The stairs were marble. Real marble, not the fake stuff. Each step absorbed sound, made Gene's footfalls disappear into expensive silence.
At the top, another man in a suit. Younger this time, maybe Gene's age. His eyes did a quick scan—shoes, watch, posture—and Gene felt himself being categorized, filed away.
"Phone," the man said. Not asking.
Gene handed it over. Watched it disappear into a signal-blocking bag. He'd expected this. Steven had warned him. When real power gathered, phones didn't come inside.
The door opened.
The room was smaller than Gene anticipated. Maybe twenty by thirty feet, low lighting, furniture that probably cost more than cars. Eight people sat in various configurations—leather chairs, a couch that looked like sitting on a cloud, two men standing by the bar mixing drinks.
Mr. Chen sat in the largest chair, exactly where you'd expect him to be. Silver hair perfect despite the late hour. He smiled when he saw Gene.
"Ah. The American."
Everyone turned to look.
Gene had been in uncomfortable situations before—his first real board meeting back in Irvine, that disastrous dinner where he'd accidentally insulted a Japanese investor's wife, the time he'd shown up to a black-tie gala in the wrong shade of navy. But this felt different. Like walking into a room where everyone already knew the punchline and he was still figuring out the joke.
"Mr. Chen." Gene bowed slightly. Respectful but not subservient. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Please. Sit." Mr. Chen gestured to an empty chair positioned perfectly—close enough to be included, far enough to be observed. "Can I offer you a drink?"
"Whiskey. Neat." Gene kept his voice steady. His father had taught him that much—in rooms like this, your drink order mattered.
A woman Gene didn't recognize—maybe forty, wearing a Chanel suit that probably cost what most people made in six months—handed him a glass. Crystal, heavy, filled with amber liquid that probably cost more than his rent.
"So," said a man to Gene's left. Older, round face, eyes that calculated everything. "Steven Chen's new discovery. We've heard interesting things."
"Interesting good or interesting bad?" Gene took a sip. Smooth, expensive, perfect.
The man laughed. "Confident. I like that. In someone so young, it's either brilliant or stupid."
"Usually both," Gene said. "The trick is knowing which situations call for which."
More laughter. Mr. Chen's smile widened slightly.
"You've been in Taipei six months," the woman in Chanel said. Her Mandarin had a Beijing accent, crisp as fresh paper. "Made connections in three weeks that take most people years. Joined Steven Chen's operation. Started moving in our circles. You're in a hurry."
"I'm twenty-one," Gene said. "If I'm not in a hurry now, when would I be?"
"Youth." The round-faced man shook his head. "Always wasted on the young." He leaned forward. "Tell me, Mr. Eu. What do you think of Taiwan's future?"
And there it was. The first real question. Not small talk anymore.
Gene had been preparing for this all week. Lin Yue had texted him talking points, Steven had drilled him on current policy debates, but standing here, in this room with these people watching, all the prepared answers felt hollow.
So he went with truth instead.
"I think Taiwan's caught between two futures. One where it keeps playing defense, maintaining status quo, hoping nothing breaks. The other where it starts playing offense—positioning itself as so economically critical that changing anything becomes too expensive for everyone involved."
"And which future do you bet on?" Mr. Chen asked quietly.
"The second one. But only if people in rooms like this one decide to make it happen. Policy won't save Taiwan. Neither will hope. Just economics. Making yourself too valuable to mess with."
Silence. Gene couldn't tell if he'd just passed their test or failed spectacularly.
Then Mr. Chen laughed. Actually laughed—a sound Gene had never heard from him before.
"Steven said you were smart. He didn't say you were reckless." Mr. Chen raised his glass. "But reckless can be useful. If channeled properly."
The tension in the room shifted. People relaxed slightly. Gene realized he'd been holding his breath.
"You're wondering why you're here," the woman in Chanel said. "Why we invited someone so new, so young."
"The thought crossed my mind."
"We're building something," the round-faced man said. "Infrastructure investment. Southeast Asia, focusing on rare earth processing and refinement. Legal, documented, profitable. But it requires moving capital across borders in ways that… let's say, benefit from creative structuring."
Gene kept his face neutral. "Creative structuring."
"Nothing illegal," Mr. Chen said quickly. Firmly. "Everything we're discussing is documented, approved, legal. But the financial instruments required are complex. They need people who understand both Western banking systems and Asian business culture. People who can move between worlds."
"People like me."
"Exactly like you."
The woman in Chanel opened a leather folder, slid papers across the table toward Gene. He recognized the company names—some from Steven's portfolio, others from his own research. Infrastructure plays, processing facilities, logistics networks. All legitimate, all profitable. All requiring exactly the kind of cross-border capital movement that made regulators nervous.
"We're not asking you to decide tonight," Mr. Chen said. "Just to listen. Understand what we're building. See if it matches what you want to build."
Gene looked at the papers. Thought about Steven's warning about doors that don't open from the inside. Thought about Mei asking if he knew who he was anymore. Thought about his father sleeping in Irvine, convinced this was all just rebellion.
"Can I ask a question?"
"Of course," Mr. Chen said.
"Why me? You could recruit anyone. Better pedigrees, better connections, better experience. Why risk an American kid who's been here six months?"
The round-faced man smiled. "Because you're hungry. Everyone else in your position—established family, comfortable future—would play it safe. Take the easy path. You walked away from easy."
"And because you remind Mr. Chen of someone," the woman in Chanel added, glancing at the silver-haired man.
"Who?"
"Myself," Mr. Chen said quietly. "Forty years ago. Standing in a room very much like this one, being offered a chance to play a bigger game than I thought possible. And being smart enough to be scared but too ambitious to say no."
Gene looked at the papers again. Numbers, structures, legitimate businesses doing legitimate work through complicated but legal means. The kind of thing that made money, built empires, and required walking exactly along lines most people couldn't even see.
"I need to think about this."
"Good," Mr. Chen said. "If you'd said yes immediately, we'd know you were stupid. Take the documents. Review them with Steven if you want—he knows most of this already. Come back when you're ready to talk details. Or don't come back at all. The offer stands either way."
The meeting lasted another hour. They talked about markets, politics, family businesses. Gene mostly listened, learning the rhythms of how these people communicated. What got said directly, what got implied, what went unspoken but understood.
When it finally ended, the same young man returned Gene's phone. Mr. Chen walked him to the door personally—a show of respect Gene hadn't earned but understood the value of.
"Your father built something real in America," Mr. Chen said as they stood in the hallway. "Import-export, semiconductors. Honest work. He should be proud."
"He is."
"But you want something different."
"I want something more."
"More is dangerous, Gene. More means risk. More means compromise. More means becoming someone your younger self might not recognize." Mr. Chen put a hand on Gene's shoulder. "Are you ready for that?"
Gene thought about the kid who'd left Irvine six months ago. Confident, ambitious, sure he could handle anything. That kid felt young now. Naive.
"I don't know," Gene said honestly. "But I want to find out."
Mr. Chen smiled. "Good answer. Call me when you've decided."
The car ride home was quiet. Taipei at two in the morning was different—fewer scooters, empty streets, the city finally catching its breath. Gene looked at the folder in his lap, felt its weight.
His phone buzzed. Lin Yue: *How'd it go?*
Gene typed back: *Not sure yet. Either really good or really bad.*
*That tracks. Get some sleep. Coffee tomorrow? You look like you need to talk.*
*Yeah. Tomorrow.*
But Gene knew he wouldn't sleep. His mind was spinning, processing everything he'd just seen and heard. The opportunity. The risk. The way Mr. Chen had looked at him—like seeing a younger version of himself, for better or worse.
When he got home, he didn't open the folder. Not yet. Instead he stood on his balcony, looking out at Taipei's glittering skyline, and called the one person whose judgment he trusted most.
Mei answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep. "Gene? Do you know what time it is?"
"I need to ask you something."
A pause. Then rustling sounds as she woke up properly. "Okay. Ask."
"How do you know if you're building something or just becoming someone else's tool?"
Another pause, longer this time.
"That's… a big question for two in the morning."
"I know. But I need an answer."
Mei sighed. "You're asking the wrong person. I walked away from all of that, remember? Chose pottery over empires because I couldn't tell the difference anymore between what I wanted and what everyone expected."
"But you figured it out. How?"
"By asking myself what I'd do if none of it mattered. If there was no money, no status, no proving anything to anyone. What would I actually want to do with my time?" Her voice got softer. "For me, it was making things with my hands. For you… I don't know. What would it be?"
Gene looked at Taipei spread below him. Thought about the rush he felt closing deals, the satisfaction of understanding complex systems, the hunger to build something that mattered.
"I'd still be doing this," he said quietly. "I think. Maybe."
"Then maybe you're okay. Or maybe you're already too far in to see clearly. I don't know, Gene. That's the hardest part—realizing nobody can answer this for you."
"Super helpful."
Mei laughed. "You called me at two AM asking impossible questions. What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Wisdom? Clarity? A sign from the universe?"
"The universe doesn't give signs. It just keeps spinning. We're the ones who have to decide which direction to walk."
After they hung up, Gene stood on his balcony for another thirty minutes. Then he went inside, opened the folder, and started reading.
Because whatever he decided, he needed to decide with full information.
And because walking away without even looking felt like a different kind of surrender.
The documents were dense, technical, exactly as legal and complicated as promised. Gene read until sunrise, making notes, cross-referencing structures he recognized from Steven's other projects.
When his phone buzzed at seven AM with a message from Steven—*Coffee. Usual place. 30 minutes.*—Gene was still reading.
He closed the folder, got dressed, and headed out to face whatever conversation came next.
Because he was choosing this. Every step. Every decision. Every door he walked through or turned away from.
That had to mean something.
He just hoped he figured out what before it was too late.