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The next day, the coastal town was as quiet as ever.
The bubble tea shop had no customers. The owner leaned against the counter, scrolling his phone, waiting for something to happen. Nothing was going to happen. Nothing ever happened here, except for that strange family that had come in last week and talked about ten million dollars over three cups of tea.
Mason Reed arrived by taxi.
"Nobody really comes out this way," the driver had told him during the ride. "Especially not from out of state."
Mason stood on the main street and looked around. Vegetable stalls. A convenience store. A barber shop that might have been closed or might have just been very quiet. A tea shop with no customers.
This did not look like the kind of place where investors lived.
He checked his phone. The group chat was pinging.
"Mason, how's it going? Met the guy yet?"
He started typing "This feels like a dead end" and then deleted it.
His team was counting on this meeting. All seven of them. The last six months had been a slow-motion collapse: no funding, no traction, no interest from anyone who mattered. They'd pitched to eleven investors. Every single one had said the same thing: your team is passionate, your technology is competent, but your market is already saturated. Myoelectric prosthetics are a mature field. The major manufacturers have decades of brand trust and distribution networks. What can a startup with no track record offer that justifies the risk?
Nothing. That was the honest answer. They had heart and they had a decent prototype and they had absolutely nothing else. The investors could see it. Mason could see it too, even though he couldn't admit it to his team.
They were three weeks from dissolution. The money was gone. The credit cards were maxed. Two members had already started applying for jobs, though they hadn't told anyone yet.
Then the phone call came. A friend of a friend of an old contact. Someone was interested. Wanted to meet. Could Mason come to a town he'd never heard of, near a coast he'd never visited?
Mason had bought the cheapest ticket available. The team couldn't afford a second one, so he went alone. If this was a dead end, at least only one person's time would be wasted.
He walked into the tea shop and sat down. The owner came over.
"What can I get you?"
Mason's hand went instinctively to his pocket, checking the cash situation. "I'm waiting for someone. I'll order when they arrive."
The owner nodded and retreated. Mason exhaled. If he bought a tea now, that was dinner off the table tonight.
His phone rang.
"Mr. Reed?"
"Speaking."
"Have you arrived at the location?"
Mason paused. The voice on the other end was young. Not young-professional young. Young young. The kind of voice that still had its teenage register.
"I'm here. At the tea shop."
"Five minutes."
The caller hung up. Mason stared at his phone. Then he looked at the shop owner and gave an awkward smile.
See? I really am meeting someone.
The owner smiled back, clearly unconvinced.
Five minutes passed. The door opened.
A teenager walked in. Average height, lean build, carrying himself with the quiet confidence of someone who'd never had a reason to doubt his own judgment. He scanned the room, locked on to Mason immediately, and walked over.
"I'm Ryan Mercer."
Mason stood up so fast he nearly knocked his chair over. He grabbed Ryan's hand with both of his. "Mason Reed. It's great to meet you."
They sat. Ryan studied Mason for about three seconds and had a complete read.
The man was nervous. Not the nervous of someone meeting a business contact, but the nervous of someone whose entire future was riding on what happened in the next thirty minutes. His clothes were clean but worn. His shoes had been resoled at least once. His handshake was eager to the point of desperate.
Mason Reed was broke, out of options, and clinging to this meeting like a life raft.
Mason, for his part, was studying Ryan. The face was impossibly young, barely past childhood. But the eyes didn't match the face. Calm. Assessing. Already two steps ahead of the conversation.
And he looked familiar. Mason couldn't place it.
Ryan got to business. "Your team is working on myoelectric prosthetics?"
Mason straightened. "Yes. A three-degree-of-freedom myoelectric upper limb. Finger articulation, three-sixty wrist rotation, elbow flexion and extension." He demonstrated each movement with his own hand, the practiced motion of someone who'd given this pitch dozens of times.
"Our prototype performs at a level comparable to the top domestic manufacturers. With funding, we can close the remaining gap with the international leaders within a year."
"If your performance is comparable to existing products, why hasn't anyone invested?"
Mason winced slightly. The honest answer: because "comparable" wasn't good enough. The market was dominated by established brands with decades of trust. Patients chose proven products from proven companies. A startup with a "comparable" prosthetic and zero track record wasn't a compelling investment.
"There's a small gap with the international standard," Mason said carefully. "But we're confident we can close it quickly with the right support."
He could feel himself sliding into pitch mode. The inspirational founder narrative. The underdog story. The "we just need one chance" speech that had failed eleven times already.
Ryan cut him off before he could start.
"I'm not interested in the gap. That's not why I'm here."
Mason blinked.
"I reached out to your team because I have a different direction in mind. One that would make the myoelectric approach irrelevant."
Mason's confusion was visible.
Ryan leaned forward slightly. "How would you feel about changing your research direction entirely?"