moved across her tablet. She pulled up one of IronPulse's previous campaigns—a mid-tier trainer they'd sponsored two years ago. The promotional materials were subtle at first, but six months in, IronPulse's branding had crept into every piece of content. Training videos. Habitat tours. Even personal social media posts.
She tilted her tablet slightly so Belle could see.
Belle's expression didn't change, but her next question was sharper.
"And if Jack's methods become mainstream? If other trainers start copying his layouts?"
Matsuda's smile widened. "Then we'd be proud to say we supported him from the beginning."
There it was.
Ellen's jaw tightened. Mai's eyes narrowed.
Belle leaned back slightly, her voice still perfectly polite. "Mr. Matsuda, let me be direct. You're not offering to support Jack's training. You're offering to buy proximity to his innovations so you can imply contribution later."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Matsuda's smile thinned. "Miss Delphine, I think you're misunderstanding—"
"I'm not," Belle interrupted gently. "Your previous sponsorships show a pattern of increasing brand presence over time. You start with 'support,' then gradually shift the narrative until your products are framed as essential to the trainer's success."
Matsuda's expression hardened. "That's a rather cynical interpretation."
"It's an accurate one," Mai said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was calm, almost pleasant. "Your 2083 campaign with Trainer Hayashi started with equipment stipends. By month six, your promotional materials were calling it a 'developmental partnership.' By month ten, you were implying your supplements were responsible for his Machamp's strength gains."
Matsuda's eyes flicked to Mai, reassessing. "That was collaborative marketing—"
"That was narrative theft," Mai corrected, still smiling. "And we're not interested."
Ellen made a small sound that might have been approval.
Matsuda's professional mask slipped slightly. "Let's not pretend your trainer is some untouchable prodigy. He's Class F. Unranked. A hobbyist with some clever ideas. Our endorsement would legitimize him."
The room went very, very quiet.
Belle's expression didn't change, but something cold settled behind her eyes.
"Careful," she said softly. "You're asking to profit from his future while trying to belittle his present. Pick a lane."
Matsuda opened his mouth, then closed it.
"You get banner placement and post-match visibility," Belle continued, her voice still level but carrying an edge that could cut glass. "You do not get training footage. You do not get language implying developmental contribution. And you will remove every clause that suggests collaborative innovation."
She leaned forward slightly.
"And if you imply again that we need you more than you need us, this call ends."
Matsuda stared at her for a long moment.
Then he cleared his throat. "I... may have been too forward. Let me revise the offer and send it over within the hour."
"You do that."
Belle ended the call.
The screen went dark.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Ellen laughed—short, sharp, and genuinely surprised.
"'Pick a lane,'" she repeated, shaking her head. "You actually said that to a corporate director."
Belle exhaled slowly, some of the tension bleeding from her shoulders. "He was being an ass."
"He was," Mai agreed, her smile sharp and approving. "And you demolished him."
Ellen studied Belle for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she pushed off the wall, moving toward the door.
"I'm going back to the complex," she said. "Let me know when the revised offer comes in."
"You don't want to wait?" Belle asked.
"No." Ellen paused at the door, glancing back. "But... good work. Both of you."
She left before either of them could respond.
Mai watched the door close, then turned to Belle.
"She almost complimented us."
"She did compliment us," Belle corrected. "In her own way."
"Progress."
Belle smiled slightly, then looked back at her tablet. "The revised offer will be worse. He'll try to sneak the same clauses back in with different wording."
"Probably," Mai agreed. "Want to bet on how long it takes him?"
"Forty minutes."
"I'll take thirty-five."
The revised offer arrived thirty-eight minutes later.
Mai opened it first, eyes scanning the document with the kind of focus most people reserved for disarming explosives.
Belle watched her read, noting the way Mai's expression shifted from amused to thoughtful to something considerably more dangerous.
"Well?" Belle asked.
Mai didn't answer immediately. She scrolled back up, re-reading a section, then scrolled down again.
"He softened the language," Mai said slowly. "Increased the stipend to ¥250,000. Removed the most obvious ownership hooks."
"But?"
"But he also completely changed his strategy." Mai highlighted a section. "Media framing rights. 'Collaborative development visibility' is now 'environmental optimization partnership narrative.' Same concept, different words."
Belle leaned over to look. The contract was dense, full of corporate language designed to sound reasonable while meaning something else entirely.
"Here," Mai continued, tapping another clause. "Performance narrative clauses that tie brand presence to Jack's habitat results. They're not claiming they own his methods, but they're implying their products enabled them."
Belle's eyes narrowed. "That's..."
"Subtle," Mai finished. "Plausible. Dangerous."
She set the tablet down, leaning back.
"They're not trying to own the system outright," she said quietly. "They're trying to insert themselves into its story. So that six months from now, when Jack's methods are mainstream, IronPulse can point to this contract and say, 'We were there from the beginning.'"
Belle stared at the contract, feeling something cold settle in her chest.
"Can we fix it?" she asked.
Mai considered the question.
Technically, yes. She could carve the contract into something clean. Restrict footage angles. Cap narrative rights. Add penalties sharp enough to discourage embellishment.
But that wasn't the point.
IronPulse didn't respect the foundation. They saw a rising structure and wanted to spray-paint their name across the scaffolding before it hardened into stone.
That instinct wouldn't disappear with revisions.
Mai closed the document.
"No."
Belle blinked. "No?"
"No counteroffer. No rewrite." Mai's expression was calm, but her eyes were sharp. "If they already believe they're legitimizing us, they'll undermine us the first time leverage shifts. Better to cut them off now."
Belle studied her for a long moment. "It's good money."
"It's cheap money," Mai replied evenly. "And cheap money always costs more later."
She stood, smoothing her skirt.
"Let them sponsor someone who needs validation."
Belle watched her move toward the door, then looked back at the contract on her tablet.
¥250,000 wasn't nothing. For a Class F trainer, it was significant. Enough to fund another habitat expansion, buy better equipment, maybe even hire specialized help.
But Mai was right.
The moment they accepted money from someone who thought they were doing Jack a favor, they'd be fighting an uphill battle for respect. Every success would be attributed to IronPulse's "support." Every innovation would be framed as a "collaborative effort."
And when Jack inevitably outgrew them, the split would be ugly.
Better to say no now.
Belle picked up her tablet and typed out a response. Three sentences. Professional. Polite. Absolutely final.
Thank you for your revised offer. After careful consideration, we've decided to pursue other opportunities. We wish IronPulse Nutrition continued success.
She hit send.
Across the city, in a glass-walled office overlooking the bay, Kenji Matsuda received the rejection with genuine confusion.
He read it twice.
Then a third time.
Then he pulled up Jack Sparrow's file again, staring at the Class F ranking, the lack of tournament results, the complete absence of media presence.
"They turned down ¥250,000," he muttered to himself.
His assistant, a sharp-eyed woman named Yuki, glanced over from her desk. "The Sparrow kid?"
"His proxies," Matsuda corrected, still staring at the screen. "Three teenage girls just rejected a quarter-million yen because they didn't like our 'narrative framing.'"
Yuki raised an eyebrow. "Maybe they know something we don't."
Matsuda closed the file, leaning back in his chair.
"Or maybe," he said slowly, "they're betting on something we haven't seen yet."
Ellen found out about the rejection an hour later, when Belle sent a group message to their private chat.
Rejected IronPulse's revised offer. ¥250k wasn't worth the narrative risk. —B
Ellen stared at her phone for a long moment.
Then she typed back: Good call.
A pause.
Then: Both of you.
At her room, Belle read the message and smiled slightly.
In her room, Mai saw it and laughed.
Progress.
The furnace kept burning.
And the three women who tended it—rivals, allies, protectors—stood their ground.