The vault door clicked open with a sound more subtle than Lucas expected.
No dramatic hiss of pressure. No blinking lights. Just a clean, weighty thunk, followed by the slow glide of steel over marble.
Inside was a small chamber—floor-to-ceiling matte black panels, a single chair in the center, and a curved screen embedded in the far wall. A hidden terminal pulsed softly in the floor, waiting.
Lucas stepped inside.
Behind him, the door sealed with the same quiet finality.
"Ready?" ATHENA asked.
He nodded once. "Let's see what he buried."
The first file required both biometric and vocal confirmation. Lucas placed his hand on the center panel and said, "Lucas Pan. Confirmed heir."
The room shifted.
A low hum rose from the walls, and the screen came to life—slowly at first, showing static, then clearing into a still image: Cyrus Han.
Not the polished version from business magazines. This was a grainy capture—taken from his private camera, lit only by the golden glow of the skyline behind him.
Then it moved.
Cyrus leaned forward in the frame. His hair was slightly disheveled. No suit. Just a dark shirt. No performance.
Just a man.
"ATHENA Log 043. For Lucas."
Lucas went still.
"If you're hearing this, then I'm dead. And they've probably already started trying to take what's yours. That's how you'll know you're mine."
He paused. Blinked slowly. Rubbed his forehead.
"I was never built for fatherhood. I tried—once or twice. Then I ran. Not because I didn't care. Because I didn't know how to care without breaking everything else."
Lucas swallowed, jaw tightening.
"But I never stopped watching. Not through cameras or spies. Through instinct. You were the only thing I built without a pitch deck. You weren't leverage. You weren't strategy. You were a choice I didn't make—but couldn't forget."
He looked straight into the camera. For a moment, it felt like he was alive again.
"You don't need to be me. You're already better. But they won't let you be quiet. They'll come for your silence. They'll interpret it as weakness. So speak only when it matters—and make it cost them."
The feed cut.
Lucas stood frozen in the dark.
"Processing emotional response..." ATHENA said gently. "You are experiencing layered grief, laced with unresolved trust conditioning. Would you like me to mute this scan?"
"No," he whispered.
A beat passed.
"Play the next file."
The second recording wasn't video. It was a conversation—audio only. Two voices.
Cyrus. And someone else. A woman.
Lucas stepped closer, narrowing his eyes as the file played.
Cyrus: "She's smart. Smarter than me, sometimes. But she won't raise him in this world."
Woman: "Can you blame her? This world eats children."
Cyrus: "He won't be a child for long. And when they come for my place—when they circle like vultures—I want him to have something they can't swallow."
Woman: "And what's that?"
Cyrus: "His name."
The file ended.
Lucas looked at the ceiling, as if expecting a voice to answer back.
But only silence met him.
"That voice—female, forty-six at time of recording. Likely profile: Serena Wen, head of AI development. She was the last to exit Level Zero before your father's death."
Lucas nodded slowly. "Find her."
"Already done. She's in Beijing. Shall I draft an outreach?"
"Not yet. I want to know what else is in here."
He stayed in the vault for another hour, listening.
Each file was a thread, pulling at the edge of the narrative Lucas had built in his head. Cyrus hadn't just left an empire. He'd left unfinished thoughts. Half-confessions. Admissions of guilt whispered only to a machine.
And still, no explanation for why he gave everything to Lucas.
Until file #057.
It was brief. Just five words, murmured by Cyrus into the darkness before the recording cut out.
"Because he won't sell it."
Lucas stood still, the words echoing in his chest.
He didn't need context.
He understood exactly what it meant.
Back upstairs, the city had gone full neon.
Rhea was in the office, pacing with her phone pressed to one ear, giving instructions in rapid-fire Mandarin.
She looked up as Lucas entered.
"You've been gone for hours."
He dropped into the chair. "Found some files."
"That so?"
"They were... personal."
Rhea studied him for a beat. Then walked over and placed a takeaway coffee on his desk.
"You look like someone who needs to be reminded the world's not going to slow down just because you're having a moment."
He took the cup, sipped. "Thanks."
"Also," she said, pulling her phone back up, "there's a party Friday. Tech elite. Soft launch for Han Global's upcoming IPO division. Everyone important will be there."
"I assume I'm not allowed to skip?"
She gave him a look. "They're calling you a ghost in a crown. You need to show them you bleed. Preferably in custom tailoring."
Lucas leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
"I'm not him."
"No," Rhea said. "But right now, everyone's trying to decide whether that's a threat or a relief."
Lucas didn't answer immediately.
He looked out the window, watching the city throw neon against the clouds like it was trying to outshine the dark.
Then, quietly: "You know what my mom used to say about money?"
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."
"She used to say money doesn't make anyone better—it just makes their decisions louder. She always told me it's a tool, not a compass."
He glanced at her, voice steady. "I didn't come from nothing. After I retired from basketball, I got a payout—not huge by this world's standard, but more than enough. I didn't need to teach. I chose to."
Rhea's expression shifted. Slightly more thoughtful. Slightly less measured.
Lucas continued. "I care about money. I'm not naïve. But past a certain number of zeroes, it stops meaning anything. It becomes noise. What matters is what it lets you protect."
Rhea folded her arms. "So what are you protecting now?"
He didn't hesitate.
"My name," he said. "My people. And whatever legacy he thought I was supposed to finish."
She stared at him for a long moment, the sharp edge in her gaze softening into something almost human.
"You keep talking like that in interviews," she said, "and people might actually start believing you're real."
Lucas smiled faintly. "You make it sound like I'm not."
Rhea turned toward the door. "You're not yet. You're still an outline. But if you fill it with that voice? Maybe."
Then she was gone.
Lucas looked down at the glowing city again. The zeros, the towers, the power.
All tools.
He just had to choose what to build.