"Connecting you to the senior partner's private line now, Arthur," Atlas's voice murmured smoothly from the invisible micro-emitters embedded in the ceiling.
A crisp, high-definition holographic window snapped into existence in the center of the pristine, soundproofed living room. The swarm had finished the interior renovations overnight, leaving behind a minimalist, ultra-modern aesthetic with dark oak floors and matte-grey walls that felt like a high-end sanctuary.
On the screen, a man with perfectly styled hair and an impeccably tailored Tom Ford suit was sitting behind a massive glass desk. Behind him, the New York skyline stretched out in a dizzying array of glass and steel.
Harvey Specter looked up from a file, his expression caught somewhere between mild annoyance and practiced arrogance. He didn't ask how a random caller had bypassed his secretary, his screening protocols, and his private unlisted extension. He just looked at the camera with the predatory calm of a man who assumed he was always the smartest person in the room.
"I don't know who your tech guy is," Harvey said, his voice smooth and commanding, "but hacking my private line is a federal offense. I usually charge a thousand dollars an hour just to pretend I care about a prospective client's problems. For you, the meter is running, and I'm already bored."
I leaned back into the plush leather of the armchair Atlas had ordered for me, resting my ankle on my knee.
"Arthur Hastings," I introduced myself, my tone relaxed, entirely unbothered by his posturing.
"And my tech guy is currently depositing a two-million-dollar retainer into Pearson Hardman's escrow account. Consider it an apology for the intrusion, and a down payment for your undivided attention."
Harvey's eyes flicked to a monitor off-screen. I watched the micro-expressions on his face—the slight narrowing of his eyes, the subtle tightening of his jaw as he verified the wire transfer. When he looked back at the camera, the annoyance was gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating interest.
"Two million clears a lot of federal offenses, Arthur," Harvey said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. "What exactly does Hastings Innovations do, and who are we suing?"
"We aren't suing anyone. We are building a fortress," I replied, a small smile touching my lips. "I am an inventor, Harvey. I create proprietary technology that is, quite frankly, decades ahead of current market capabilities. I don't want fame. I don't want my face on the cover of Forbes. I want absolute, impenetrable legal black boxes. I need shell companies layered so deep that the IRS would get a migraine just looking at the paperwork. I need airtight non-disclosure agreements, ironclad patent protections, and a corporate structure that allows me to purchase raw industrial materials without triggering government oversight."
"You want to be a ghost with a limitless credit limit," Harvey translated effortlessly.
"Exactly."
"That level of corporate structuring isn't just paperwork, Arthur. It's war. You're asking me to blindfold the SEC and the US Patent Office."
"Which is why I bypassed the associates and came straight to the best closer in the city," I said smoothly. "Atlas is sending you a securely encrypted file right now. It contains the preliminary structural requirements for three shell entities. You handle the legal architecture; I'll handle the capital. If you need more money, say the word. But in return, you are my wall. Nothing gets past you, and nobody finds out I exist."
Harvey stared at me through the screen for a long, silent moment. He loved a challenge, and he loved a whale of a client even more.
"I'll have the preliminary LLCs registered in Delaware by tomorrow morning," Harvey said, a genuine, shark-like grin appearing on his face. "Welcome to Pearson Hardman, Arthur. Let's make you a ghost."
"Pleasure doing business with you, Harvey."
The holographic window vanished.
I let out a slow, satisfied breath, the quiet of the house washing over me. The legal front was secured. I had the capital, and now I had the corporate shields.
But sitting in that expensive leather chair, surrounded by reality-bending technology, I suddenly felt the fragile, persistent ache in my lower back—a leftover from a bad mattress in my past life—and the slight lethargy of a body that had spent too many years sitting behind a desk.
'A fortress is only as strong as its king,' I mused, rubbing my jaw.
I had billions of microbots, an alien-tier AI, and fourteen million dollars. But if I tripped down the stairs and snapped my neck, or caught a stray bullet in a bank robbery, none of it would matter. I needed an upgrade. Not a clunky suit of armor. I needed to fix the foundation itself.
"Atlas," I said, standing up and heading toward the basement door. "Shut down the external network feeds. Absolute privacy protocols in the workshop."
"Protocols engaged, sir. The basement is completely isolated."
Walking down the wooden stairs, I let my mind drift to the concept of biological perfection. I didn't want to be a hulking green rage monster, and I didn't want the grotesque, veiny aesthetic of a Resident Evil bio-weapon.
I thought of the Super Soldier Serum from the Marvel Cinematic Universe—Captain America's peak human potential. But Erskine's formula was outdated. It required Vita-Rays and caused excruciating pain. I needed it refined.
I added the concept of the NZT-48 pill from Limitless, to expand my neural pathways and perfectly integrate my brain with the newly enhanced body, minus the lethal dependency and side effects. And to ground it, a synthetic recreation of the Heart-Shaped Herb from Black Panther, giving the cellular structure a stabilized, vibranium-like durability and kinetic absorption quality.
The moment the cocktail of fictional genetics fully formed in my mind, the power answered.
The fugue state hit me like a tidal wave of ice water.
My eyes went wide, my pupils dilating as a terrifyingly vast comprehension of molecular biology, quantum chemistry, and genetic sequencing flooded my brain. It wasn't just knowledge; it was an absolute, divine mastery of organic matter.
I held my hands out over the long stainless-steel workbench the microbots had constructed.
I couldn't conjure a finished bio-reactor, but I could conjure the parts.
Heavy thuds and sharp clinks echoed through the basement as components materialized out of thin air. Thick, reinforced quartz-glass cylinders. Spools of superconducting copper wire. Micro-centrifuge motors spinning at zero-friction tolerances. Vials of raw, unrefined chemical precursors—amino acids, synthesized vibranium isotopes, and glowing, unstable kinetic enzymes.
My hands moved with surgical, inhuman speed. I assembled the centrifuge, wiring the electromagnetic coils to the localized arc reactor powering Atlas's server. I calibrated the laser-spectrometer using a shard of conjured diamond.