A deal closed on a Wednesday morning without ceremony.
The abandoned mall sat on the outskirts of a small Missouri town whose best years were already behind it—one hundred and sixty acres of cracked asphalt, boarded storefronts, and a parking lot where weeds had grown bold enough to split concrete. Once, it had been the heart of the town. Now it was a carcass.
To Derek, it was perfect.
One point six million square feet of enclosed space, reinforced foundations, multiple loading bays, underground utility access, and a zoning board desperate enough to approve anything that brought money back into the area. After settling back taxes, legal fees, and a handful of quiet incentives, the total came to just over five million dollars.
Cheap, by any meaningful standard.
This would be Blackfire's first true server farm—isolated, defensible, expandable. Not the last, but the first that mattered.
By the time the ink dried, the mall no longer felt abandoned.
Security vehicles patrolled the perimeter day and night. New fencing rose where rusted railings once stood. Motion sensors, thermal cameras, and signal jammers were installed with obsessive care. Inside, former clothing stores were gutted and reinforced, their wide-open interiors ideal for server racks, cooling systems, and power distribution.
It was infrastructure disguised as decay.
Back in Los Angeles, Blackfire's headquarters looked unchanged from the outside. Glass, steel, and clean lines—corporate, understated, forgettable.
That illusion shattered the moment Fabian Matthews stepped through the front doors.
He noticed the security immediately.
Not the visible guards—that was expected—but the posture, the spacing, the way their eyes tracked movement without being obvious about it. These weren't mall cops or private security contractors hired off a brochure. These men stood like soldiers. Moved like soldiers.
And they were armed.
Not pistols. Not tasers.
Military-grade weapons, worn with a familiarity that suggested long use rather than recent purchase.
Fabian slowed his stride without realizing it.
JBL Investment had sent him because he was good at reading rooms, good at people, good at sensing when a company was bluffing. Blackfire Technologies didn't feel like a bluff.
It felt like a bunker pretending to be an office.
He approached the reception desk where a woman sat calmly behind reinforced glass. She was in her early thirties, hair neatly tied back, posture relaxed—but not loose. Fabian's eyes flicked downward and caught the faint outline beneath the desk.
A shotgun.
Hidden well enough that most people wouldn't notice. Fabian did.
"I'd like to see the CEO," he said politely.
The receptionist met his gaze without hesitation. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No," Fabian replied. "But my visit is time-sensitive."
"I'm afraid that without an appointment, it won't be possible," she said evenly.
Fabian smiled, the practiced expression of a man who had talked his way into boardrooms and out of hostile negotiations. "Please inform him that Fabian Matthews from JBL Investment is here. He'll understand the importance."
The woman studied him for a moment longer than necessary. Then she reached for the phone.
Several minutes passed.
The air felt heavy, as if the building itself was listening.
Finally, she hung up. "Someone will escort you. Please remain where you are."
Two men appeared moments later, seemingly from nowhere. One gestured politely but firmly.
"This way, sir."
Fabian followed, acutely aware that every step was being monitored. Elevators required handprint verification. Corridors were segmented by access points that opened only after brief delays. He caught glimpses of restricted floors through glass partitions—rows of servers, engineers working in silence, whiteboards filled with equations he didn't recognize.
This wasn't a startup.
This was an operation.
They stopped at the twenty-fourth floor.
The doors opened into a wide, minimalist office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Los Angeles. A single desk sat near the center, clean and uncluttered. A whiteboard stood off to the side, partially erased.
The man waiting for him stood as Fabian entered.
He was young.
No—young wasn't the word.
He was barely more than a boy.
Slim build, casual attire, dark eyes that assessed Fabian with quiet precision. He stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Derek Morgan," he said. "CEO of Blackfire Technologies."
Fabian shook his hand automatically, his mind scrambling to reconcile what he was seeing. "Fabian Matthews. JBL Investment."
He hesitated, then asked the question that burned too brightly to ignore. "If you don't mind me asking… how old are you, Mr. Morgan?"
Derek didn't smile. "Eighteen."
For the first time since entering the building, Fabian felt genuinely off balance.
"I see," he said slowly.
They took their seats.
Fabian launched into his prepared remarks, but they felt hollow now. "JBL has been monitoring unusual market activity," he said. "Blackfire's acquisition pace, hiring scale, and capital expenditure are… atypical for a private company with no public product."
Derek listened without interrupting.
"We were wondering," Fabian continued, "whether there might be an opportunity for strategic investment or partnership."
Derek folded his hands. "Blackfire is well funded."
"I don't doubt that," Fabian said carefully. "But even well-funded companies often—"
"We don't require external capital," Derek said calmly.
Fabian paused. "May I ask what Blackfire is working on?"
Derek's gaze remained steady. "No."
The word wasn't rude. It wasn't aggressive.
It was final.
Fabian nodded slowly, masking his frustration. "Very well. Then perhaps—"
"JBL shouldn't concern itself with Blackfire's finances or direction," Derek said. "We're not looking for investors. When that changes, we'll reach out."
The meeting was over.
Fabian stood, shook Derek's hand again, and forced a professional smile. "Thank you for your time."
"Safe travels," Derek replied.
As Fabian was escorted back toward the elevator, his eyes drifted one last time around the office.
That was when he saw it.
On the edge of the whiteboard, partially smudged but unmistakable, two words were written in bold black marker.
Reality Quest.
The elevator doors closed.
Fabian exhaled slowly, a chill running through him.
Blackfire wasn't a company chasing investment.
It was something being built quietly, deliberately—something that didn't need permission.
And whatever Reality Quest was, the world wasn't ready for it yet.