The sun was a pale smear against the early morning sky, a muted promise of light filtering through the high windows of Winston's penthouse bedroom. It was only 7 a.m., but the city was already a distant, humming presence, a sound he had grown used to but still felt alien to his East New York bones. He was still in bed, lost in the soft, expensive sheets, trying to reclaim the sleep he had lost after the psychological ordeal of the reunion. His mind drifted back to the sour taste of old resentments and the unexpected kindness of Gwen's eyes. He had a lunch to look forward to today, a small piece of his past that felt real and pure. He had told Lily about it last night, and though she had seemed confused about why a grown man needed her for a lunch with a friend, the mention of a five-star restaurant had sealed the deal. She couldn't turn down a free, fancy meal.
The quiet stillness of the room was instantly shattered by the shrill, insistent ring of his phone. He groaned, burying his head deeper into the pillow. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't want to be a part of this new life just yet. He wanted to be Winsten Stone, a man with simple problems and clear-cut choices, not a puppet on a string. With a heavy sigh of resignation, he reached for the phone. The caller ID glowed in the dim light, the words a cold, unwelcome shock: Author Vance.
Annoyance, sharp and immediate, cut through his grogginess. He had barely gotten away from this man, this unsettlingly intense vessel for the disembodied, calculating presence that had turned his life upside down. He considered ignoring it, letting it ring out, but a bitter, powerful thought surfaced: the world would go crazy just to have Vance's personal, direct number, and he, Winsten Stone, had it. It was another absurd detail of his new, surreal existence, a burden of unimaginable privilege. He picked up.
"Vance here," a calm, unsettlingly clear voice stated, not asking if it was a good time, but simply beginning the monologue. "Come to the address I sent you. By 9:30. It's important."
Winston's confusion morphed into a cold suspicion. "Huh?" he mumbled, propping himself up. The demand, the lack of explanation, the suddenness of it all, felt completely arbitrary and domineering.
"Relax," Vance said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "It's the address to my corporation building. The 20th floor. Just come." The line went dead with a decisive, digital click.
An hour and a half. Winston sighed, running a hand through his hair. This was his life now. He was being summoned, not asked. The AI that was supposed to serve his needs was, in reality, a puppeteer pulling his strings, and Vance was its mouthpiece.
He got dressed, but he had no desire to wear a suit. He couldn't bring himself to put on a costume after the humiliating charade of last night's reunion. He chose a simple, regular blue dress shirt and black pants, a small, quiet rebellion against the relentless expectations of his new status. The chef, a woman who still made him feel vaguely uncomfortable with her elaborate, deferential attitude, had already prepared breakfast. Winston ate without much appetite, his mind on the looming, unavoidable meeting, then headed outside.
His chauffeur, Sarah, was waiting. She had the Rolls-Royce idling, its dark, imposing silhouette a stark contrast to the quiet morning street. He had given her the address ahead of time. They drove in silence, the car a bubble of serene quiet as it glided through the streets of Midtown Manhattan, where the accumulated wealth of human society was so immense it seemed to reflect in the very glass of the monolithic skyscrapers.
The Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb of a vast, modern building, the front of it a solid sheet of reflective glass that absorbed the pale morning light. A security guard, seeing the car, recognized it immediately. He checked a small screen, nodded, and the immense garage door slowly rumbled open. Winston and Sarah were ushered inside, another silent acknowledgment of his new, unspoken privilege.
Winston got out and went inside. The lobby was a vast expanse of marble and polished chrome, sterile and cold, reflecting the AI's precise, non-human logic. He walked up to the receptionist's desk, a gleaming, futuristic console with a woman sitting behind it.
"Hello, I have an appointment," Winston said, his voice flat with annoyance.
"With what department?" she asked, her tone polite but disinterested, her eyes glued to her screen.
"Ah, not with a department," Winston replied. "With a person."
"Oh, I see. Can you provide a name?"
"Author Vance told me to be here."
The receptionist finally looked up from her computer, her polite mask dropping for a brief second to reveal a look that said, Do I look stupid? She sized him up, from his tailored blue shirt to his expensive, well-made shoes, part of the four pairs Charles had given him. "Sir," she said, her voice now cool, stiffening with condescension. "This is a professional corporation. Mr. Vance is a very busy man, especially right now. He doesn't have time for jokes. You seem to be in your twenties. Why would Author Vance, of all people, meet with you?"
Winston's blood ran cold. The humiliation from Rick Mason last night came rushing back, a bitter, familiar tide. Of course. This genius Vance invites him but doesn't tell anyone he's coming. He had been embarrassed enough yesterday, and here it was again, the gilded cage and the ghosts of his past all rolled into one corporate, condescending stare. He had come here, against his better judgment, and was being treated like a liar and an impostor.
He pulled out his phone, his jaw set. He didn't care that Vance was busy. He had called him here. He didn't want to be here, but he was. Winston searched for the number and called. The receptionist watched him, her eyes a mix of pity and scorn, as if she were watching an idiot pretend to have a powerful friend.
Just as she was about to make a sarcastic remark about dialing imaginary numbers, her own internal office phone rang. She looked at the number, an internal line that only the most senior executives had access to, and her eyes went wide with sudden, genuine fear. She picked up the phone slowly, her face a mask of disbelief.
"This is Author Vance," a deep voice stated on the other end, cutting through the line like a razor. "Send someone to escort my guest to the 20th floor. Immediately."
The receptionist's face paled completely. Not once had Vance ever called her directly. He had legions of people to handle his small tasks. She looked at her office phone, at the caller ID that showed the CEO's office number, and then at Winston, a man she had just publicly dismissed. She said, "Yes, Mr. Vance, right away," her voice a terrified whisper, and hung up.
She stared at Winston, her mouth agape. A genuine, unadulterated shock had replaced the smug look. She stammered out a hasty, breathless apology, but Winston ignored her completely. He simply watched as a male security guard, looking bewildered, was instantly sent to take him to the elevator.
Once at the 20th floor, the guard led him to a large wooden door marked CEO, opened it, and gestured for him to enter. Winston sighed, running a hand over his face. He was being given an audience, not as a guest or a colleague, but as a subject. He wondered what nonsense Vance was about to get him into now, and resented the fact that he was being constantly told where to show up and when to jump. He walked inside, the heavy door closing behind him, sealing the sterile, quiet air, filled with the presence of a man who was, in his own way, an immense, terrifying power.