The silence, once a tense and brittle thing, was replaced by the low, steady hum of George's voice. He stood with the practiced, meticulous grace of a seasoned professional, his hands clasped behind his back, a tablet glowing with financial data in his grasp. "Mr. Vance, we have the first quarter reports. Our revenue is up by three percent, and the restructuring of the Asia-Pacific division has exceeded our projections by eleven percent."
Rick Mason was listening, or at least he was trying to force his mind to process the torrent of information. His brain, however, was in a frantic, internal debate, a silent argument against the reality of the conference room. He looked around the vast, impeccably clean space. There were only six people sitting at the massive table, a group so small and exclusive it felt like a secret society—a council of hidden power. He was a new team leader, a position that, while a promotion, was a mere footnote in a company this size. He was a nobody. The reports George was giving—the deep dive into revenue and projections, the strategic minutiae of multi-billion-dollar divisions—should be delivered to regional directors and senior partners, men and women several pay grades above him. He was a small, insignificant cog, yet here he was. The thought was a disquieting whisper in his ear, a discordant note in the symphony of his manufactured success.
But the confusion was immediately overshadowed by a powerful wave of triumphant relief. He was here. That's all that mattered. He ruthlessly pushed the disquieting thought aside, a small act of self-deception that felt entirely necessary for survival. The relentless pressure of climbing the corporate ladder, the long hours he had spent proving his worth, the quiet desperation he felt as he fought for every inch of a promotion—that was the agonizing life he had escaped. This was the life he had been fighting for. He was sitting at a table with the most powerful people in the world, and that alone was enough to erase any doubt. He was here, and that was a victory in itself, even if he was merely a chair-filler.
For the next half-hour, George spoke the language of power, a stream of numbers and projections, of market trends and strategic acquisitions. His words, so full of meaning in this room, were a blur of noise to Rick. His mind was a battlefield, and the only soldier on it was a single, overwhelming thought: Winsten Stone. He couldn't reconcile the two men. The haggard taxi driver from yesterday's reunion, broken by exhaustion, and the man now slumped in a high-backed leather chair, a picture of insufferable, almost supernatural, indifference.
Rick tried desperately to focus on the reports, on the words that should have meant everything to him. This meeting was supposed to be his anointment, his final step into a world of unearned power and privilege. Instead, it was turning into his public execution. He felt the heat of embarrassment crawling up his neck. He avoided eye contact with everyone, especially his father, Robert Mason, who sat beside him, rigid with unspoken tension. Rick could feel his father's acute anxiety, a familiar pressure that had defined their relationship for years. Robert Mason, the floor manager, a man who had climbed the corporate ladder with quiet, unwavering loyalty, was also a man who understood the ruthless, unspoken laws of this company. He knew, as Rick did, that this meeting was not what it seemed.
And then there was Winston.
Rick, in a moment of sheer, masochistic curiosity, risked a glance at him. Winston wasn't even pretending to be engaged. He was a portrait of utter, unapologetic boredom. He was stifling a yawn, a slow, deliberate motion, his hand covering his mouth with a theatricality that felt like a silent, mocking scream directed at the entire establishment. And then he looked at Rick. His eyes, which had held the weight of the world the night before, were now two pinpricks of icy indifference, a "mean mug" so profoundly unsettling it made Rick's stomach clench. He didn't just look at Rick; he seemed to stare through him, as if Rick was a ghost, a meaningless apparition in a room that only held two real, consequential people: Vance and himself. Rick flinched, his eyes darting back to the table, to the safety of the polished mahogany. He could feel the stares of George and Melissa, who had also noticed the silent, unnerving exchange. They had no idea who this man was, but they understood the unspoken rules of this room, and Winston was breaking every single one of them with impunity.
Winston, for his part, was enjoying the show, albeit with a dark, detached amusement. Internally, of course. His face, a canvas of practiced nonchalance, betrayed none of the swirling chaos in his mind. He was confused. Vance had called him earlier, demanding his presence without giving any reason. He had simply been told where to go and at what time. He had arrived half an hour early, still exhausted from a night of restless sleep and the emotional drain of the reunion. He saw Vance sitting there, a powerful, emotionless puppet, and he felt a cold, familiar detachment. He put his head down to sleep, a small, pathetic act of rebellion. He knew it was rude, a blatant disrespect for the most powerful man in the room, but he didn't care. He had two reasons. The first was to test how much Vance would tolerate, to understand his ridiculous new position in front of these powerful people. The second, more terrifying reason, was that he knew Vance was also a puppet, a hollow man taking orders from the same jailer that controlled Winston. Why should he respect a man who was just as trapped as he was?
He listened to the report with a third ear, the numbers and jargon a dull, meaningless thrum in the background. His eyes, however, were fixed on Rick. The boy was a symbol of everything Winston despised about this new life—the arrogance, the smug certainty that money was the answer to everything, the effortless superiority. He hadn't realized Rick would be here, but in a way, it made sense. He was a new team leader, a small fish in an ocean of sharks. A fresh-faced, innocent pawn in a game Winston had been forced to play since the AI had entered his life. He stared at Rick, a silent, internal scream of annoyance. Look at him, Winston thought, he doesn't know. He doesn't know what's coming. He didn't know why Vance was bringing him here, but he had a feeling it was for a show. A demonstration of power. He was a pawn, and he was about to be moved.
After what felt like an eternity, Melissa took over, her voice a low, precise instrument as she delivered the legal updates. She spoke of lawsuits and intellectual property rights, of mergers and acquisitions, and of the complex legal safeguards that protected the company from the outside world. Rick half-listened, his mind still reeling from the silent encounter with Winston.
Finally, after a grueling fifty minutes, Vance held up a hand. George and Melissa stopped talking instantly, their mouths snapping shut. The room was so silent that Rick could hear the frantic pounding of his own heart against his ribs.
Vance's voice, when he spoke, was low, a rumbling thunder that carried a finality Rick had never heard before. "That's all for today. Other than that, I have two new announcements."
He paused, letting the words sink in. He looked directly at Robert Mason, a gesture that sent a jolt of anxiety through Rick's father. "Everyone knows Robert Mason has worked at our company for a long time and has done a wonderful job." Robert's face, usually so composed, was a mask of an almost painful gratitude. This was the praise he had worked his entire life for.
Vance's gaze shifted to Rick. "But today, the good news is after years, his son, Rick Mason, got promoted to team leader. I wanted to congratulate both father and son."
Rick felt a small, fleeting wave of relief, quickly followed by confusion. This was it. This was the validation, the moment he had been waiting for. He saw the looks on George and Melissa's faces, looks of utter bewilderment. Since when did Vance care about a team leader? George thought. He doesn't even care about floor managers. The praise felt strangely hollow, a prelude to something darker.
Vance's gaze then moved back to Winston, his voice a low, theatrical hum. "Second notice, to the right of me is Winston Stone, like I mentioned."
Vance's eyes, a piercing blue, swept over the room. "The question you're all wondering is who is Winston Stone, and why is he right next to me?"
Rick felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He wasn't the only one wondering. He saw George and Melissa subtly shift in their seats, their professional facades cracking under the weight of their own curiosity.
Vance's gaze, however, landed specifically on Rick. "Isn't that right, Rick Mason?" he asked, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips, designed to make Rick crumble.
Winston, still a portrait of indifference, looked at Vance, a confused expression momentarily crossing his face. What is this lunatic playing at? he thought. He's supposed to be a monster, not a game show host.
Vance didn't wait for an answer. He took a single, deliberate step back from the table. "Well, Mr. Winston Stone, is a private consultant to Blue Nova AI 9."
A wave of shocked silence swept through the room, a collective intake of breath. Who hadn't heard of that corporation? Blue Nova AI 9 wasn't just a company; it was a ghost in the machine of the world, a force of such immense wealth and power that it was rumored to own countries. It was, indisputably, the richest company in the world.
"Also," Vance continued, his voice regaining its corporate chill, "we will be hiring Mr. Winston Stone as a consultant for Vance Corporation as well."
He paused for dramatic effect, letting the weight of the titles settle. "And if anyone knows Blue Nova AI 9, that's the richest company in the world. Mr. Winston is good friends with the head of Blue Nova AI 9. The head of Blue Nova AI 9 has never been seen and is a mystery. That is someone even I wouldn't want to upset, and a good friend of mine."
The words were a physical blow to everyone in the room. Vance, a man who had built his empire on fear, a man whose reputation was a whispered tale of ruthlessness, was admitting that he was afraid of someone. Everyone looked at Winston, the man who had been sleeping just moments ago, and suddenly, he wasn't a human anymore. He was a terrifying, unknown force of nature. Rick's world froze. He could hear his own heartbeat, a frantic, desperate drumbeat in his ears.
"Also, more than that," Vance said, his voice dropping, his eyes boring directly into Rick. He slammed his hand on the table, the sound a thunderclap in the silent room. His voice, which was usually as flat and emotionless as a machine, rose to a shout.
"He is a close friend of mine, and the figure behind Winston Stone is upset about how Mr. Stone has been treated yesterday!"
Everyone in the room was utterly bewildered. George and Melissa felt as though today was a dream, a surreal, terrifying nightmare. Vance, a man who was utterly devoid of emotion, was screaming. He was angry. He was defending someone.
"Mr. Rick Mason," Vance yelled, his voice echoing in the silent room. "You want to give a reason for yesterday's actions at the reunion where you tried to embarrass and make fun of Winston Stone?! How dare you make fun of the new consultant to Vance Corporation and my close friend!"
Rick and his father both went ashen, frozen in their seats like prey caught in a spotlight. George and Melissa were lost in a sea of confusion, their minds struggling to comprehend the depth of this disaster. Winston, however, was no longer confused. A thin, almost invisible smile played on his lips. He was enjoying the show, a small, twisted sense of satisfaction coiling in his chest. Rick's fear, a raw, naked thing, was a perverse balm to the hollow emptiness in his heart. For the first time in his new life, he felt a fleeting moment of something akin to dark joy.