Derek Morgan sat comfortably behind the desk, fingers interlaced, posture relaxed to the point of seeming careless. Across from him sat Kyle Butler, a man in his early forties with graying temples, sharp eyes, and the quiet confidence of someone who had spent decades surviving corporate warfare. Kyle's suit was immaculate but understated—no loud brands, no vanity pieces. A man who valued function over flash.
Derek liked that.
The office on the twenty-fourth floor overlooked downtown Los Angeles, glass walls framing a city that never truly slept. The silence between the two men stretched deliberately. Derek allowed it. Silence was an excellent filter—those who filled it unnecessarily often revealed more than they intended.
Kyle didn't fidget.
"Tell me," Derek said at last, his voice even, unhurried, "how you would scale Reindeer Logistics from a regional operator into an international logistics company within two to three years."
Kyle leaned back slightly, folding his arms. "If I'm being honest?"
"I wouldn't have asked otherwise."
Kyle exhaled through his nose. "It's impossible under normal circumstances. Scaling logistics isn't like scaling software. It requires capital—massive capital. Infrastructure, ports, fleets, compliance across borders. Banks don't fund dreams like that without collateral, and Reindeer's not even publicly listed anymore. Raising funds would be a nightmare."
Derek nodded slowly, as if absorbing the criticism. "Money isn't the problem."
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "It always is."
"Not this time," Derek replied. "What I need is results."
Kyle studied him more carefully now. There was something unsettling about the young man's calm. No defensiveness. No posturing. Just certainty.
"Two years is enough," Kyle said finally. "Barely, but enough. One month to assess inefficiencies and bleeding points. Six months to expand aggressively—fleet acquisition, overseas partnerships, port access. Another six months to consolidate operations and cut redundancies. After that…" A thin smile appeared. "Profit collection."
Derek smiled back.
That was the answer he had been looking for.
They moved to compensation next, and Derek didn't bother dancing around the numbers.
"According to the audit," Derek said, sliding a document across the desk, "Reindeer Logistics is worth slightly over two hundred and fifty million dollars in real terms. Before the takeover, market valuation placed it around three hundred million. I paid four hundred and sixty-eight million to acquire it."
Kyle didn't react. But Derek noticed the subtle tightening of his jaw.
"I'm offering you twelve million dollars annually," Derek continued, "with eligibility for one-point-five percent equity once Reindeer begins turning consistent profits."
Kyle didn't hesitate.
"I accept."
Derek's eyes flickered with approval.
"Good," he said. Then, almost casually, as Kyle stood to leave, Derek added, "One more thing."
Kyle paused.
"I don't believe in litigation," Derek said quietly. "Lawsuits waste time. I prefer permanent solutions."
Kyle met his gaze. For a brief moment, the room felt colder.
"I understand," Kyle said.
When the door closed behind him, Derek leaned back in his chair, staring out at the city. Reindeer Logistics was no longer a revenge project. It was a tool—one of many.
That evening, Blackfire Technologies buzzed with activity. Employees rotated in shifts, engineers swapped out as others clocked in. Work never stopped. Servers hummed relentlessly on the twenty-third floor, and security personnel moved with quiet efficiency through the building.
But Derek was elsewhere.
He sat in a café in downtown Los Angeles, the lighting warm, the hum of conversation low. He checked his watch once, then again. Fifteen minutes late.
Intentional.
When Lakeisha Williams finally entered, she didn't bother hiding her irritation. Dressed sharply in a tailored blazer, she carried herself with the practiced authority of someone accustomed to being the most important person in the room.
Her eyes landed on Derek—and froze.
She stopped walking.
"You're kidding," she said flatly.
Derek stood politely. "Councilwoman Williams."
She didn't shake his hand.
"I was expecting an executive," she said. "Not a child."
"You have ten minutes," she added, glancing at her watch. "Convince me you didn't waste my time."
Derek sat back down, unfazed. "My name is Derek Morgan. Today, I'm here as the CEO of The Raven Corporation."
That earned him a flicker of attention.
Despite her rudeness, Derek remained courteous. Calm. Controlled.
"I don't need you," he said plainly. "But having you on my side saves time."
Lakeisha's eyes narrowed. "Bold."
"I have a plan for Compton," Derek continued. "Affordable housing—actually livable, not glorified boxes. Capital investment for small businesses. Scholarships, paid internships, vocational programs. And a rebrand."
"A rebrand," she repeated skeptically.
"Yes," Derek said. "Compton will be positioned alongside Beverly Hills and Hollywood. Not as a charity case. As a destination."
Her expression hardened.
"So you want my help to gentrify my neighborhood."
Derek inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
"I'm not here to look good on camera," he said. "And I'm not interested in political theater. I don't care what I look like to the press. I care about results."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I've lived with the odds stacked against me. I know what it feels like to be written off before you even speak. This isn't charity. It's an experiment. I want to see what happens when people who've been denied opportunity are finally given one—without strings."
Lakeisha studied him now, really studied him.
"Check your approval ratings," Derek said, standing. "Decide if backing this helps you or hurts you. Either way, I'm moving forward."
He didn't wait for her response.
As he walked out of the café, Lakeisha remained seated, staring at the untouched cup of coffee in front of her.
For the first time in years, someone hadn't asked for her permission.
And somehow, that frightened her more than any threat ever could.