Naomi had stared at the screen for thirty-eight minutes without blinking.
The tiny rented studio apartment she called home—bare walls, secondhand furniture, a bed she hadn't made since Wednesday—was silent except for the humming of her laptop and the ticking of the wall clock. A mug of untouched tea had gone cold beside her. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glare across the table.
She should've gone to sleep. She had a list of tasks to begin first thing Monday. Contractors. HR partners. Legal structures. Office furnishing for Haizen Holdings. But her hands had hovered over the keyboard, frozen, after she logged into the holding company's banking system for the first time.
The number at the top of the screen wasn't a number. It was a statement.
$3,119,448,772.91
That was just in liquid assets. That didn't include active options positions, derivatives, leveraged ETF plays, or the collection of long-term equity holds currently blooming with interest across multiple sectors. It was probably double.
Naomi closed the tab, reopened it.
Same number.
She pulled up the ledger Claude had sent earlier that day—a live-updating interface coded with an elegance she didn't even understand. It looked like something out of a sci-fi film: black interface, glowing gold lines of credit and transactions, all feeding into a central neural node that mapped cash flow like arterial blood.
It wasn't just money. It was movement.
Precision.
Every trade timed to a window so narrow it might as well have been insider information. Except it wasn't. At least, not in the way she understood.
Naomi stood from her desk, pacing. The tile was cold under her socks. Her chest felt tight.
How.
She had accepted the position because it was the only real offer she'd ever received. Because Daniel's eyes were strange and calm and full of some haunting certainty that made you want to follow just to find out where the story ended. Because he made her feel like someone again.
But this?
This was something else. This was magic.
She pulled out the contract again, rereading her own signature at the bottom. She was CEO of this operation. She had access to a corporate empire. And yet the source of it all felt unknowable. Alien.
Daniel Haizen was seventeen years old.
Daniel had transferred ten million dollars to her account with the same gravity most people reserved for ordering fries. Then, with a shrug that might one day be studied in business schools under the heading "Mass Delusion as Management Style," he leased two entire floors of premium Chicago office space. After that, he started speaking about legacy,architecture, and multi-generational structuring like he was narrating a dream no one else had been invited to understand—least of all her.
Naomi had seen billion-dollar firms before. From the outside. Through glass walls. Usually while carrying coffee for someone named Bryce.
This wasn't how it worked.
No venture capital sharks. No pitch meetings. No legal team in matching suits whispering about liability and burn rate. Just Daniel—seventeen, terrifying, and talking as if time itself had given him a non-compete clause.
She sat on the edge of her bed.
Technically, it was a mattress. Emotionally, it was a hostage situation. The frame creaked like it was auditioning for a horror film, and she was late on rent again—by at least three business days and a philosophical crisis. She'd need a new place soon. Something without exposed pipes or neighbors who played polka at 2 a.m. on Tuesdays.
She buried her face in her hands, trying not to scream into her own future.
What have I gotten myself into?
Sleep hovered nearby like a bored raccoon—tempting, twitchy, and absolutely not to be trusted.
At 7:03 a.m., her phone buzzed.
[HAIZEN: Breakfast?]
She stared at the message. Blinked. Considered ritual sacrifice.
Another buzz.
[HAIZEN: My house. Bring your appetite.]
She almost ignored it.
Almost.
But then she remembered the floor plan she'd seen. The wire transfers. The look in his eyes.
She dressed quickly—dark jeans, a long cardigan, simple flats. She didn't have anything more professional. Her blazer still smelled faintly of fryer oil. She tied her hair back in a quick twist, grabbed her laptop bag, and left.
Daniel lived in a narrow bungalow on a quiet residential street, nestled between homes that hadn't been painted since the '80s. Naomi double-checked the address twice before knocking.
The door opened almost immediately. A woman smiled warmly. Daniel's mother. She ushered Naomi in with a kindness that was almost disarming.
The kitchen clattered with weekend breakfast noise. Daniel's father stood by the window flipping something in a skillet. They both looked happy. Proud. Almost disgustingly wholesome.
"So you're the famous Naomi," his mother said as she handed her a plate. "He never shuts up about the company. Says you're the brain."
Naomi smiled politely, unsure how to respond. She was hired yesterday.
His father stepped closer, wiping his hands. "Help him, will you? He's brilliant, but he's still just a kid. Keeps everything bottled up. Acts like he has the world on his back."
Naomi blinked. Kid?
She'd seen Daniel's eyes in that tower. Seen him buy out two floors with a whisper. Seen the ledger.
'Kid my ass. He is a F%$# Monster.'
They all sat down together. Plates were passed, coffee poured. Naomi barely ate, mind still churning. Every so often, Daniel would glance at her, completely unfazed. Like all this was normal.
After breakfast, he stood. Calmly. Almost too calmly. "Let's go upstairs. We'll talk in private."
Naomi froze.
The tone was casual, but the words weren't. Not to her. Not in this country. Not after what she'd been warned about.
Her body registered the threat before her brain did — an almost genetic memory, handed down between generations of women, sharpened by whispered stories and quiet apologies. Something about the way he said it — the confidence, the quiet command — it hit her like a shiver under the skin.
Upstairs. Private.
No witnesses.
In her head, Sora's voice rose like smoke: "If they invite you into the executive wing, run. If they say you're special, run faster. If you hear the word potential and there's no HR around, it's not business."
Naomi's fingers tightened around her fork. Her pulse started tapping behind her ribs like a second heart.
She stared at him — this teenage boy with old eyes and that impossible stillness — and tried to read him like a line item in a contract. Nothing jumped out. Nothing made sense.
He smiled. It was harmless. Gentle. But that only made it worse.
She stood. Slowly.
Her mind was already drawing escape routes. Bathroom to window. Elbow to solar plexus. Scream if necessary. Don't let it get quiet. Never let it get quiet.
She followed him.
Up the stairs. One step at a time.
The house was warm and lived-in. A hallway of family photos. The smell of lemon cleaner still lingering in the carpet. It should've felt safe.
It didn't.
He reached the door. Turned the knob.
Naomi held her breath.
The hinges creaked. A soft sound.
He stepped aside.
She looked in.
And stopped.
What the hell?
It was just a room.
A teenage boy's room.
Small. Clean. Ridiculously clean, actually — not staged, not sterile, but… lived-in with discipline. A desk cluttered with half-finished papers, some scattered pens. A bookshelf crowded with thick economics textbooks, some Japanese manga tucked behind them like a secret he didn't want anyone to find. A wrinkled twin bed with a single pillow and no blanket. A Michael Jordan poster curling slightly at the edges, taped to the wall above it all like a childhood relic that never got replaced.
She blinked. Her brain stuttered.
This is it?
This is where he runs his empire?
He sat on the bed like it was nothing — cross-legged, casual, serene.
Naomi lingered in the doorway. Arms crossed tight across her chest. Legs crossed too, defensively. Her breath shallow. Her mouth dry. She hated how fast her heart was still going. Hated the sweat blooming under her arms. Hated that part of her still hadn't ruled out the worst.
He watched her. Calm. Curious.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice low.
She flinched. Tried to cover it by brushing her hair back. "Fine," she said. Too fast.
He tilted his head.
"You're holding yourself like someone walked you into a firing squad."
Naomi didn't respond. She couldn't. Her throat was tight.
He gestured at the chair by the desk. "Sit. Please. This is business. Nothing else."
There was no pressure in his tone. No suggestion. Just... clarity.
Naomi moved slowly. Her limbs felt like they were wading through syrup. She lowered herself into the chair. The cushion was firm. Ordinary. Real.
Her heart was still thudding.
But the danger... wasn't there.
It had never been.
Daniel leaned forward slightly. Not predatory. Not flirtatious. Just... focused.
"You're going to be running the largest stealth operation in American finance since 1987," he said. "You'll need better nerves than this."
Naomi looked at him then — really looked. The shape of him. The way his voice stayed measured, like a man reading a weather report. The eyes were too steady. Too old. Not a boy.
She exhaled. Shoulders dropped a little.\
"And yeah," he added. "In my room. Because it's the only room in the house without a squeaky floorboard and with a door that locks from the inside. You know. Privacy. The kind you need when you're about to explain the entire offshore strategy of a billion-dollar fund."
"You knew I'd panic," she said, almost accusing.
Daniel's voice softened.
"But I have to admit," he said, almost thoughtfully now, "your version was… way more interesting."
.
"Disgusting little bastard. And you let this misunderstanding happen anyway?"
"I wanted to see what you'd do with fear."
She spun, eyes wide. "You are not allowed to enjoy this."
Daniel leaned on the banister, arms crossed, still grinning.
A long pause. The silence between them wasn't empty. It was testing.
Finally, she said: "And what did I do?"
"You followed me," Daniel said. "Despite everything screaming not to. That tells me you know how to move through fire. I can't teach that."
Naomi leaned back, just slightly. Her body still buzzed with adrenaline, but her mind had started recalibrating. Recalculating.
This wasn't seduction. It wasn't dominance.
It was... vetting.
And she'd passed.
She swallowed. "Next time," she said, voice harder now, "don't run the test like a creep."
Daniel smiled faintly. "Noted."
She looked around again. The books. The shoes lined perfectly by the door. The single charging cable coiled with surgical precision. Nothing out of place. Nothing wasted.
Naomi nodded to herself.
"Okay," she said. "Go ahead."
Daniel handed her a notepad.
"One more thing," he said. "You're the face. I stay buried."
Naomi frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means no interviews. No magazine profiles. No photos of me on the company website. I don't give press conferences. I don't do panels. I don't exist."
Naomi narrowed her eyes. "So I'm the puppet?"
He looked at her — calm, absolute.
"No. You're the voice. I'm the silence behind it."
She glanced down at the notepad, at the names, the numbers, the blueprints of something monstrous and elegant.
"And the company?"
Daniel's voice dropped half a tone. Almost gentle. Almost.
"The company doesn't speak either. It moves. Quietly. Always quietly."
"And if the media comes knocking?"
"You smile. You pivot. You give them nothing. We don't chase headlines. We chase outcomes. We operate in shadow, or we die in daylight."
Naomi exhaled. Slowly.
"And if someone starts asking about you?"
He didn't blink. Didn't smile.
"They won't."
She looked at him, unsure if he was brilliant or insane. Probably both.
Two names, scribbled boldly: Haizen Construction. Haizen Architecture.
"I'm giving them to my parents. They'll run them. Separate companies. Separate teams. But under the Holding umbrella. I want you to set everything up. Lease space. Hire crews. Find machines. Lawyers. Engineers. Everything."
Naomi blinked. "You're serious?"
"Always."
She flipped the notepad. It was covered in messy but precise scribbles—contacts, priorities, deadlines.
"We file tomorrow. We need operational capacity by the end of the week. Payroll begins Friday."
Naomi stared at him for a long moment. Then leaned back in the chair.
"Okay. Let's build an empire."
Daniel smiled.
And for the first time that morning, she did too.
Then she glanced again at the notepad, the empire, the teenager sitting calmly on a creaky bed under a Michael Jordan poster.
Crazy bastard, she thought, but maybe... he's exactly the kind of crazy this world needs.
Author Note
Dear Readers,
Firstly—hello, you mysterious, silent majority. Yes, you. I see the graphs. I see the views. I see you reading in the shadows like literary ninjas, silently consuming 30 chapters without so much as a "hello" or a mildly approving grunt. You are loved, but also mildly terrifying.
Have you ever ventured into the "New" section on Webnovel? It's like opening the wardrobe to Narnia, except instead of magical creatures, it's thousands upon thousands of fresh novels screaming "Pick me!" in every genre, font size, and level of grammatical ambition. Surviving that flood is like trying to do stand-up comedy in a thunderstorm—so thank you, genuinely, for sticking around.
Now, onto business.
We've hit Chapter 30. That's thirty fully-formed installments of existential sci-fi, market manipulation, emotionally conflicted AI, and suspiciously articulate teenagers. Starting today, I'll be releasing two chapters a day. This is not a threat—it's a promise. (But also slightly a threat. To myself.)
Some of you may say, "But Author, didn't you already write 120 chapters?"
Yes. Yes, I did. But what they don't tell you in Prologue School is that having chapters isn't the same as releasing them. There's the editing. The micromanaging. The sleepless nights staring at one sentence wondering if "obliterated" is funnier than "vaporized." Then there's the pacing, the continuity, the Claude-related quantum meltdowns…
In short: I'm exhausted. Gloriously, stupidly exhausted. Even success feels like being gently mugged by your own ambition.
So to those other authors dropping 6,000 words a day across three novels while maintaining social lives, gym routines, and possibly second careers as undercover wizards: God help you. Or at least send coffee.
To the rest of you: if you like this story, comment, vote, leave a kind word. Algorithms don't believe in ghost readers—but I do.
Yours in caffeine and chaos,—The Author]