By the end of March, Derek Morgan's life had settled into a rhythm that would have broken most men twice his age.
Sleep came in fragments. Meals were taken whenever convenient. Conversations that could reshape cities happened over coffee, blueprints, and secure conference lines. And yet, despite the scale of what he was building, Derek remained unnervingly calm—almost detached—like a chess player who had already seen several moves ahead.
That Thursday afternoon, the conference room on the twenty-fourth floor of Blackfire Technologies was filled nearly to capacity. The long obsidian table reflected the overhead lights sharply, mirroring the tension in the room. Alan Payne sat at the head, flanked by senior attorneys drawn from half a dozen elite firms. On Derek's right were specialists in municipal law, real estate, and regulatory compliance. On his left sat financial architects and corporate strategists who had been flown in on short notice.
At exactly three in the afternoon, Derek walked in.
The room quieted instantly.
He didn't waste time with greetings.
"North Compton," Derek said, tapping a remote in his hand.
The wall-length screen flickered to life, revealing a sweeping three-dimensional model of the area—streets, blocks, zoning lines, all rendered in extraordinary detail. The image shifted, structures rising smoothly from the virtual ground as if summoned by an unseen force.
Gasps rippled quietly around the table.
Luxury residential towers, sleek and modern, but not gaudy. Mixed-use high-rises integrating retail, education, healthcare, and public spaces. Green rooftops. Walkable districts. Schools embedded directly into residential zones. Transit access built into the foundation of the design.
"This," Derek continued evenly, "is phase one."
He gestured again, and the model zoomed in further. Every structure had layers—residential allocations, commercial footprints, emergency access routes, and security infrastructure that most cities would reserve for government buildings.
"These designs were produced overnight," Derek said. "Diverted talent from the Reality Quest environment team. Temporary reassignment. They'll be back on the game by next week."
One of the lawyers shook his head faintly. "You used game developers to model urban redevelopment?"
"They specialize in systems," Derek replied. "Cities are systems."
Alan leaned back in his chair, studying the projections. "You've selected the northern sector deliberately."
"Yes," Derek said. "Highest population density. Lowest average income. Highest projected return if stabilized correctly."
That caught their attention.
"Stabilized?" another attorney asked.
Derek nodded. "Which brings us to the contract."
At his signal, sealed folders were distributed across the table. Each bore a simple black raven insignia—no text, no flourish.
"The Co-Op Framework Agreement," Derek said. "Draft version one point zero."
Pages turned rapidly. Silence fell as eyes moved faster, brows furrowed, pens paused mid-note.
"This… isn't standard redevelopment," one attorney murmured.
"No," Derek agreed. "It's designed to make opposition irrational."
The contract was unlike anything most of them had seen.
Permanent residential allocation for current residents within the newly constructed high-rises. Units granted, not leased. Fully transferable ownership. Residents were free to sell, rent, or pass them down as they saw fit.
Profit participation clauses followed—residents receiving a percentage of net profits generated by the commercial operations within the development zone. Not symbolic percentages. Real numbers.
"This gives them equity," Alan said quietly.
"Yes," Derek replied. "It gives them incentive."
Security clauses were embedded seamlessly—shared responsibility, shared benefit. No forced displacement. No eminent domain abuse. No legal gray areas that could be exploited by activists or hostile media.
"Anyone with a stake protects the project," Derek said. "No one sabotages what feeds them."
A senior real estate attorney leaned forward slowly. "If this holds up in court… it changes the entire narrative around gentrification."
"That's the point."
They worked through the details for hours.
Language was sharpened. Clauses were stress-tested. Loopholes were hunted and sealed. Scenarios were run—hostile press, lawsuits, federal intervention, civil protests. Each time, the framework held.
By midnight, coffee cups littered the table.
By three in the morning, no one bothered sitting anymore.
At eight a.m. Friday morning, Alan closed the final folder and exhaled.
"It's airtight," he said. "As close to perfect as I've ever seen."
Derek nodded once. "Good."
He stood just as his phone vibrated.
Councilwoman Lakeisha Williams.
He stepped aside to answer.
"I'm ready," her voice said without preamble.
"Good," Derek replied. "Ten o'clock. Same café."
---
Lakeisha arrived early this time.
When Derek entered, she stood and offered her hand—something she hadn't done during their first meeting.
He accepted it calmly.
They sat.
She didn't waste time. "I reviewed your background."
Derek smiled faintly. "Then you know I don't bluff."
She nodded. "You're serious about this."
"Yes."
"How serious?"
Derek slid a tablet across the table. "Total projected investment: twenty to fifty billion dollars over a three-year period. Phased deployment. Front-loaded infrastructure spending. Full transparency."
Her eyes widened despite herself.
"That kind of capital—"
"I'm on a schedule," Derek said. "Three years. No delays. No half-measures."
She scrolled through the co-op agreement slowly, her expression shifting from skepticism to disbelief.
"You're giving them ownership," she said.
"Yes."
"And profit."
"Yes."
"And protection."
"Yes."
Lakeisha leaned back. "They'll call this a trap."
"They can read the contract," Derek replied. "It's written in plain language."
"And if the community rejects it?"
Derek met her gaze steadily. "Then I build somewhere else."
The bluntness startled her.
"You're not attached to this place," she said.
"I'm attached to results."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Lakeisha nodded. "I'll take it to them."
"Convince them," Derek said. "Or don't. Either way, the offer stands for thirty days."
She studied him carefully. "Why do this?"
Derek paused.
"Because people become dangerous when they're desperate," he said. "And valuable when they're invested."
He stood, signaling the meeting's end.
As he left the café, his phone buzzed again.
This time, it was good news.
---
Back at Blackfire, the atmosphere had changed.
What had once been skepticism had turned into something else—belief.
On the third floor, engineers crowded around screens. Artists argued passionately over armor design accuracy. Historians debated dialect variations between regions of twelfth-century Europe. Psychologists refined reward systems, carefully balancing dopamine spikes and long-term engagement.
Derek was pulled aside by one of the lead developers, eyes bright with exhaustion.
"We have something," the man said. "A vertical slice."
Derek followed him into a secure testing room.
The screen came alive.
A player spawned into the world—no interface clutter, no artificial prompts. Wind rustled grass. NPC villagers moved independently, reacting to the player's presence. A child stumbled and cried realistically. A blacksmith glanced up, wary, hand tightening around a hammer.
Then combat.
Messy. Chaotic. Brutal.
When the player died, the screen faded to black.
One word appeared.
DEAD
No retries. No checkpoints.
Derek watched silently.
"We're five months ahead of schedule," the developer said. "People are staying late voluntarily."
Derek nodded.
"Good."
As he turned away, his mind was already moving forward.
Compton. Reindeer Logistics. Reality Quest.
Three different games.
One strategy.
And Derek Morgan was just getting started.