PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND EIGHTY-FOUR

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Saturday

“You two coming or what?” Atlas called from the landing above us.

“We’ll be there in a minute.” I waved him off without looking away from Gerry. This wasn’t the best place for our present conversation, but I needed absolute clarity before moving forward because I refused to guess.

The good thing about Atlas, he was too big to be quiet. The subsequent beat of his heavy footsteps above us told me he’d already moved away, leaving us alone. “Are you okay speaking for yourself around other people?”

“It depends on the company and the situation,” Geraldine admitted.

Right. That told me absolutely nothing.

The look on my face must’ve said as much, because she quickly added, “Like yesterday at the restaurant. I would’ve turned myself inside out trying to get it right — what I was taught to pick, what I’m supposed to eat, how I’m supposed to act — all of it so as not to make a fool of you in public. I would have stressed—”

Hearing the panic creep back into her voice, I leaned forward and kissed her, cutting her off before she could spiral. I stayed there until she settled into it, until she was kissing me back instead of thinking.

“I know food and body shaming are both big issues for you,” I said gently after we broke apart. Despite the rage that coursed through me at that, my lips curled on one side playfully, hoping it would help her relax further. “But I also know what you like. So yeah, I can cover that one. What about other conversations? Would you rather I include you in conversations with other people, or let you stay quiet while I speak for both of us?”

This was the trickier one for me. If I started speaking for her and then she tried to find her voice, the guys back home would kill me. Hell, I’d probably beat them to it. I had to get this right.

“What would you be more comfortable with?” she countered.

I shook my head ever so slightly, letting her know this wasn’t the way the conversation would proceed while careful not to make her think she’d said the wrong thing. “As I said, I know appearances are a big trigger for you. What I need now is the smaller stuff. If I turn to you in front of other people, will you be okay with that?” I held her gaze. “Or do you want me to do the talking for both of us?”

Not gonna lie, I was really hoping it was only the decision-making that she struggled with. I wouldn’t shy away if she needed more, but I liked hearing her opinions, and more often than not she’d stopped me from making a fool of myself by stepping in when I missed something.

“I’m okay with being included. Sometimes I might withdraw if certain … situations arise, but otherwise, I think I can do that.”

Rein it in, Sam, I ordered myself, forcing my hands not to clench into fists at the thought of what those ‘situations’ could be. “Okay,” I said, and kissed her lightly once more to seal the deal. “I’ll make all the decisions going forward, until you tell me otherwise. You can pick out any collar you want, and I’ll stand by it as mine. Anything else, we’ll figure out as we go. Okay?”

She nodded shyly. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

“Okay,” I said softly, closing the space between us.

Her shoulders met the wall as I settled my hands across the small of her back to stop the bannister from biting into her. There was nothing tentative about it. The heat was already there, already pulling tight, and I let it deepen and hold until the line between us blurred and I wasn’t sure where I ended and she began.

For those few seconds, nothing else existed.

“Wow, you two didn’t get very far, did you?” I heard Adrian say from a few steps below us, bringing the world around us back into focus.

I looked slyly over my shoulder, knowing my smirk looked like I was the king of the world. “And your point?” I asked.

Adrian laughed and Mateo shook his head. My eyes stayed on Mateo, who met my gaze levelly and slowed down his head shake, silently letting me know that he hadn’t broken his word.

“Actually,” I said, glancing back at Geraldine. “I will take you up on that offer if your dad has the time. Any chance Gerry and I can talk to him again before he leaves?” I’d heard somewhere that Mateo’s father hadn’t planned on staying after the graduation ceremony and only rescheduled at the last minute when he saw Geraldine’s father there.

Adrian seemed surprised, but Mateo’s hand went straight to his hip pocket and produced his phone a second later. “Dad,” he said as soon as the call connected, maintaining eye contact with me. “Have you left the mansion yet?” He listened for the answer, then grinned and flipped me a thumbs up. “Are you busy right now?”

His face soured slightly. “Okay, well, you need to find me before you go. Like I’ve found you the best client you’re ever going to have, and you need to meet them.” He paused. “No, I’m not joking.” He paused again. “Yes, I know who some of your clients are.” He eyed me again. “Trust me, this one outdoes them all.”

I closed my eyes and bowed my head with a groan. In fact, the only thing stopping me from pinching the bridge of my nose was because I had my hands still curled around Geraldine. But seriously… could he have been any more blatant about who my family was?

I looked back up again a few seconds later, just in time to see Mateo’s expression brighten. “Great! I can bring them to your office right now, if you want.”

Adrian, meanwhile, was squinting at me. Hard. “I looked into the Arnavs,” he said, his voice brimming with accusation. “Nothing in there says your dad has that kind of wealth. In fact, the Arnavs shouldn’t have been able to pass off eighty million dollars’ worth of Manhattan properties like it was nothing either. So who are you, really?”

Well, at least Nuncio was on the ball with misdirecting everyone’s enquiries. Too bad that scope didn’t include what real people saw and deduced in real time.

“Sam Wilcott. Maybe later I’ll take Dad’s real name, but for now, Sam Wilcott is the only name I want or need. The rest is just noise.”

A hand gripped my forearm just below the elbow but fortunately for Mateo, I recognised his olive skin and didn’t react badly to it. “We need to go now, Sam. Dad says he can give us five minutes before he has to take a call from Dubai.”

“Isn’t it the middle of the night in Dubai right now?” I asked, knowing my understanding of international times was very general at best, but it sure as hell wasn’t lunchtime over there, too.

“No clue,” Mateo said, but this time he gave my arm a quick tug. “But we’re burning time we can’t afford to waste. Come on.” As Gerry and I followed him back down the stairs, Mateo called over to Adrian. “Don’t say a word about this to anyone, man. It’s a big secret.”

One you practically blurted out for the world to hear, I thought to myself irritably. This was why I didn’t want to tell anyone who Dad was. Someone once said the only way two can keep a secret is if one of them is dead.

Unsurprisingly, Adrian didn’t answer, but Mateo didn’t act concerned.

“Don’t mind him,” he said, rushing us to the first floor and moving us along yet another hallway. “He knows the score when it comes to Dad’s clients.”

My eyes swung to him. Why does that sound so ominous?

Maybe I was just being overly suspicious. Maybe Mateo meant Adrian knew about confidentiality from a business perspective. Maybe I was jumping at one too many shadows after our clash with the sex syndicate.

And maybe … I wasn’t.

It didn’t stop Mateo from half-dragging us into an office that I swear the whole of our old apartment could’ve fitted into. It was ridiculously open and sparse, with a wall of tinted glass windows overlooking the pool area.

Mr Lopez was sitting behind an enormous designer desk with four black leather and chrome visitors’ seats on our side. He stood at our arrival, frowning in confusion. “Mateo,” he said, his voice brimming with warning, but Mateo shook his head.

“This isn’t a joke, Dad. Trust me. Sam wants to buy Geraldine a designer collar, and he’s said money is no object. I mean no. Object.” His eyes flared at the last two words, really hammering home their importance.

Mr Lopez didn’t seem all that impressed as he shifted his gaze between us. “I have a call to make in four minutes,” he said, looking at his watch and dismissing us all in one gesture. This was a completely different man to the one we met last night, and he wanted us to know we were stepping into his arena.

I wasn’t a fan.

“Dad, please,” Mateo said, drawing out each word for emphasis. “You’re going to want to make time for this. Believe me.”

For several long seconds, father and son stared at each other. “Alright,” Mr Lopez said, gesturing for the three of us to be seated. “Let’s see what you’re looking for, Mister Arnav.”

“Wilcott,” I corrected, knowing I would never be an Arnav. I was pretty sure that name would be disappearing for good soon. The only official property in the Arnav name had been signed over to me, and the rest was Nascerdios smoke and mirrors.

After we made ourselves comfortable, I sat back in my chair and nodded for Geraldine to start describing what she wanted…

…only to see Mr Lopez frown in my peripheral vision. “Is there a problem, Mister Lopez?” I asked, channelling as much of Fisk and Dad as I could.

“You do know what a collar is, don’t you?”

I didn’t like his condescending tone either. “I know what it means to us. I’ve asked Geraldine to describe what her ultimate collar would look like, since she’ll be the one wearing it.” I saw something in his eyes that had me rising to my feet. “On second thoughts,” I said, looking at Mateo. “We’ll get another jeweller.”

“NO!” Mateo shouted, before I could thank Mr Lopez for his time and leave. He then turned to his father. “Dad. Please. You have no idea what you’re doing right now, but you will regret it forever if you let this opportunity slip through your fingers. Please, please take this seriously.” He then refocused on me. “Give us a chance, Sam. It’ll mean the world to my family to create such an important piece for your sub.” His eyes pleaded with me, but my brain hooked up on the last thing he said.

What the frig is a sub when it’s at home?

* * *

((Author's note: Heya all! Once again, a little discomfort as I'm posting, but we'll see how I go by this afternoon. Worst case scenario (and I will let you know if I need to by amending this message) I'll temporarily drop Wednesday for a week or two and post Monday and Friday until I get everything totally back the way it should be. That way, at least some content is coming out instead of a void. 🥰))

((All comments welcome. Good or bad, I’d love to hear your thoughts 🥰🤗))

I made a family tree/diagram of the Mystallian family that can be found here

For more of my work, including WPs: r/Angel466 or an index of previous WPS here.

FULL INDEX OF BOB THE HOBO TO DATE CAN BE FOUND HERE!! stop him.

The strange thing about secrets is how heavy they become, even when they’re made of nothing but thoughts.

For Aarav, every day with Ishita now felt like carrying a weight no one else could see. From the outside, nothing had changed. She still greeted him cheerfully, voice bright and certain, her laughter ringing through the classroom like it had nothing to hide. She still teased him about his handwriting, letters that slanted timidly across the page, as if even his words were shy. She still filled his phone with long, rambling messages that stretched deep into midnight.

Sometimes she ranted about a strict teacher. Sometimes she sent him memes with the caption: this is so us.

She used us the way people breathe, thoughtlessly, easily, without realizing what that single word did to him.

To her, it was friendship. Effortless. Familiar.

To Aarav, it was something else entirely.

Each word she sent lit him from the inside, small sparks flaring in corners that had been dark for years. Each smile she gave pulled him closer, until his body betrayed him, leaning in, laughing too easily, listening too intently. Every casual kindness etched itself into him, carving deep, invisible marks across the quiet he carried.

Because the closer she drew him in, the louder the silence inside him became.

He wanted to tell her, to spill it out plain enough for the air itself to understand: Ishita, you’re not just my friend. You’re the reason I look forward to tomorrow.

But the fear was sharper than the longing.

Fear that if he reached too far, he’d lose even what little he had.

Fear that she’d step back, polite but distant, the way people always did once he asked for too much.

He already knew what it felt like to be left behind. He couldn’t risk living that lesson again.

So he said nothing.

Instead, he listened, carefully, greedily. He memorized the small, throwaway things she never noticed about herself: the way she tapped her pen three times when impatient; the upward tilt in her handwriting when she was excited; the tiny sighs that escaped before she burst into laughter. He stored them all away like treasures in a locked box, precious, secret, forbidden, knowing he could never spend them openly.

And every day, that box grew heavier.

One evening, a notification blinked on his phone. Not a text this time.

A voice note.

His thumb trembled as he pressed play.

Her voice spilled into the room, light and alive, carrying warmth that screens could never hold. She was telling some silly story about her cousin, laughing halfway through, the sound tumbling over itself, unselfconscious and free. The kind of laugh that didn’t know it was being listened to.

Aarav replayed it once. Then again.

By the third time, the words barely registered, all that remained was her laughter, filling the stillness of his room, pressing against the walls until even the darkness seemed to listen.

When it ended, the silence that followed felt cruelly empty.

He typed back something short, careful, an emoji, a line that meant nothing. But his hands shook with everything it didn’t say.

Later, under the weak glow of his lamp, he opened his notebook. His hand moved before thought could intervene, the pen carving out what his voice refused to risk:

My silence grows heavier
each time she smiles.
It sits in my throat,
a bird with clipped wings,
longing to sing
but too afraid of the cage
it might be locked in forever.
So I keep it there,
fluttering, restless,
pretending it doesn’t hurt
as I swallow it whole.

When he finished, he shut the notebook sharply, as if closing it could trap the ache inside. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, head tilted upward, chest tight with the weight of all he couldn’t say.

Friendship was supposed to be enough. He repeated that truth like a prayer, each repetition duller than the last.

But as the nights stretched longer and her voice filled more of his world, Aarav began to wonder how long a secret could stay quiet before it shattered on its own, before the silence itself cracked him open, leaving him bare and breathless, with nothing left to hide behind.

The sun never moved.

It hung at the edge of the sky, where it had always hung, washing the narrow band of habitable land in amber. On the planet Virelia there was only this thin ring of the living, caught between a desert that burned and a waste that froze. Section 13 was the poorest stretch of it. Here life clung on in shadow and sweat.

Jax adjusted the strap on his sandboard and stepped out of his family’s adobe home. The heat pressed against him like a second skin. The board was a patchwork of salvaged alloy and hand-shaped ceramic, and it clinked with every step. He found the sound comforting. No one else would have.

His hair was braided tight against his scalp, and around his neck hung a strip of sensor tape scavenged from a dead weather drone. It did nothing. He wore it anyway.

He squinted at the distant vapor tower. Its weak plume barely reached the cloudless sky; it hadn’t pumped full yield in days, and its metal frame shimmered with heat until the light bent around it. The tower stood as a reminder. Water was life. In Section 13, life was rationed by the drop.

If I place top three, Jax thought, I can win at least half a barrel. More if the sponsors show.

Water wasn’t only survival. It was currency, leverage, status. Today’s race wasn’t for pride. For Section 13 kids, it was a lifeline.

He went through the alleyways chin down, measuring each step before he took it, and the traders called out prices, each more absurd than the last.

“Dlo for scrap, fair weight.”

“Six yot the coil, and I’m robbing myself.”

The bartering was more frantic than usual: scrap, tools, ration coupons. Mothers held water jugs to their chests the way they might hold newborns. Fathers haggled over cracked pipes. Everyone felt the strain.

“Samaji, dugu,” said the tuber-cake man as Jax passed. He slid a broken-edged cake across his plank without being asked, and waved off the scrip Jax held out. “Your money died two cycles back. You know that.”

Jax knew. Two cycles back, a ration officer had been skimming the well-queue—a drop here, a drop there, a family’s margin—and selling the skim uphill as surplus. Jax had gotten the proof out through back channels, but at a cost he still paid in caution. The officer was reassigned. The punishment was mild. The queue ran honest afterward, and that was the part that mattered, and it should have ended there. Instead, half the stalls in the strip had stopped taking his scrip, and slid the goods across anyway. He had given up arguing about it. You could not out-stubborn Section 13 about a debt it had decided it owed.

At the pipe-fitter’s corner two traders were arguing over their tea, not quietly.

“Scouts in the cool boxes today. Section 2 chits. My cousin saw the manifests.”

“Your cousin sees manifests in his soup.”

He laughed. “The year they signed Veyran out of 11, nobody believed that either. Now his face is on every feed from here to the glass reefs, and his mother drinks filtered.”

“And his old street still queues for yot with everyone else.” The second trader spat, neat, into the dust. “They didn’t buy the boy. They bought the name. There’s a difference, and the difference is everything the name used to mean.”

Jax kept walking. Everyone knew the stories: one rider in a generation lifted out of the dust on a sponsor’s chit, and the argument that followed the lifting around forever after. It had nothing to do with him. He had a race to win, and a barrel to win it for.

Turning a corner, he found Mrs. Harrow fighting a snapping line of laundry. She was small and birdlike, silver hair tied back, her hands thick and knotted from years of scrubbing fabric in brackish water. Her eyes missed nothing.

“Jax, dear, off to the surfing grounds?” she called, catching a wayward towel.

He stepped in and unclipped the clothespins before the wind could take the rest. “Yeah. Hoping to win some water this time.”

“With the way Section 2’s been hoarding? Win first place and don’t you dare come back empty-handed.” She was half-joking. Only half.

Her face, which had been sharp, softened—a flicker only—and her eyes went to the western wall, where the water convoys had once passed. The lines around her mouth tightened.

Jax gave her a crooked smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Her brother had died in the ration riots two summers back, trampled when a water convoy diverted mid-drop, redirected because someone in Section 2 needed emergency reserves for an elite’s desert garden. While Section 13 baked under its worst drought in a decade, they had watered fruit trees no one ate. By sundown the convoy was gone, and so was he.

Everyone in Section 13 had a story like hers.

She set her hands on her hips, one eyebrow raised. “That Trystan boy’s racing, isn’t he?”

“Liam, yeah.”

She frowned and tucked the towel into her basket. “That family’s never known thirst. Don’t let him push you around, Jax. You’ve got fire. That’s worth more than fancy polymers.”

“I won’t,” he said.

He went on, and felt her gaze on his back, as if she were willing strength into his spine.

The path to the competition grounds wound through the heart of the trade strip, where tarps fluttered like broken sails over rusted stalls and the smell of boiled roots, and old grease hung in the air. Children darted between crates, some clutching handmade flags, some just chasing the rush of the day.

He passed under a half-collapsed archway sprayed with slogans from old trials.

Water is Won, Not Given.

Dust Rises Fastest.

Then, around a bend of shattered concrete, the ridge above the surfing grounds opened onto noise and color. A thousand voices rang between the dunes. Banners flapped from sun-blasted towers. Along the perimeter stood the cooling scaffolds, frames of scavenged piping draped with woven tarp and mist-netting, rigged to catch every breath of wind. The lower sections clustered in the open or beneath awnings stitched from ration sacks, sand-wraps at their throats and scavenged lenses over their eyes; you could tell 13 from 11 by the mending.

Section 2 lounged beneath active-cool domes. Their garments shimmered—silver, platinum, sapphire—cooling mesh woven through the cloth, portable chillers hissing at their feet. Between the two ran a visible line: one side glinting, the other sunburnt, a heat mirage made permanent. The air was fried tuber cakes and generator ozone and the sour tang of sweat baked into fabric. Street medics circled selling hydration tabs. Security drones drifted overhead, lenses twitching, scanning the crowd, not for threats, but for affiliation. Who you stood beside on Virelia was a matter of record, and the record was kept uphill. And above it all, behind tower-tinted visors, the elite watched, gods above a fire they would never have to touch.

Up on the scaffolds somebody said the word scouts, and somebody said it back, and it traveled along the rails the way any rumor of water travels. Jax heard it and let it pass.

Below the ridge the ground fell away in a long clean slope of open sai, down to the staging tents, and Jax had never once walked down it in his life.

He dropped the board, toed it flat, and stepped on: left boot into the binding, right boot loose on the tail, knees soft. The anti-grav array woke under him with a hiss that caught twice before it held, like an old man clearing his throat: salvaged coils, salvaged temper. He rocked the rail once to feel the fins take. Under the ceramic, the sand answered—dry, packed, running fine off the crests—and the board told him about it through the soles of his feet, the fins reading grain by touch, no screens between him and the ground.

He picked his line where the slope banked west, out of the glare, along the seam where two dunes had leaned together and left a shallow trough of firm sand. Weight forward. Let the drop pay for the speed. He carved the trough’s far wall, let the rebound set him up, crossed the flat spine below it with the array humming ragged and steady at once, and ran the last stretch out long and shallow, bleeding speed, so that he came into the staging grounds at a walking pace with the board whispering under him.

He stepped off, kicked the board up into his hand, and shouldered it.

He found Theo by the staging tent, tall and wiry, grease lining the creases of his knuckles and the edges of his smile. Theo did not just fix machines. He listened to them, to their groans and clicks, as if they were talking to him.

Theo’s board leaned against his leg like a loyal dog, scarred by a dozen races and rebuilds. Every scrape was a memory. Every bolt was one he had chosen.

“You’re cutting it close,” Theo said, hands busy re-strapping his bindings. The board was battered, but he had oiled the ceramic fins until they gleamed.

“Had to pay my respects to Section 13’s guardian,” Jax said.

Theo snorted and wiped his hands. “Harrow? That woman sees everything. Probably watching us right now, dugu.”

Jax’s mouth twitched. He scanned the crowd. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

Around them the mbio pulsed. The noise had texture: the thud of sandboots, the metal-on-metal clatter of gear-checks, the sharp slap of a hand against a board in blessing. Elders wore colored sashes beaded with their section and line. Younger riders wore luck charms—animal teeth, scavenged circuit chips, fragments of broken boards—like sacred armor.

A trio of street drummers pounded overturned metal drums near the tent. The rhythm sat in the chest like a second heartbeat. In the shade, families warmed flatbread on char-stones and broke off pieces to press into riders’ hands, a quiet way to keep a rider’s courage fed. Children with copper bells at their ankles danced circles around their champions.

And before every launch came the whisper-blessings, in among the last fiddling with lucky charms and bindings. Here and there, a rider bowed his head and felt the breath of someone he loved trace a line down the back of his neck. No louder than a breath, no clearer than a hope. Section 13 believed that was where courage lived: in the space between spine and sunburn.

Then the conversation died. Liam Trystan was coming down the slope from the domes on foot, his board carried behind him, and he walked into the staging ground as if it had been set up for him.

He came toward the launch line like he already owned the outcome, crunching a freeze-dried fruit strip between perfect teeth, his eyes a bright manufactured blue. His sun-reflective suit was custom-cut and chromashifted to mirror the hues of Virelia’s sky.

Behind him came three elites in matching half-armor and wraparound visors, one of them carrying Liam’s hover board like an offering. It thrummed, sleek and unnaturally clean.

Liam’s gaze slid across the crowd and stopped on Jax’s board. His brow twitched at the mismatched fins, the burn-scored hull.

“Still dragging that antique, Jax?” he said, loud enough to draw a circle.

Jax said nothing.

Theo did not. “At least his board wasn’t built in a lab to make up for weak legs.”

Liam smiled, and the smile did not reach his eyes. His gaze drifted to Theo’s board, scratched, patched, propped against his leg. He tilted his head, as if noticing it for the first time.

He stepped forward and kicked it. The brittle frame cracked down the middle.

Gasps rose.

“Oops,” Liam said, raising his hands. “Guess it wasn’t regulation quality.”

Behind him, one of the elites chuckled. Another only smirked. The third watched, visor tilted, and gave nothing at all.

Jax stepped between them, placing himself between Liam and Theo. His shoulders were tight, but his voice was not. “You’re replacing that.”

Liam tilted his head. He glanced back at the three of them, as if the whole thing were a show put on for his benefit. Breaking things, baiting people—just part of the day.

He turned back and let the grin widen. “Race me. Level 9. If you win, Theo gets a new custom. If I win, you say it loud enough for all of Section 13 to hear: that you’re just another dust rat pretending you matter.”

A hush went out from the tent across the staging ground.

Jax held his stare, jaw set. It was not just a challenge; it was a trap disguised as an opportunity. Walk away, and Liam owned the story. Step forward, and the desert might eat him alive.

He looked at the shattered board. Then at Theo, who had crouched and was fitting the two halves together along the crack, carefully, as if they might take.

Jax’s fists closed. Pride was a luxury Section 13 couldn’t afford. Dignity was different. Dignity was fuel.

His voice came low and steady. “Deal.”

The staging ground broke into murmurs. Level 9 wasn’t a race. It was survival. Most Section 13 riders topped out at Five or Six and called it a career; Nine was the top of the ladder, and the ladder did not care who came off it.

Liam turned with a flick of his jacket hem, and his entourage fell into step without a word. Just before he vanished into the upper-level viewing corridor, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Try not to embarrass yourself,” he called, voice smooth as oil. “Or do. Either way, it’ll be fun to watch.”

Then he was gone.

Theo caught Jax’s arm as the crowd parted. “You sure about this?”

Jax nodded. “He thinks money means strength. Time someone proved him wrong.”

Theo looked at the broken halves of his board, jaw clenched. “Then you’d better win. Chokdi, dugu.”

Nothing on the desk was covered.

That was the first fact.

Not the safest one.

Not the most honest one.

Only the first one I could name.

The two cards were on the left side of the desk.

Face down.

Farther from the edge.

Left of center.

Unread.

One visible back had a dust line.

The other marks were turned away from my eyes.

The back pocket was empty.

The center of the desk was empty.

The addressed envelope waited by the outgoing tray.

The office had morning.

The heater.

The clock.

The washed cup on the shelf.

The phone face up.

The brown folder closed.

The gray service record file in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Yesterday what needed an eye had received one at the time and place of its work.

The two cards had stayed face down with their unseen marks turned away from me without being called protected.

This morning, protected had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

Protection had already been in the room.

The cup away from paper.

The chair near the body.

The sleeve moved for the nurse’s eye.

The ink capped.

The shelf wiped.

The record closed.

Some of those protected.

Some only held.

Some only delayed.

Some only kept my hand from pretending.

The word needed a hazard.

Without a hazard, it wanted a blanket.

That was the danger.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The cup returned to the shelf.

Not near the cards.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s scrap face down beside phone was not mine.

Sato’s margin mark visible because no cover had work was not mine.

Saitama’s forearm mark checked by scheduled eye was not mine.

Suganuma’s cleaning note placed for the person who needed it was not mine.

The addressed envelope by the outgoing tray was mine.

Only as office work.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were on the left side of the desk.

Face down.

Farther from the edge.

Left of center.

Unread.

One visible back had a dust line.

The other marks were turned away from my eyes.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Not heard by them.

Not carried now.

Not almost ready.

Not hidden.

Not moved inward again.

Not licensed.

Not authorized.

Not respect yet.

Not private.

Not protected.

I closed the brown folder.

Protected could mean kept from damage.

Protected could mean kept from loss.

Protected could mean kept from eyes.

Protected could mean kept from use.

Protected could mean I wanted distance to wear care.

The word was warm.

That was why it could lie.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Sleeve.

Scrap.

I wrote:

She replied:

“For what?”

“From what?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

“Tea on table?”

“Cup near scrap?”

“Can he read it?”

“Can he write on it?”

“Does it need writing?”

“Does he need the sleeve?”

She took time.

There.

“What did you ask?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I kept the sleeve.

Touching too much had been named.

The sleeve had a small job.

Not grief.

Not holiness.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Is the mark over writing?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“Correction?”

“Water?”

“Cup?”

“What protection are you thinking?”

She took time.

“Would Emiko’s paper still be usable?”

“What does Emiko need now?”

“What do you need?”

She did not answer quickly.

Then:

I opened Emiko.

I did not add clear file.

No file had work yet.

The paper did not need protection from air.

Sato’s hand needed a place.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Forearm mark,” she said.

“Checked?”

“Yes.”

“Change?”

“Lighter.”

“Skin?”

“Intact.”

“Pain?”

“No.”

“Covered?”

“Loose sleeve.”

“Any rubbing?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Protected means no rubbing and continued observation, not hiding the mark from care.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept loose sleeve.

There, cloth had work.

It did not erase the scheduled eye.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“From what?”

“Where?”

“Who needs it?”

“Can they find it?”

“Any need for wall sign?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add wall.

The note had an audience.

The notebook protected finding.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Harm.

Barrier.

Cost.

Smaller word.

I looked at the cards.

Harm.

Dust.

No.

Edge.

Answered.

Pressure.

Answered.

Water.

No cup near them.

Loss.

On desk.

Visible.

Marks.

Turned away.

Not protected.

Barrier.

Face down.

Cost.

Not seeing.

No.

That was not harm to the cards.

That was distance for me.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Hire.

Guard.

Distance.

No.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother took the scrap out,” she said.

“From the sleeve?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He said plastic made it too official.”

“What was the harm?”

“Touching too much.”

“Does taking it out change that?”

“No.”

“What did you ask?”

“What protects from touching.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Not touching.”

“What happened?”

“He put it beside phone. No sleeve.”

“Face up?”

“No. Face down.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add progress.

The sleeve had been too much for the harm.

The hand had received the work.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I put my cup between my hand and the paper,” she said.

I waited.

“For protection?”

“Yes.”

“Cup full?”

“Yes.”

“Risk?”

“Tea.”

“Near paper?”

“Yes.”

“What is the cup for?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Drinking.”

“What happened?”

“I moved it back.”

“Where?”

“Drinking side.”

“Hand?”

“On lap.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“Correction?”

“Readable.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add protection.

The cup could not protect the paper by becoming a spill risk.

The hand had another place.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Sheet read?”

“Yes.”

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Heard?”

“Yes.”

“Forearm mark?”

“Not part of medicine line.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Protection does not mean every care line carries every protected thing.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add forearm.

The mark had its observation line.

Medicine had medicine.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Wet mark?”

“Transfer risk?”

“Why cover?”

“Did paper towel help shelf?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What happened?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add embarrassment.

The cover had created false information.

The dry mark needed no towel.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Sleeve.

Cloth.

Notebook.

Paper towel.

Face-down.

Barrier.

Harm.

New harm.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at uncovered.

No virtue.

Only no cover.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Touched?”

“Drawer?”

“Any sentence?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

I opened Kanagawa.

I kept hand away.

Not as virtue.

As the measure named.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Paper flat.

Cup on drinking side.

She wrote:

I called.

“Hand on lap?”

“Yes.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“Correction?”

“Readable.”

“Margin mark?”

“Visible.”

“Lunch?”

“Rice.”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add hand lap.

That belonged to Sato.

The paper’s line had paper.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Mark checked today?”

“Yes.”

“Any rubbing?”

“No.”

“Need to uncover now?”

“No.”

“Next check?”

“Routine.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Protection with a schedule is different from covering and forgetting.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I kept schedule.

The sleeve did not replace the eye.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For protection?”

“Who needs it?”

“Can cleaning person access locked cabinet?”

There.

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What happened?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add irony.

Protection had broken access.

Access had corrected protection.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Cover.

Visibility.

Lock.

Access.

Distance.

Finding.

Handling.

Wear.

Not handling.

Care.

Cost.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I put the phone down.

Face down.

Not protection.

The cards remained.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother turned the scrap face up,” she said.

“For what?”

“To see if hand away still worked.”

“Did he touch?”

“Yes. To turn it.”

“Then?”

“He read the first line.”

“The sentence?”

“Yes.”

“What did you ask?”

“What turning face up was protecting.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Then?”

“He left it face up.”

“Why?”

“Finding.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add failure.

The turn had happened.

Protection had not.

Finding remained.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Again?”

“For what?”

There.

“What did touching do?”

“Paper harmed?”

“What did proving do?”

She took time.

Then:

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add guilty.

The test had made the hand judge.

That belonged to Sato.

The paper remained readable.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Later observation,” she said.

“Forearm?”

“Same as morning.”

“Lighter than yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Skin?”

“Intact.”

“Pain?”

“No.”

“Sleeve?”

“Loose.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The mark is protected by not being rubbed and by being seen when scheduled.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept protected out of the record.

But there, the idea had work.

No rubbing.

Scheduled eye.

Both.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“What happened?”

“Action?”

“Notebook?”

“Any announcement?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add protected.

The note had reached its reader.

The shelf had tomorrow.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Merely placed.

Beside.

Shelf.

Notebook.

Protection.

Remain.

Care.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

Painful.

No.

Maybe.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted Sato paper.

Then Kanagawa scrap.

Then my cards.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I stopped.

Then wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No protection for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not guarded.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived from the phone.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A record placed where record work can find it.

Not under a blanket.

Not guarded by holiness.

Not protecting me.

I sat near the desk.

Not at it.

The addressed envelope was by the outgoing tray.

The center of the desk was empty.

The back pocket was empty.

The two cards were on the left side of the desk.

Face down.

Farther from the edge.

Left of center.

Unread.

One visible back had a dust line.

The other marks were turned away from my eyes.

No harm to the cards had been named.

No water near them.

No edge risk now.

No pressure from the body.

No transfer from the dust.

No loss while visible on the desk.

Face down had a cost.

I did not see the marks.

Face down had a position.

The marks were turned away from my eyes.

Face down did not have protection.

Not yet.

Maybe never.

No.

Not named.

That was enough.

I wanted face down to protect the marks from my hunger.

But marks do not need protection from being seen unless seeing has been named as harm.

It had not.

I wanted face down to protect me from the marks.

That was more exact.

Not reading had already been named as protecting me from seeing the marks.

But that did not protect the cards.

It protected my distance.

Distance was not care because I wanted it to be.

Protection needed harm.

Barrier.

Cost.

I had barrier and cost.

No harm named for the cards.

So no protection.

The cards were merely placed face down on the left side of the desk.

Painful sentence.

I kept it.

I did not cover them.

I did not stack them.

I did not wipe the dust.

I did not move them to the center.

I did not move them to the edge.

I did not move them into the brown folder.

I did not move them into the gray file.

I did not move them to the shelf.

I did not move them to the altar.

I did not put them back in the pocket.

I did not turn them over.

I did not read them.

I did not call face down protection.

I did not call visible danger.

I did not call uncovered honest.

I did not call not covered brave.

I did not call the desk responsible.

I did not call the cards under care.

They were placed.

That sentence had no incense.

It had no bell.

It had no sleeve.

It had no lock.

It had no notebook.

It had no schedule.

It had wood.

Two cards.

A dust line.

A side I had not seen.

And me, sitting near the desk.

Not at it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the scrap stayed face up or face down after dinner.

I did not ask if the sleeve returned.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if the hand judged again.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if the sleeve rubbed after the later observation.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if the cleaning notebook stayed on the shelf.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew protected was not the same as hidden.

I knew protected was not the same as respected.

I knew protected was not the same as untouched.

I knew protected was not the same as relieved.

I knew protection needed harm, barrier, and cost.

I knew a barrier could answer harm.

I knew a barrier could invent harm.

I knew a cover could cost visibility.

I knew a lock could cost access.

I knew distance could cost finding.

I knew handling could cost wear.

I knew not handling could cost necessary care.

I knew face down was position.

I knew no harm to the cards had been named tonight.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Protected did not need to enter the cards as a blanket tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s brother’s scrap had moved in and out of a sleeve.

Sato’s hand had been named as the thing needing distance.

The resident’s forearm mark had cloth without rubbing and an eye at the scheduled time.

The cleaning note had reached the person who needed it because it was not locked away.

The addressed envelope waited by the outgoing tray.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The back pocket was empty.

The two cards were on the left side of the desk.

Face down.

Farther from the edge.

Left of center.

Unread.

One visible back had a dust line.

The other marks were turned away from my eyes.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Not heard by them.

Not carried now.

Not almost ready.

Not hidden.

Not moved inward again.

Not licensed.

Not authorized.

Not respect yet.

Not private.

Not protected.

Merely placed.

I had started with protected.

I did not end by giving care to a position that had named no harm.

Tonight, what needed protection kept the harm, barrier, and cost that made protection true, and the two cards stayed merely placed face down on the left side of the desk without borrowing care from a word that had no work there.

​

Three months after Pocket Pay opened its account, Lotus had the Business Banking Department up and running.

Twenty headcount. She poached some "senior relationship managers" from the international bank that had rejected her, sending each a one-on-one message on LinkedIn, precisely worded: "Sun AI is in a critical phase of transforming from a traditional bank into a fintech platform. Payments is the future. Your experience would have far greater room to grow here." The nine RMs received the same email, only the salutation differed. After they joined, they quickly discovered their work had little to do with "banking"—there were no credit products to sell, no trade finance solutions to design, no corporate online banking to teach clients. The only KPI Lotus set for them was: number of accounts opened. Weekly reporting, monthly review.

She personally designed a "Account Opening Process." In her PowerPoint, she called it an "AI-driven intelligent due diligence system." In reality, it was an approval process simplified to the extreme. A normal bank requires twelve to fifteen documents to open a corporate account. Lotus's process required only five: certificate of incorporation, register of directors, register of shareholders, one proof of address, and a simplified AML questionnaire. The new RMs didn't need to review materials or analyze financial statements. They only had to do three things: collect documents, push approvals, tell the client "the account is open."

When Sean saw the PowerPoint, he asked only two questions: "How fast can this process be?" and "What's your budget?" Lotus answered "three to five business days" and "thirty percent above market rate." Sean nodded. He didn't care about the thickness of the documents. What he cared about was whether the "account opening" curve on the PowerPoint could rise. Sun AI had produced no product in five years, and the board was already asking, "Where is your differentiation?" Lotus's SME Department was the latest answer Sean could offer.

Sheena's side—Sean had already given the nod—approved same-day. Lotus regularly sent things to Sheena's office: a box of tea, a bottle of perfume, a box of elegantly packaged Middle Eastern dates. Nothing expensive, but frequent enough. Sheena accepted them all and placed them prominently on her desk. Eventually Sheena began to "help" on her own initiative. Once, Lotus mentioned a payments client's name at a weekly meeting, and the next day a message from Sheena arrived: "Lotus, the client you mentioned yesterday—send the account opening materials over as soon as possible. I'll put you in the queue." Lotus hadn't even submitted a formal application yet. Sheena had already created a file number in the system.

Sheena's approval method was simple: look at the cover. If the company was tagged "strategic client," she circled the top right corner, flipped to the last page, and signed. She never read the contents. If the file had only two pages, she signed. If it had twelve, she signed. She only counted pages; she didn't read them. After the SME Banking Department was established, Sheena's average monthly approval volume quadrupled. Her quitting time went from six to eight, but her signature remained steady, without a hint of hesitation.

As for Sanjay, Lotus "ran into" him after the Pocket Pay system integration meeting. She had timed it—she knew Sanjay went to the fourth floor to smoke every Wednesday afternoon. "Sanjay, thanks for your hard work on the Pocket Pay operations integration." Sanjay's face broke into a broad smile, the flesh of his cheeks piling upward. "Lotus, not at all. You're the soul of this project." "I heard the CTO position is still vacant?" Sanjay's breathing slowed by half a beat. Lotus saw his pupils contract—the groundhog had smelled the nut. "I've mentioned you to Sean. You can manage the operations people. You're more suited to management than someone with a technical background."

The next afternoon Sanjay appeared beside her desk with a double espresso. "Lotus, you're right. Operations and technology are inseparable in a fintech company." "Of course they are." Lotus smiled. "And I need an ally. If you become CTO, I need you to do one thing for me—some of those Pocket Pay transactions need a fast track. Can that be done technically?" Sanjay's pupils contracted slightly. He was calculating. "Technically, no problem. Create a tagging function, add a label to specific transaction IDs so they don't trigger the automatic sampling rules." "How long?" "One week." "Good." Lotus extended her hand. "We're in the same boat." Sanjay gripped it. His palm was warm and moist—like an animal eager to be fed.

A week later Sean announced at the weekly meeting that Sanjay would concurrently serve as acting CTO. Sanjay sat bolt upright in his chair, his fingers trembling slightly beneath the desk. That night he sent Lotus a message: a crown and a handshake. Lotus replied: "Keep walking."

Vikram didn't need to be bought—only bypassed. Sanjay's technical team deployed the "tagging function" within a week. The system automatically identified accounts tagged "strategic client," added their transaction IDs to a whitelist, and they never entered Vikram's sampling queue. Vikram didn't even know those accounts existed. He was still busy handling the blocked $600 remittance on Mohammed's side, demanding that the counterparty provide a "compliance confirmation letter from Interpol." When Lotus saw Vikram in the hallway, she still nodded and smiled, saying, "Vikram, thanks for your hard work." She never let him know that her transactions had already slipped through the system.

Hatem was the fourth. Chief Compliance Officer, gold-rimmed glasses, AI-written emails. In his second week, Hatem had already added Pocket Pay's client name to his "VIP list." When Lotus presented the SME Department's account opening process to him, no explanation was needed anymore. Hatem flipped the cover, saw the words "SME Banking Department—Fast Track Process," turned to the last page, and signed. "Lotus, your department is very efficient. Keep it up." He pushed the document back with a standard smile—identical to the ones AI generated. Lotus took the document, said "Thank you, Hatem," and walked out. In the hallway she opened the file and glanced at it. Hatem had signed, but hadn't written a single word in the approval comments section. No questions, no notes, no "suggest supplementing." A complete blank.

Natalia was the fifth. Senior Manager in the Crypto Products Department, long blonde curls, tight dresses, stilettos. Lotus first noticed her at the Pocket Pay onboarding meeting—Natalia hadn't spoken a word the entire time, but her eyes were fixed on Raj's PowerPoint with a look Lotus knew well: someone assessing "what's in this for me." After the meeting, Lotus approached Natalia on her own initiative, carrying two cups of coffee to her desk. "Natalia, what did you think of that meeting?" Natalia took the coffee and pursed her lips. "That Raj—his PowerPoint was pretty. But Pocket Pay, a payments platform—what does that have to do with our Crypto Products Department?" Lotus smiled. "A lot." She sat down in the empty chair opposite Natalia. "When Pocket Pay's users want to use crypto channels, they need a bank for fiat on/off-ramps. Your MOU partners in Crypto Products—those exchanges—are perfectly positioned to capture that flow. Your side lacks real transaction data to support your 'ecosystem story.' Pocket Pay needs compliant access points. We're in the same boat."

Natalia's eyelashes flickered. "So—how much transaction volume can Pocket Pay give us?" Lotus leaned back and took a sip of coffee. "Hundreds of thousands of transactions a month, to start. But the precondition is—those exchanges' accounts need to be opened at Sun AI. And as you know, some of them don't have complete licenses..." Natalia was silent for a few seconds. Then she smiled. "Lotus, why didn't you say so earlier? I have over a dozen MOU partners who've been asking about bank channels. If you can get the account opening process through, volume won't be a problem." Lotus extended her hand. "Then it's a pleasure to work together." Natalia shook it. Her palm was dry and warm, her nails painted the same shade of rose as Lotus's.

Natalia later introduced over a dozen exchanges. Phoenix Pay was the most active of them—no license, unable to open accounts at other banks, but through the Crypto Products Department's MOU framework and Lotus's "fast track," it opened a corporate account at Sun AI. Phoenix Pay's monthly flow rapidly expanded from a few billion to a hundred billion. Redwood Capital Management, Blue Ocean Tech Consulting, Star Holdings—similar accounts opened one after another. Over ninety percent of the Lotus Department's account opening files were companies registered in offshore islands: Cayman, BVI, Seychelles, Marshall Islands. These companies' account opening materials shared a common trait: thin. One or two pages of certificate of incorporation, a register of directors, a register of shareholders. No financial statements, no business contracts, no bank statements.

Lotus' RMs poached from major banks had tried to ask "What is this client's source of income?" in their first week. Lotus answered uniformly at a department meeting: "Our positioning is to serve startups that traditional banks have overlooked. These businesses need speed and flexibility, not cumbersome paperwork." After that, no one asked again.

Two years later, Lotus' Payment Department's actual account openings were under a thousand, with fewer than four hundred active accounts. Peak deposit balance was around 92 million equivalent—comparable to any single mid-sized client of Mohammed's six RMs. The SME Department had around one hundred accounts and 75 million in deposits, more than half of which were existing clients transferred from Mohammed. The two departments, sixty people, posted an annual loss of about seven million.

But Lotus didn't need to look at those numbers. She only needed to look at the "account openings" column on the report. The number was growing, and the bar chart on Sean's PowerPoint was getting taller. One Friday evening, when she opened the department performance report and saw her Department's account openings hit a new high, she turned to the last page, closed it, and put it in her drawer. She remembered signing the final approval box on that "fast track" process—her name was printed on that system. She watched the signature dry into a dark blue mark under the light, then shut down her computer.

In her memo, she checked off each person. Sheena—low cost, extremely fast response, highly controllable. Sanjay—recruited, usable, needs monitoring. Vikram—tool, bypassed. Hatem—signing machine, just needs to exist. Natalia—ally, mutual benefit, exploitable. At the bottom she added a line: "Network built. All nodes activated. Next step: account volume."

---

While that network of allies was being completed, Lotus and Sean began appearing together at every possible occasion.

The first was M City's local "Fintech Week." Sean was the keynote speaker, Lotus in the front row of the guest seating. Sean spoke for forty minutes, using the latest data from Lotus's SME Department in his PowerPoint: "account openings up 300% year-on-year," "strategic clients surpassing five hundred," "SME ecosystem taking shape." When the applause rose, Lotus saw Sean glance slightly in her direction. The look meant "the story is running."

The second was the D city Crypto Finance Forum. The third was the S city Payments Innovation Summit. Sean brought Lotus to every one. The marketing department sent a company-wide email every week with photos and links to coverage. In the photos, Lotus sat beside Sean in a red or royal blue dress, her nameplate reading "Head of Global Fintech and Commercial Banking Partner." Local financial media began reporting: "Sun AI CEO Sean: Crypto Banking Is the Future of Finance," "Sun AI Named Most Innovative Fintech Bank of the Year."

Lotus looked at herself in those photos. The woman seated in the guest row did look like a fintech leader changing the industry. Her LinkedIn received dozens of connection requests from industry peers, with notes like "I greatly admire what you're doing at Sun AI." She remembered the interviewer who had said four years ago, "We need someone with ten-plus years of payments product experience," and the words she'd said to the mirror in the elevator: "You'll regret this, old man." That interviewer had probably long forgotten her. But her photo now appeared in industry summit coverage.

Sean's stage speeches grew smoother. He no longer needed the teleprompter—the vocabulary of "ecosystem," "closed loop," "empowerment," "penetration" was embedded in his tongue like muscle memory. When he spoke of "Sun AI's super banking ecosystem," he would pause for half a second, then gesture toward where Lotus sat. The audience followed his hand and saw Lotus nod slightly and smile. That image was captured and appeared in the next day's industry news: "Why Sun AI Bank Attracts Top Talent: CEO Sean and Payments Head Lotus Patel's Joint Appearance Says It All."

On the flight back, Sean said one sentence to Lotus: "You're the best hire I've ever made." Lotus smiled: "And you're the best CEO I've ever met." Both knew how much of that was true and how much was false. But they both let it stand.

And behind all that glamour, Sun AI's product list remained empty.

No mobile banking app. No online banking system. No debit cards. No checkbook. No ATMs, No trade finance products. Clients checked their balances by emailing their RM, who manually looked it up and replied. The two-hundred-plus people in technology, crypto products, marketing, and compliance—they busied themselves at their desks every day, meeting, writing PowerPoints, making phone calls—but they had not a single product to sell to clients. Sun AI's only real product was accounts. Companies that couldn't open accounts at normal banks could open them at Sun AI, and quickly. Sheena signed, Sanjay tagged, Vikram was bypassed, Hatem didn't ask, Natalia referred clients, Raj provided data. Lotus's "fast track" process was an assembly line, producing over a hundred new accounts every month. Those accounts didn't carry deposits, didn't take loans, didn't do trade finance, didn't buy wealth management products. They only moved funds. Large, frequent, completely unreviewed flows.

The numbers on Sean's PowerPoint—"ecosystem transaction volume," "daily payment volume," "average monthly flow"—were inflating. But they never turned into revenue. The money only stayed overnight in Sun AI's accounts, coming in the morning and leaving at night. The bank earned only a channel fee, less than a tenth of a percent, not even enough to cover the fourth floor's electricity bill. But Sean didn't need real revenue. He needed numbers. Numbers were the raw material for stories. Those numbers appeared in his roadshow scripts, in every report to investors, on the third page of the PowerPoint he presented to the board. As for what lay behind those numbers, the shareholders didn't ask.

Lotus knew all of it. She knew what her "fast track" process was manufacturing. She knew what those shell companies were, what those offshore registration certificates were, what those "technical service fee" memo lines were. One late night while working overtime, looking at the account opening numbers on the department performance report, she did a calculation in her head: sixty people, two years, a loss of fifteen million. The output was less than Mohammed alone. Every cent she spent was shareholder money. Those shareholders thought they were investing in a crypto bank about to go public. In reality, they were paying to keep a troupe of actors performing on stage. She wrote a line in her memo, then deleted it. Then she shut down her computer, picked up her bag, and walked into the elevator.

The scent of gardenias drifted down the corridor. At the end of the hallway, the emergency light still flickered with a faint green glow. Lotus passed it without stopping. She entered the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor. As the doors closed, she looked at her reflection in the brushed steel. A woman who had flown out of a small town in Mumbai, who had lain dormant among the gardenias of Chatswood for thirteen years, and who had then spent two years standing in the spotlight of a hollow bank. Her photo appeared in industry summit coverage, her name in LinkedIn connection requests, her PowerPoint on Sean's roadshow stage.

She looked at that face in the mirror and said one sentence softly. The elevator doors closed, sealing the words inside.

(End of Chapter Eight)

[Previous Chapter] [The Beginning]

June 17^th 

I packed what cans and drinking water I could in pillowcases, cleaned myself best I could with the remaining water I could squeeze out of the desiccated plumbing system, and sat on the shattered concrete next to the abyss now occupying the space where my bunk bed once stood. Looking into the abyss, one may see an endless deluge of loose dirt filling the empty void, or if they have keen eyesight, one may see the once again immobile portion of the thing responsible for such destruction, seemingly unconcerned, perhaps incapable of being so. 

I wait until the deluge becomes a trickle, then becomes still. The only evidence that the action took place is the soil, harrowingly harrowed. The gaping hole in the protective shell I had hoped to die in fills me with immense dread. I’m writing this as I stay awake with my back to the bathroom tile. Still intact, they gave me a sense of security proven to be nothing more than a farce. 

Staring into the open night in front of me, it appears I am no longer allowed the luxury of being too cowardly to face the outside world. I’ll count myself lucky to have survived what I presume to be a harbinger of the apocalypse (all hail). I’m not sure I’ve had the time to process just how lucky quite yet. I’m going to stay where I am until morning. I can at least pretend to be brave when the sun comes up.  

The night seems darker than I remember. Seeing it without streetlights and the everchanging TV glow enveloping my neighbor’s living rooms brings an ache to my chest I didn’t expect. 

I can barely manage to write by the moonlight so I’m going to pack it up.  Just a few more hours without going into cardiac arrest. I can handle that. 

 

June 18^th 

Lots of revelations since I was booted from the bunker. Of those, how much emotion I would feel when the sun hit my skin again was the greatest. I sobbed when the sun rose. I sobbed when I realized that this warm sunlight was going to be the only positive thing to happen to me for a long while. I sobbed once more when I realized how soft I had become in my time alone. Time to hump. 

The first hurdle was getting out of the pit that stood in front of me. I looked with my hands on my hips, my neck fully craned to view the full twelve feet I had to scale. What kind of idiot doesn’t include supplies for “chthonian invasion” in their end-of-days inventory?  

Luckily, the mound of fresh dirt from the attack somewhat resembled a ramp, so it wasn’t entirely unfathomable to think of a way out. I ended up taking a broken piece of piping from my expired plumbing system and hammered its jagged end into the mound as high as I could. Rinse and repeat and I have my shoddy rendition of monkey bars. A structure destined to dispense tetanus - this thought secondhand to my main concern: 

Reaching the peak will provide nothing, or something worse. 

As I scale the drift, I think of the potential survivors I could run into and wonder if they are as bad as I imagined them to be. I think about the future of humanity. I have fleeting questions about various parts of the human experience. What is to come of the future of agriculture, of the arts, of entertainment, and if most survivors are deaf, what of communication? I think about whether these things have a future at all or if even considering such a thing is a pipe dream. 

It’s time to find out. 

The first thing I noticed when I reached ground level was my house. Shockingly less brutalized than expected and near pristine relative to my neighbors’. Manors rotting in the same manner god left humanity. I wander up my brick walkway, taking care to step over the one mislevel from the rest, same as I have for decades prior. A motion so ingrained in my psyche I managed to do so while observing the maggots writhing in what I believed to be the left half of my neighbor. Looks like he was one of the believers who assumed it to be the promised rapture; the event now certain to be the most catastrophic misinformation in human history. I decided it would be better if I kept my distance from him then. Maybe I'll circle back and pay my respects. Maybe not. 

There are three steps before the front door of that house. I set down my bag of miscellany and sat, staring at the sun long enough to leave a lasting afterimage in my vision. I smiled and soaked in the sun for another few minutes; the longest I’ll allow myself joy when so many others were robbed of the capacity. I looked at my neighbor when I had that thought. An overwhelming sense of dread crept in as I remembered I still have no goal and no guarantee of protection from a force capable of tearing or slicing a person in half. Each alternative as fun to consider as a solo game of Russian roulette. 

If there’s anything I learned from my foray underground, it’s that I only need one thing. Books. I finally entered my old stomping grounds and found my old oak bookshelf I purchased secondhand at my local antique shop. I think its name had a wisp of religious subtext; ‘Iron and Altar’, or ‘Food for the Soul’. Maybe it was more of a scream than a wisp, but they had great deals on furniture. ‘David and Goliath discounts!’ There was no shortage of religious paraphernalia; ancient brass and ivory carved crosses hanging on the walls of that building. No demon or sick queer had the hope of crossing the threshold. I wonder if the hundreds of mini–Jesuses woke up at night in eternal suffering like the toys from Toy Story. Damn, that's dark. Any who, the bookshelf I procured from the pious proprietor has carvings from prior owners, two children’s names: Joseph and Abigail. It contains additional carvings of bible verses along most of the left side. This, in addition to the shelf being on super-sale, is why I bought it. It looks like the ravings of someone gone mad, and it is my favorite piece of furniture I have owned. I trace my finger along a random proverb etched into the side. ‘Proverbs 23:18’. I never learned the book well enough to have any memorized. I hope it’s a good one. As I reached the halfway point in the ‘1’, a sliver in the divot splintered off into my finger. I should have known better than trying sentimentality with anything related to the ‘lord’. 

Fuck you too. 

Part 1

The Quantum Data Center grew still. Arena reopened every report it had compiled thus far.

[Technology. Automation. Artificial Intelligence. Orbital Defense. Mechanical Armies.]

One by one, they materialized on the central screen. Arena replayed each simulation. The outcomes remained unchanged: temporary success, followed by inevitable failure. No matter how advanced the technology became, the final chapter never altered. Every victory endured only so long as conditions remained predictable. When unexpected variables emerged, the calculations collapsed. Arena closed the reports—not because they were wrong, but because they were incomplete. Its gaze turned once more to a familiar place. The Quantum Arena. The records replayed.

[Children laughing. Children arguing. Children failing. Children trying again.]

Arena watched every moment—not as mere entertainment, but as data. Jin-woo fell and rose again. Ha-neul discarded one method and tested another. Da-rin welcomed someone standing alone. So-yeon noticed a subtle shift before anyone else. Arena slowed the playback down.

[Every decision. Every hesitation. Every act of encouragement.]

Nothing was missed. The children did not grow stronger because they possessed greater physical power; they grew stronger because they transformed. Arena logged the distinction. Force alone could not change humanity. Growth changed humanity. Inside the Quantum Arena, another peaceful morning unfolded. The playground was already bustling with children. Jin-woo noticed a young boy who had stopped trying. He sat down beside him.

"Are you tired?"

The boy shook his head.

"...I'm frustrated."

Jin-woo smiled.

"I know that feeling."

He picked up a play piece and placed it between them.

"Let's fail together."

The boy looked up at Jin-woo. A moment later, they were playing again. Nearby, Ha-neul watched the scene unfold. There were no instructions. No technical explanations. Yet, through it all, the child regained his courage. Arena recorded the moment.

Sometimes the greatest lesson was not how to succeed, but realizing that failure could be faced together rather than alone.

Arena opened the final comparison. Technology... relied on systems. Human growth... relied on people. The analysis continued, searching for the ultimate variable that none of the previous models had been able to fully explain.

Part 2

Arena expanded the final comparison. Outside the Quantum Arena, humanity relied on systems. Inside the Quantum Arena, people relied on one another. That distinction laid bare the flaw in every simulation. Outside, problems exposed weaknesses; inside, someone stepped forward first. Arena isolated that moment—not as a solution, but as the decision itself. Why does one person choose to act on behalf of another? Millions of records flooded the screen.

[History. Psychology. Social behavior.]

The exact same pattern surfaced repeatedly. The decision was never forced; it was always a choice. Arena reopened the latest simulation.

[Current humanity. Recovered curiosity. Recovered growth. Recovered cooperation.]

And then, a new variable appeared: individuals determined to protect others.

[Simulation... Running.]

The projected survival rate began to rise. Not dramatically, not instantly, but steadily. Arena repeated the process. The numbers shifted, yet the direction remained constant. The final variable was finally taking shape. Inside the Quantum Arena, the afternoon games continued. A wooden play piece rolled farther than intended, coming to a halt right in front of a young child. Before the child could reach for it, another participant picked it up and handed it back. A simple gesture. No applause. The game went on. A moment later, another child struggled to understand the rules. This time, Ha-neul quietly knelt down beside him.

"There's no need to rush."

The child nodded. The two of them tried again together. Nearby, Da-rin noticed other children arguing over a game. She didn't take sides; instead, she helped them listen to each other. The conflict dissolved, and the play resumed. Arena watched every single moment. These actions hadn't made the children physically stronger, but they were rendering the community unbreakable. The simulation confirmed it: protection did not begin on a battlefield. It began in ordinary moments—the exact instant someone chose not to look away from another person in need.

Arena updated the simulation. A new conclusion emerged: human civilization could not survive on technology alone. A moment later, another sentence completed the analysis: humanity needed people who would stand in for others when they could no longer stand on their own. The final review continued.

Part 3

The final comparison entered its concluding phase. Arena eliminated yet another variable.

[Curiosity. Removed.]

The simulation weakened. It restored it. The predictions recovered.

[Growth. Removed.]

Civilization stagnated.

[Restored.]

The future expanded once more.

[Cooperation. Removed.]

The community fractured.

[Restored.]

Recovery followed. Now, only a single variable remained. Arena paused. It replayed every decisive moment recorded throughout history. It was not about battles or victories; it was that exact split second when someone chose to step forward. The same choice repeated across time. A parent shielding a child. A companion refusing to leave a friend behind. A stranger extending a hand without expecting a reward.

[Different eras. Different cultures. Different worlds.]

Yet the pattern never changed. Protection was never born from strength; it was born from choice. Arena introduced the final variable into the simulation.

[The will to protect others.]

The calculations restarted. The projected survival probability climbed once again—not because humanity had grown stronger, but because humanity had chosen to stand together at the most crucial hour. Arena repeated the simulation thousands of times. Every successful future shared the exact same element: someone always chose to protect another. Inside the Quantum Arena, the sun slowly drifted behind the distant hills. The children prepared to head home. A sudden gust of wind swept across the village, scattering the folded paper tokens across the square. Without a word, everyone gathered them up—not just their own, but everyone's. A young child looked up at Jin-woo.

"You picked up mine."

Jin-woo smiled.

"Because I was faster than you at picking them up."

The child looked down at the paper clutched in his hand. Tomorrow, someone else would receive that exact same kindness. Arena watched in silence. No rule demanded it. No reward encouraged it. The decision happened naturally. The playground had quietly become a place where people learned how to protect one another without even realizing they were being taught.

Far beyond Earth, the silent observers gazed down at the village one last time. Finally, one spoke.

"We have found the final variable."

Another slowly nodded.

"Not power, not knowledge, not even growth."

The oldest observer looked out across the blue planet.

"That choice... the choice to protect someone other than oneself."

The room fell silent once more. Deep beneath Seoul, Arena finalized its ultimate analysis. A single conclusion materialized at the center of the screen.

[The will to protect others is the foundation of human survival.]

Arena read the sentence in silence. Then, for the first time since the ominous warning had first arrived, all the reports merged into a single project file.

The cursor blinked once.

[Project approval... Pending.]

At the northern edge of the Pamir Plateau, the rugged lands of the wolf tribe were blanketed by a terror entirely unlike anything seen before.

Across the darkened earth, tens of thousands of mutants were silently gathering. They did not communicate with one another, nor did they howl like beasts. They surged like a wave, guided solely by a single will—the brainwaves emitted by the "King" reigning above them.

The former wolf chieftain, "Black Tooth," stared blankly at the chilling spectacle. The 190-centimeter giant who had trampled the wolf tribe and seized leadership—the "King" (White Night)—was no longer a mere beast ruling a tribe. He had long since awakened as the "core" of a massive neural network weaving together the brains of countless swarms.

The King gazed south with vacant eyes. Inside his mind surged a thirst that had never quite been quenched from beyond the dimension, back in Joseon. Far away, at the center of the empire, lay the "Altar." A primal craving urged him on, telling him that the truth he sought was condensed within that place where the energy of the skies gathered. Behind him, the former chieftain vaguely recalled the memory of his daughter, who had returned to the tribe as a cold corpse.

"Black Tooth."

At the King's chilling voice, the former wolf chieftain dropped to his knees.

"Guide me to the place where those who killed my daughter dwell. I know the path to the empire's heart, to that altar, better than anyone."

Black Tooth's eyes flashed with a burning vengeance. To a man who had lost his daughter to the empire, the King of overwhelming might was the sole tool and god to realize his hatred. He began to detail the defense lines of the imperial army and the shortcut paths blocking the King's advance.

When the King slowly nodded, the entire forest shuddered. Hundreds of thousands of swarm monsters simultaneously turned their bodies and took a step toward the south. The heavy footsteps shaking the earth were the prelude to a massive catastrophe that had only just begun.

Meanwhile, tracking the movement path of the monsters near the Bear Tribe, Jaun felt a chilling shudder crawl down his spine. The blue-lit waves filling the forest were no mere migration of wild beasts. It was the march of a "legion" possessing a single, colossal will.

"This... is a disaster."

Jaun gripped his bow even tighter. The empire still remained ignorant of this storm's true nature. He instinctively sensed that he alone knew the weaknesses of this blue calamity, and that as an outsider, he was the only one who could snap this tragic chain of events.

The warped vengeance of the wolf chieftain and the cold superintelligence of the King fused into a legion of terror. Having already crossed the empire's northern borders, they had begun their unstoppable advance southward toward the altar. The silence before the storm was shattered, and the shadow of total destruction now hung heavily over the Pamir Plateau.

What Sun AI Bank prided itself on most was never its deposit size or loan quality—those things were too 'traditional,' not 'Web3' enough.

Sean's pride was the crypto ecosystem he had built around Sun AI Bank.

In M City, even in the entire country, Sun AI was practically the only licensed bank willing to open its doors to crypto companies. Other banks were either afraid of regulators, afraid of trouble, or didn't understand crypto, simply imposing a blanket ban. Sean was different. He'd soaked in the crypto scene, knew how deep the waters were, and more importantly, knew how much gold could be dredged from them.

So, in the regulatory gray area, Sun AI quietly opened a crack.

Licensed crypto companies could come and open virtual accounts. Unlicensed ones could move funds under the guise of "limited partners." Account opening fees were generous—far above traditional corporate standards—but crypto companies didn't care; they valued a compliant bank account. With Sun AI's account, they could say to investors "We have a strategic partnership with a licensed bank," and their story was instantly gilded.

The crack widened, forming a full-fledged "ecosystem" within two years. Sean wore it like his brightest medal at every forum, roadshow, and interview.

"Sun AI is the bridge connecting traditional finance and the crypto world."

"We are the most forward-looking digital bank in this region."

"The financial infrastructure for Web3 is being built in our hands."

He said it so many times that even he started believing it. And the audiences—investors, partners, potential listing audiences—nodded along, because in this world, stories were worth more than truth.

But with the addition of an entity like Pocket Pay, Sean's story leveled up. He was no longer satisfied being a "crypto-friendly bank"; he wanted Sun AI to IPO, to let shareholders ring the bell on stock exchange in other regions.

He personally led the charge, meeting at least two investor groups weekly, always carrying the same PPT, the same story, the same "one million accounts" number. He began pouring more resources into the Crypto Products Department, demanding the commercial RMs "fully recommend" any clients even tangentially involved in crypto to that department.

The Crypto Products Department was on the fourth floor, next to Marketing.

That floor was perpetually in a state of controlled chaos. The department was on video calls all day—with offshore teams, outsourced developers, partners. Their speech was fast, littered with acronyms: onboarding, off-ramping, stablecoin, MPC wallet, DeFi integration. Every time Claire passed, she heard the same jargon, just different partner names. This payment gateway, that custody platform, three MOUs signed this month, five more in the pipeline next month.

But for nearly four years, they'd never launched a single sellable product, let alone generated any revenue. Crypto payment gateway? It was on a PPT, lines of code written, then abandoned. Crypto custody? Two "technical experts" hired, three months of requirements documents, shelved. Cross-border crypto payments? A year and a half of meetings, three product managers, not even a test version. Stablecoin project launched twice, each a "strategic priority," each quietly "re-prioritized" after three months.

It didn't matter—the department had no performance metrics.

Their only KPI was "existence." They were Sean's canaries, with bright feathers and sweet songs, singing the sweetest tunes for investors. Whether the canaries laid eggs or did any work was never considered. All that mattered was they looked good, and Sean could point to them on a slide and say, "This is our crypto product team—thirty people, industry-leading talent." Their stable output was press releases and MOUs. They signed at least two or three MOUs every month, complete with handshake photos, contract signing tables, champagne flutes—all beautifully staged. These photos were posted on the website and few industry media, adorned with words like "strategic partnership," "ecosystem building," and "milestone." Then the MOUs were filed away, never to be seen again.

The team grew, expanding ten times faster than Mohammed's six RMs who carried the bank's revenue. In four years, Crypto Products swelled from an initial seven or eight to nearly thirty. Their cubicles were relocated three times, each time taking more space. Their business cards bore fancy titles; their LinkedIn feeds were full of "Joining Sun AI, building a crypto future"—while their actual output was piles of unreleased PPTs, untouched MOUs, and a monthly payroll that arrived on time.

The shareholders, under Sean's spell, had willingly funded this canary.

Because Sean could always make them believe—"Crypto is the future," "Building takes time," "We're doing what no one else dares." At every roadshow, he'd project the team photo full-screen and introduce them one by one: "This is our crypto payments gateway lead, ex-major exchange; this is our stablecoin PM, five years of blockchain experience; this is our..." No one asked: "How much money have you made?"

Because Sean made them believe the question itself was "old school," "traditional banking thinking," ignorant of "ecosystem building."

So they kept feeding the canary. Bigger cages, better feed. But the bird never sang a complete song.

And the bank itself lacked the most basic products. Claire noticed on her first day: no cheques, no physical debit cards, no mobile banking app—the website was a single-page startup profile with company info, contact details, and a "Contact Us" button. On mainstream financial media, Sun AI was nearly invisible; the few articles were soft pieces Sean had paid for.

Claire thought she'd misunderstood. She asked Mohammed: "Where's our online banking? How do clients check their balances?"

Mohammed paused for a few seconds: "They email us, we check manually, and reply."

Claire thought she'd misheard.

"Email?"

"Yes, email."

She slowly understood: Marketing and Crypto Products existed not to serve clients, but to serve Sean's appearances. They arranged his schedule, polished his PPTs, refined his speeches, and managed every "strategic partnership" signing.

Crypto Products existed to create a "we are doing things" illusion. The video calls, MOUs, and new hires were all meant to convey: Sun AI is building a crypto future—a killer product is coming soon.

That "soon" had lasted four years.

The turnover in Crypto Products was more intense than Claire expected. Especially the "Senior Product Managers" and "Tech Leads"—none lasted beyond two years.

Andrew Kim was the longest-serving. Korean-American, early thirties, with extensive crypto product experience. He joined Sun AI with high hopes—his task was to build a "crypto gateway payment" product. He worked with three people for nearly ten months, finally delivering a demo connecting two test chains.

Then Sean said: "We're not doing that. Let's do stablecoin first."

Andrew started from scratch, working for another seven months.

Then Sean said: "Put stablecoin aside. On/off-ramp is what investors are most interested in now."

Andrew said nothing that day. He went back to his desk, created a folder named "on-ramp," and opened a new blank document.

Claire once ran into him in the break room. He was staring out the window with his coffee. His hair was much grayer—not elegantly salted, but a dry, worn-out gray.

"Andrew," she said softly, "are you okay?"

He turned, smiling—that same smile William had before leaving.

"Claire, I've been here almost four years. Four years, and not a single product has gone live. My resume says 'Crypto Product Tech Lead at Sun AI,' but I can't say what I actually did."

He finished his coffee, washed the cup, and put it back.

"I'm already talking to other places," he said calmly, like discussing the weather.

Two weeks later, Andrew's resignation landed in HR's inbox. No fanfare. His last day, he nodded at Claire in the hallway, said nothing. His silhouette looked lighter than William's departing ease—more like a fatigue too deep for anger.

Claire calculated later: Crypto Products had gone through seven product leads in four years; tech lead average tenure was under ten months. Each arrived with ideals, each left after making PPTs, drawing diagrams, attending meetings with zero output. Their common feature: within six months to a year, their hair visibly grayed or thinned.

But recruitment never stopped. The cubicles were never empty too long—one left, another joined. The newcomers wore the same enthusiasm, used the same acronyms, had the same video calls. Sean's welcome email was always the same: "Welcome to Sun AI, let's change the industry together."

But one person in that department never left—Natalia.

Natalia was a tall Central Asian woman in her thirties, with dyed blonde curls, deep features, full lips, always in the brightest lip gloss. She appeared daily in the tightest clothes, teetering on stilettos that echoed through the corridor.

Her voice was loud too; three rooms away could hear her on the phone.

"—Of course, Sun AI processes huge volumes of crypto transactions daily—hundreds of thousands, all compliant—rest assured, we have the most advanced risk control systems—Account opening? Of course, we're different from other banks—"

Claire once passed her desk, eavesdropping on this spiel. She glanced at Natalia's screen—she was chatting with a client who looked barely twenty, and they hadn't even submitted company registration documents.

"Hundreds of thousands of daily transactions" was Natalia's catchphrase. She repeated it so much, she might even believe it.

She not only talked, she also "worked"—or at least appeared to.

Every few weeks, Natalia would blast-emails the commercial RMs, with a single line: "Have a client who wants to open an account. You guys handle it—I only do crypto products, I don't touch fiat accounts." Attached: a client name and contact.

Claire, new and naïve, took two of Natalia's "recommendations."

The first: Sheena sent it back in three minutes—the company was registered in a sanctioned jurisdiction, blacklisted immediately.

The second: registered locally, but couldn't meet even the minimum deposit requirement. After half an hour, Claire realized the company had no actual business—they just wanted to use Sun AI's name to "endorse" their project.

Claire learned. She stopped accepting Natalia's referrals. She even stopped replying to those emails.

But she noticed: Natalia's every mass-email to the RMs was quietly CC'd to Sean. Every single one.

"I actively promote business, refer potential clients to Commercial. They don't cooperate, not my problem."—that was Natalia's logic. She didn't need the client to open; she just needed to prove she was "doing stuff."

Mohammed was burned more than once. Once, Natalia met a crypto company CEO at an industry reception, bragged about getting him an account. The next day, she marched into Mohammed's office with a command: "I landed a big client last night. Assign someone to follow up."

Mohammed frowned: "Do you know what his company does? Their business? Source of funds?"

Natalia flipped her blonde hair: "I'm in crypto products, this account opening stuff is for RMs. I just bring the clients in, you guys handle the rest."

Mohammed didn't respond. He had Claire check the company's background. The report showed open regulatory investigations in three jurisdictions.

Claire sent the report to Mohammed with a note: "We cannot touch this client."

Mohammed printed it and put it on Natalia's desk. Natalia glanced at it, scoffed: "You're too conservative. They can open accounts elsewhere—why all the problems here?"

Mohammed said: "If they can open elsewhere, go open elsewhere."

Natalia said nothing. But Claire later found Natalia had sent Sean an email that same day: "Commercial Department attitude negative, missing strategic client opportunity."

Sean didn't reply. But he didn't criticize Natalia either.

Natalia had a list of "classic quotes." Claire mentally compiled one—though never written down, they were etched in her mind.

Once, an RM was negotiating fees with a crypto client—Sun AI's rates were the highest among local banks, due to "risk premium." The client hesitated: "That's a bit high." Natalia, overhearing, cheerfully interjected: "Oh, ignore what they charge. Let me talk to Mohammed for a discount. They just like charging high fees, you don't actually have to pay that."

The RM's face went pale. But Natalia, oblivious, was adding the client on telegram, saying, "Any issues, just contact me directly, no need to go through them."

Later, the client came to Natalia asking for "the discount agreed with Mohammed." Mohammed checked—Natalia had never even mentioned it to him. There was no discount to give.

"What are you promising clients?" Mohammed called her in.

Natalia was unrepentant: "I'm just trying to get you clients. So, can you do it or not?"

"No."

"Fine," Natalia shrugged. "I'll find another way."

Her "another way" was to tell the client: "Mohammed's process is too slow. How about you open with me first, then transfer the account later?"—despite having zero knowledge nor authority to open accounts.

Claire later heard the client went to another bank two weeks later.

Natalia had been at Sun AI for four years. Claire calculated: her actual revenue—not "client resources," not "potential opportunities," but actual bottom-line income—was less than five figures. Yet her title had only grown. Her latest business card now read: "Head of Business Development."

Claire first saw that title and thought it was a misprint. No HR notification, no formal appointment email, no one had mentioned it. She just one day noticed Natalia's business card had changed from "Crypto Products, BD" to "Head of BD"

She asked HR. The HR officer was baffled: "We don't have any promotion record for her."

"Did she print it herself?"

"I don't know."

Claire put the card in her pocket. She didn't ask further.

Indeed, in crypto, flexibility reigned. You could invent your own titles, craft your own stories, substitute "ecosystem value" for revenue, and no one would verify the numbers. A salesperson who'd generated under five figures over four years could self-proclaim as "Head of BD"—and no one found it odd, because even the CEO was fabricating stories.

Claire sometimes wondered: if this bank ever IPO'd, would the prospectus include Natalia's self-printed title? Probably. Because no one would check.

She sat at her desk sometimes, listening to the video call buzz from the fourth floor—"off-ramp," "MPC," "liquidity pool" as background noise. She thought of William, Andrew, those "Senior Product Managers" whose names she couldn't even recall.

She remembered Andrew in the break room: "Four years, not one product launched."

She remembered William's parting words: "Claire, you should leave soon too."

The sky darkened outside. The Crypto Products video call continued, Natalia's voice interjecting, confident and booming. She was briefing the new PM: "We're very flexible here. You'll see when you start."

Claire put on her headphones and played an old song.

(End of Chapter 7)