Two days later, Derek sat alone in a small café tucked between two old brick buildings in downtown Boston. The morning rush had drained away, leaving only a few scattered customers buried in their laptops or sipping coffee with half-closed eyes. The café smelled faintly of cinnamon and roasted beans, but Derek barely noticed. In front of him sat a slice of apple pie, untouched, the crust slowly losing its warmth.
He wasn't here for food.
He watched the street through the window—calm, orderly, predictable. Inside him, however, a quiet storm churned. Not anger, not fear—just a focused, crystalline intent. The next stage of his plan was about to begin.
Five minutes past the agreed time, Alan Payne finally hurried through the glass door, scanning the café before spotting Derek. He approached with a tired smile.
"Sorry I'm late," Alan said, straightening his tie as he sat. "Traffic on Tremont was—"
"It's fine," Derek said, cutting him off with a small wave. "Sit. We have a lot to cover."
Alan blinked, surprised at the firm tone coming from someone who, on paper, was barely eighteen. But ever since he had met Derek, something about the boy's calm, direct speech made him forget Derek's age entirely. Alan's instincts—honed through years of corporate mud-wrestling—told him that Derek Morgan was the kind of client who became either very wealthy or very dangerous.
Or both.
Alan set his briefcase down. "Do you want me to order anything?"
"No," Derek said. "This won't take long."
He reached into his bag and produced a slim folder—black, unmarked, the kind used in boardrooms and hostile takeover meetings. Alan accepted it with some curiosity, opening it to skim the contents.
Balance sheets. Debt analysis. Shareholder breakdowns. Asset evaluations. And a printed dossier of a company name he recognized instantly.
Reindeer Logistics.
Alan raised an eyebrow. "This is… John Powers' company."
"Yes," Derek replied. "A market cap of three hundred million dollars. He owns ten percent personally. The rest is scattered across public shareholders and several small investment groups."
Alan flipped through the pages again. "This is… unusually thorough. Even my team doesn't gather info this clean without pulling favors. Where did you get all this?"
"Public data," Derek replied. "Just reorganized."
Alan didn't believe that for a second—this was the kind of "public data" that took experts days to dig through and optimize. But he didn't press. Derek paid well, moved decisively, and didn't overshare. That made him the ideal client.
"And what exactly," Alan said slowly, "do you plan to do with Reindeer Logistics?"
Derek leaned back, his emerald eyes calm and steady. "I want to acquire it."
Alan felt his jaw loosen slightly. "…Acquire it. As in—"
"Full takeover," Derek said. "Hostile, if necessary."
The attorney's mind began calculating. The boy sitting in front of him had already moved billions into two corporate accounts. That alone placed Derek among the wealthiest private individuals Alan had ever represented. But a hostile takeover was different. It required legal firepower, strategy, and a stomach for warfare.
"Why Reindeer Logistics?" Alan asked. "There are easier targets. You could buy five smaller firms instead of fighting one medium-sized company tooth and nail."
Derek didn't answer verbally. Instead, he pulled out his phone, opened a file, and slid it across the table.
Alan pressed play.
The video was short—grainy footage pulled from a security camera. It showed four young men cornering Derek in a dorm hallway. Chad Powers was the one leading the charge, shoving Derek against a wall while yelling something the camera couldn't pick up. The scene ended with Derek throwing Chad like a ragdoll, sending him crashing into a trash bin as the others scrambled.
Alan's face tightened. "Well… that explains the lawsuit."
"It's only part of it," Derek said quietly. "Chad and the girl he's seeing—Veronica—lied to the police. Tried to get me charged. Tried to have me expelled."
"And the ethics review board…" Alan added.
Derek nodded.
"You want revenge?"
Derek looked out the window again, the reflection of his own calm expression staring back at him. "Revenge is too emotional a word. This is… correction. They tried to harm me. Now I'm removing their ability to do it again."
Alan exhaled and leaned back. "And taking his father's company is your idea of 'correction'?"
"No," Derek said. "That's just step one."
For the first time, Alan felt a chill. Derek's tone wasn't loud, wasn't angry—if anything, it was eerily serene. A calm certainty that belonged more to a CEO in his sixties than an eighteen-year-old college dropout.
"I want you," Derek continued, "to prepare a full takeover strategy. Assemble analysts, accountants, and a litigation team. I want the filings for the SEC initiated by next week. I want options on the major shareholders. I want to know who will break under pressure and who will hold out."
Alan nodded slowly, absorbing everything.
"And Chad Powers?" he asked.
Derek's lips curved slightly—not a smile, exactly, but something close. "Chad gets his turn later. Assault charges. Defamation. Harassment. I'll bury him legally once his father is too overwhelmed to protect him."
Alan let out a short exhale. "You're not just going for the throat. You're tearing out the entire spine."
Derek didn't deny it.
"I'll need to ask," Alan said cautiously, "is this personal?"
"No," Derek said, finishing the answer immediately. "It's necessary."
Alan studied Derek's face. The young man's expression didn't shift, didn't flicker. But his eyes—calm green, almost emotionless—held something that made Alan feel as if he were looking at the surface of deep water. Unreadable. Cold. Powerful.
"Very well," Alan said finally. "Then let's not waste any time."
Derek nodded, lifting a hand slightly. "Before we begin the filings, I need to clarify one thing."
"What is it?"
"Everything we do," Derek said softly, "must be airtight. No leaks. No loose threads. I don't want John Powers to see anything coming until it's too late to stop."
Alan's lips curved into a razor-thin smile. "Mr. Morgan… hyenas don't bark. We only bite."
Derek finally touched the slice of pie, cutting off a small piece with his fork. He took a bite, chewed once, then set the fork down.
"Good," he said. "Then let's begin."
And just like that, the war quietly started in a small café on a calm morning in Boston—unseen, unnoticed, and inevitable.