Despite JBL Investment taking a step back from Blackfire, Derek Morgan had no intention of slowing down.
If anything, the retreat confirmed what he already believed: the moment people stopped trying to control you was the moment you became dangerous. And Derek had learned long ago that momentum was everything. If you paused, even for a breath, someone else would decide your direction for you.
That morning, instead of heading into the glass-and-steel sanctuary of Blackfire's headquarters, Derek took a very different route.
The meeting was set for eight thirty a.m.
The location was a small, family-run breakfast place in Compton.
The restaurant sat on a corner where the paint on nearby buildings peeled under years of sun and neglect. The smell of frying oil and coffee hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sound of traffic and distant sirens. Inside, cracked vinyl booths lined the walls, and the counter stools were patched with duct tape and stubborn pride.
Derek was already there.
He sat in a booth near the window, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed, methodically working through a stack of pancakes drowned in syrup. A cup of black coffee sat to his right, untouched, steam curling upward in lazy spirals.
To anyone watching, he looked out of place—but not uncomfortable.
Alan Payne entered three minutes late.
The moment he stepped inside, his shoulders tightened. His eyes swept the room instinctively, cataloging exits, faces, movements. Years in law had trained him to read danger, and every headline he'd ever read about Compton screamed at him now.
He slid into the booth opposite Derek, lowering his voice immediately.
"Why," Alan said carefully, "did you choose to meet here?"
Derek didn't look up. He cut into his pancakes with surgical precision and gestured casually with his fork toward the counter.
"See the guy sitting there?"
Alan followed the gesture.
At the counter sat a massive black man with shoulders like carved stone, wearing a simple coat and nursing a mug of coffee. His head was shaved clean, his posture relaxed—but his eyes missed nothing. They flicked briefly toward Alan, then away, already done assessing him.
"That's Bala," Derek said calmly. "Former Nigerian special forces."
Alan blinked. "Special forces."
"Yes."
Derek finally looked up, a faint smile touching his lips. "Under his coat is an FN submachine gun. Compact. Reliable. He prefers it over pistols."
Alan felt his stomach drop.
"And," Derek added, as if discussing the weather, "there are two more watching the perimeter. One across the street. One near the alley."
Alan slowly leaned back in the booth.
"…I see."
Derek took a sip of his coffee. "Relax. No one here is a threat unless we are."
Alan exhaled, rubbing his temples. "You're eighteen years old and you're already meeting your lawyer under armed protection in Compton."
"I grew up learning that location doesn't create danger," Derek replied evenly. "Neglect does."
He pushed his plate aside and his tone shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. The casual edge disappeared, replaced by something sharper, more focused.
"Now," Derek said, "let's talk about lobbying."
Alan straightened instinctively.
"You want politicians," Alan said. "Federal? State?"
"Local," Derek replied. "For now."
He leaned back and gestured subtly around the room—at the waitress laughing with a customer, at the old man reading a newspaper near the window, at the young couple whispering over shared hash browns.
"Look at them," Derek said quietly. "Really look."
Alan did.
"These people," Derek continued, "have been written off for decades. Reduced to statistics. To crime maps. To election talking points."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"Compton didn't become what it is because the people here are broken," Derek said. "It became this because opportunity never arrived. Protection turned into gangs. Belonging turned into violence. Drugs filled the vacuum where investment should've been."
Alan watched Derek closely now.
"This," Derek said, tapping the table lightly, "is an experiment."
Alan raised an eyebrow. "An experiment?"
"I want to know," Derek said, voice steady, "what happens when the minority population of Los Angeles is given the same access as everyone else. Capital. Infrastructure. Education. Protection that isn't predatory."
"And you think you can do that?"
Derek smiled faintly. "I know I can."
Alan hesitated. "This isn't philanthropy."
"No," Derek agreed immediately. "It's business."
He reached into his bag and slid a thin file across the table.
On the cover was a name: Councilwoman Lakeisha Williams.
"One of Compton's representatives," Derek said. "Smart. Pragmatic. Tired of being ignored."
Alan flipped the file open. Public records. Voting history. Community initiatives. Campaign funding gaps.
"You want a private meeting," Alan said.
"I need it," Derek corrected. "This doesn't start with headlines. It starts with zoning, permits, incentives, and protection from bureaucratic sabotage."
Alan closed the file slowly. "You're planning to invest here."
"I'm planning to embed," Derek said.
Alan frowned. "That's a dangerous word."
"It's an honest one."
Derek leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"Blackfire builds digital worlds," he said. "The Raven acquires and restructures corporations. This"—he gestured toward the street outside—"this is where I test whether systems can be rebuilt from the ground up."
"And the profit?" Alan asked carefully.
Derek laughed—not mockingly, but genuinely.
"Of course there's profit," he said. "I'll have stakes in local businesses. Infrastructure contracts. Training programs. Logistics pipelines. When Compton grows, I grow."
He tilted his head slightly.
"And when people have something to lose," he added, "they protect it."
Alan was silent for a long moment.
"You're talking about social engineering," he said finally.
Derek shrugged. "Every system is engineered. Most just pretend they aren't."
Alan glanced once more around the restaurant. The people. The noise. The life.
"This will attract attention," he warned.
Derek's smile returned—slow, knowing.
"It already has," he said. "The difference is, this time I choose where it starts."
Bala stood up from the counter, stretching slightly, eyes flicking toward Derek in silent confirmation. Everything was clear.
Derek rose from the booth and slid a few bills onto the table.
"Set the meeting," he told Alan. "Quietly."
Alan picked up the file, his grip tight.
"And Derek?" he said.
"Yes?"
Alan hesitated, then spoke honestly. "This isn't a game you can reset."
Derek paused at the door, glancing back with calm green eyes.
"I know," he said. "That's why it matters."
Then he stepped outside, into the sunlight and cracked concrete, already moving forward—while the world struggled to realize that the most dangerous plans were never announced.
They were built.