As Leo scrubbed the soup pot clean, his mind was already moving past the culinary arts and back to what he was good at: logistics and audacious ideas. The vegetable experiment had been a success, confirming he was sitting on a goldmine of magical produce. But farming was slow. What about ranching?
He dried his hands and looked at his bathroom door, the gateway to his magical terrarium. His thought process, once concerned with surviving until his next paycheck, now operated on a completely different level.
What if I put a chicken in there?
Not a grown chicken. A chick. A baby chicken. If he raised it inside the Sanctum, letting it drink Clarity water from the streams and peck at the native (and presumably magical) insects and grasses... what kind of chicken would it become? What would its eggs be like? The thought of a "Clarity Omelette" was tantalizing. It was Project Eden 2.0.
He added "buy live chicks" to his mental to-do list, a task so absurdly out of left field compared to his life a few months ago that he almost laughed out loud.
But this new line of thinking brought a pressing logistical problem into sharp focus: his apartment. It was no longer just small; it was untenable. It was his home, his CEO office, his bottling plant, his warehouse, and his fulfillment center. It was bursting at the seams with boxes, bottles, and packing supplies. If he was going to start adding live animals to the mix—even if they would live in another dimension—he needed a serious upgrade. He needed space.
He needed a proper headquarters.
The idea of renting a dedicated warehouse crossed his mind, but it felt... disconnected. Impersonal. He needed his portal nearby. The convenience of opening his bathroom door and being at his primary resource site was a logistical advantage he couldn't afford to lose. So, what if the portal was in his office?
He spent the evening scouring real estate websites, not for apartments, but for houses. Houses for rent. Specifically, houses with large, detached garages. A place where he could live and work, but keep the two spaces separate. A garage could be converted into a clean, efficient bottling and shipping facility. He could have proper shelving, a dedicated packing station, room for a pallet of bottles.
He found a few potential candidates in a quiet, semi-industrial suburb about thirty minutes outside the city. They weren't glamorous, but they were spacious and, with his current income, surprisingly affordable. He made a few calls and scheduled viewings for the next day.
This expansion also highlighted another bottleneck: himself. He was spending half his day packing boxes. It was crucial work, but it was low-skill and time-consuming. His time was better spent on R&D (like Project Chicken) and big-picture strategy. He needed an employee. He needed a Fulfillment Manager.
But the trust issue was monumental. The "product" was stored in his home, sourced through a magical door. He couldn't just hire a stranger off the street. Who could he trust implicitly? Who was reliable, hardworking, and would never, ever question why the inventory was stored in a locked bathroom they were forbidden to enter?
The answer was immediate and obvious. His dad.
Frank Costello was retired, bored, and, since trying Clarity water, feeling better than he had in decades. The aches and pains from forty years of construction had faded into a dull memory. He had become Clarity's most enthusiastic, if gruff, evangelist among his circle of retired union buddies.
Leo picked up the phone.
"Hey, Dad."
"Leo! Good, you called," Frank's voice boomed. "Me and the boys are down at the VFW hall. Put your water up against a bottle of that fancy French stuff Sal brought. Clarity won, unanimous decision. Sal wants to know if you give a seniors' discount."
Leo smiled. "I'll think about it. Listen, Dad, I have a proposition for you."
"A proposition? You sound like one of them TV lawyers."
"I want to hire you," Leo said plainly. "I'm moving. Getting a bigger place with a garage that I'm turning into a proper workshop. I need someone to manage my shipping. Packing online orders, managing inventory, meeting the couriers. Forty hours a week. I'll pay you a proper salary."
There was silence on the line.
"You want... to pay me... to pack boxes?" Frank asked slowly, the concept clearly foreign to him.
"You're the only one I can trust, Dad," Leo said, his voice sincere. "The business is growing fast. I can't do it all myself anymore. You'd be my first employee. Head of Logistics." He gave the position a fancy title, knowing his father would appreciate the dignity of it.
Frank was quiet for a long moment. Leo could hear the murmur of his friends and the clinking of glasses in the background. His father had never worked for anyone but a construction foreman his entire life. Working for his son... it was a complete reversal of their dynamic.
"...I'm retired, Leo," he finally said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"You're bored, Dad," Leo countered gently. "This would be good. For both of us."
"Hmph. Head of Logistics," Frank grumbled, but Leo could hear a note of pride in the grumble. "Alright. Fine. But if I'm gonna be Head of Logistics, I'm gonna need a real tape gun. None of that flimsy plastic crap."
"You'll have the best tape gun money can buy, Dad," Leo said, a huge weight lifting off his shoulders. "Welcome to the company."