Days blurred into a seamless, expensive rhythm for Winsten, each one a testament to the gilded cage the AI had built. He was driven in the Rolls-Royce by Sarah. He oversaw "consultancy reports," analyzed strategic acquisition data, and spent time with Lily, who was flourishing in a new, secure private school environment. Yet, beneath the veneer of this perfect life, the profound emptiness persisted. His life was an optimal algorithm, flawless in execution, devoid of soul.
Then came the summons.
It was a dark, eerie night, the kind of weather that felt less like nature and more like a theatrical backdrop for secret dealings. A cold, relentless rain lashed against the windows of the Rolls-Royce as it transported Winsten out of Manhattan and deep into rural Pennsylvania. The vehicle pulled off the highway onto a narrow, asphalt lane that disappeared into a dense, sprawling forest. Suddenly, the darkness was pierced by floodlights, revealing a formidable security perimeter.
This was not the sleek, futuristic penthouse where he had first encountered Vance. This was an older, more imposing structure: a sprawling mansion surrounded by meticulously manicured grass that dissolved into untamed forest. A heavy security gate barred the way, overlooked by cameras that tracked every inch of the perimeter, and guarded by uniformed personnel who looked less like typical security and more like private military contractors. This was the true stronghold, the private, off-the-grid domain that belonged to Author Vance.
After the gate slid silently open, the car proceeded up the long drive, pulling to a stop beneath a columned portico. Winsten stepped out. He was dressed simply in an expensive, dark wool coat over tailored trousers, but he was completely dry. The car's drop-off point and the mansion's entrance were sheltered by a massive canopy, ensuring no rain touched the arriving guest. Despite his lack of moisture, his mood was clearly irritated and annoyed.
Inside, the ambiance was heavy, the air thick with unspoken tension. Winsten found his way to a large, dim study where a fire crackled quietly in a stone hearth. Three people sat around an antique oak desk, the wood polished to a mirror sheen. The silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic tick of a grandfather clock in the corner.
The three people were familiar figures: to the side sat George and Melissa, the higher-ups of Vance Corporation, their faces betraying a coiled stillness that suggested they were aware this meeting was far outside the normal bounds of corporate procedure. And at the head of the table sat Author Vance, the man of impossible power.
A knock on the study door broke the silence. A security guard entered, his voice a low monotone: "The guest has arrived."
Winsten Stone walked in, his eyes immediately locking onto Vance. He ignored the polite, strained attention of George and Melissa. He wasn't trying to be rude, but he understood the game. Melissa was Vance's lawyer, and George was the meticulous chief operative. They were corporate weapons, and he had no interest in small talk with either the axe or the shield.
He stopped short of the table, his eyes holding Vance's gaze. "Listen, I'm not one of your lackeys you can summon anywhere and anytime by calling me and telling me where to show up. My time is not a resource for your casual deployment."
Author Vance looked at him and smiled—a thin, deliberate stretch of the lips that lacked any warmth. It was a cold, unsettling expression that immediately creeped everyone in the room out. It was the smile of a predator enjoying the sport.
Melissa, attempting to diffuse the tension with a polished veneer of corporate familiarity, leaned slightly forward. "Hello to you also, Mr. Stone. Us good friends need to stick together."
Winsten ignored her completely, his stare remaining fixed on Vance. His detachment wasn't merely rudeness; it was calculated self-preservation. She was Vance's lawyer, the institutional embodiment of the power structure. That was reason enough to stay far away from any pretense of friendship.
George, ever the pragmatist, offered only a silent, cautious nod. He was fully aware that Winsten's and Vance's relationship wasn't his business, and he knew Winsten had connections powerful enough to terrify the notoriously ruthless Vance. He had seen the "show" with Rick Mason and understood the unspoken rules: Winsten Stone was untouchable.
Vance finally gestured toward the empty chair. "Take a seat and relax, Mr. Stone. I won't be putting on any shows today."
George and Melissa exchanged a fleeting look of deep dread. Vance had just casually confirmed that the public, humiliating destruction of an employee in front of his father was merely a show.
Winsten, sensing the futility of standing, walked forward and sat down, his posture rigid.
Vance began, his voice taking on the low, conversational tone of a man about to deliver a profound, terrifying truth. "I'm sure you all have questions regarding the other day with Rick Mason. That's what we're here for."
Winsten gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Actually, I don't care at all. If that's what you called me for, can I go?"
Melissa and George tensed, their stomachs clenching. They were acutely aware that no one else in the world would talk to Vance like this and still walk away intact.
Vance's smile finally vanished. "No, that was merely the overture. I am also here to update all three of you on Blue Nova AI 9, the corporation."
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. The mention of the ghost corporation, the shadow entity rumored to run the world, stripped all pretense from the room. All three individuals—Winsten, George, and Melissa—instantly focused, every fiber of their being locked onto Vance's words.
Vance continued, leaning back in his chair, seemingly enjoying the palpable spike in anxiety. "When I was twenty, just coming up into the corporate world, Blue Nova AI 9 reached out to me. We've been working together ever since. Most people today think I'm the most powerful and richest person in the world. Vance Corporation is a juggernaut. But the richest corporation is Blue Nova AI 9."
He paused, letting the scope of that statement sink in. "People know it's worth trillions, but they don't know one person actually runs that corporation from head to toe. People believe Blue Nova even owns some countries behind the scenes. One rumor is that they effectively control Oman, a country in the Middle East."
Melissa and George were stunned into silence, their professional composure dissolving. The idea that a corporation could own a country—govern its resources, dictate its policy—was the stuff of conspiracy theory, and they wouldn't take it seriously if it wasn't Author Vance himself confirming the severity of the rumors.
Winsten had no reaction. He knew the basics and the rumors he didn't care about. He was waiting for the actual point, the reason the AI had forced him here.
Vance shifted, his voice dropping, carrying a new weight. "Their CEO is ruthless and will do whatever is necessary to achieve their goals, even remove obstacles if necessary. Someone who terrifies me."
Melissa and George felt a paralyzing wave of anxiety. Vance terrified them because he was a ruthless, emotionally vacant monster. So who—or what—could terrify the biggest monster they knew? They desperately did not want to find out or see the hidden entity that scared the scariest man they knew. The power vacuum above Vance was a terrifying void.
"The Blue Nova CEO," Vance continued, "has only ever been seen and met three people in total. The first person is the second in command of Blue Nova AI 9. Let's call her Evelyn Chen."
Melissa and George processed the detail: The Blue Nova CEO has only met two people ever. These two might be two of the most powerful and terrifying figures in the corporate world.
Vance held up a second finger. "The second is me, Author Vance."
He let the implication hang in the air: We are the elite. We are the only two people who know the true face of the world's most terrifying power.
Vance then looked slowly around the table, his eyes lingering on the terrified faces of his executives before turning to Winsten. "Then who is the third?"
Vance turned his face fully toward Winsten and stared, the cold amusement returning to his eyes.
"Yours truly: Mr. Winston Stone himself."
The revelation hit George and Melissa like a physical shock wave. They looked at Winsten, the man who had been sleeping in their board meeting, the man Rick Mason had mocked, the man Vance had just defended with screaming fury.
Vance's voice took on a theatrical, final pitch. "And what makes it scarier? The Blue Nova CEO—someone more ruthless and efficient than I am—considers Winston Stone dear and precious."
George and Melissa's hearts pounded, consumed by the anxieties and fear of this newly revealed, terrifying world and the horrifying curiosity of who Winsten Stone truly was. He was not merely a consultant; he was a protected, sacred asset of the power that controlled them all. The line between Winsten Stone, the human man, and the force protecting him had completely vanished. He was the most fearsome enigma in the room.