The community center on Alondra Boulevard had never seen this many people.
Folding chairs filled every inch of the hall, spilling into the aisles and pressing against the walls. Elderly residents sat in the front rows, arms crossed, eyes sharp with decades of hard-earned skepticism. Younger men leaned against the back walls, hoodies pulled low, whispering among themselves. Mothers held restless children on their laps. Small business owners clutched notebooks, phones already recording.
There was tension in the air—thick, electric, volatile.
Councilwoman Lakeisha Williams stood at the podium, microphone clipped neatly to her jacket. She scanned the room slowly, letting the murmurs die down on their own. This wasn't a crowd that responded well to being shushed.
Behind her, a large screen displayed a simple title:
PROJECT LIGHT — COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT PROPOSAL
She exhaled quietly and began.
"I won't insult you by pretending you don't know why we're here," she said. "You've heard the rumors. You've seen the trucks surveying streets. You've heard the name Derek Morgan."
A ripple of reactions moved through the crowd.
"He's a billionaire," someone muttered. "Another developer," someone else scoffed. "They always say that at first."
Lakeisha raised a hand. "Tonight isn't about selling you a dream. It's about laying everything on the table and letting you decide."
She clicked the remote.
The screen shifted to a map of northern Compton.
"This is the proposed development zone," she said. "Residential towers, business centers, schools, healthcare facilities. Built over three years. Fully funded."
A man in the third row stood abruptly. "And where the hell do we go while you build it?"
Murmurs of agreement erupted.
Lakeisha nodded. "That's the first question everyone asks. So I'll answer it plainly."
She clicked again.
PERMANENT RESIDENCY GUARANTEE
"No one is being displaced," she said firmly. "Every current resident in the zone is guaranteed permanent housing in the new developments. Ownership, not rent."
The room stilled.
"Ownership?" a woman near the front asked cautiously.
"Yes," Lakeisha replied. "You receive the deed. You can live there. Sell it. Lease it. Pass it to your children."
A man laughed bitterly. "What's the catch?"
Lakeisha didn't flinch. "You also become stakeholders."
The next slide appeared.
PROFIT PARTICIPATION
"Every resident receives a percentage of the profits generated by the businesses operating within the development."
The room erupted.
"That's not real!" "Sounds illegal!" "They lying!"
Lakeisha waited, arms folded, letting the noise burn itself out.
"The contracts are public," she said. "Reviewed by independent legal teams. If you want your own lawyer to look at it, you're encouraged to do so."
A younger man shouted, "This just gentrification with extra steps!"
That word hit like a match to gasoline.
People shouted over one another now.
"They always push us out!" "They make it look nice then jack up prices!" "This ain't for us!"
Lakeisha leaned into the microphone. "Gentrification removes people. This project ties wealth to the people already here."
A woman stood, voice shaking. "What about race? You think this white billionaire gives a damn about us?"
The room went quiet.
Lakeisha hesitated for half a second, then said, "I asked him that same question."
She turned to another slide—this one text-heavy.
"Project Light's equity structure gives ten to fifteen percent ownership to residents," she said. "No developer in this country does that. Not for charity. Not for PR."
A man near the back crossed his arms. "Why Compton?"
Lakeisha answered honestly. "Because he believes places written off as lost are where the biggest returns are."
That answer landed differently.
The discussion went on for hours.
Anger. Hope. Suspicion. Arguments between neighbors who had known each other for decades. People who had buried friends, raised families, survived riots and crack epidemics, and politicians who had promised everything and delivered nothing.
Contracts were passed around. Phones were pulled out. People whispered to spouses, called relatives, debated quietly.
Near the end, an elderly man stood slowly, leaning on a cane.
"I grew up here," he said. "My daddy grew up here. Ain't nobody ever offered us ownership before."
Silence followed.
"If this is real," he continued, "then it ain't just buildings. It's inheritance."
That was the word that changed everything.
Inheritance.
By the time the meeting ended, no contracts were signed—but dozens of people took copies home. Some asked where to sign. Others said they needed time, family discussions, prayer.
But no one walked out dismissing it anymore.
Project Light had been approved in principle.
And everyone in the room knew it.
They weren't just voting on construction.
They were deciding the future of their bloodlines.
---
Across the city, in a quiet high-rise office overlooking downtown Los Angeles, Derek Morgan watched a very different crowd.
Maria Santos, his publicist, paced slowly as she spoke, tablet in hand.
"The demo is ready," she said. "That changes everything. But if we just release it quietly, it won't land the way it should."
Derek leaned back in his chair. "I want chaos."
Maria smiled faintly. "I was hoping you'd say that."
She tapped her tablet, projecting a map of the United States onto the wall.
"A scavenger hunt," she said. "Nationwide. Cryptic clues dropped online, in cities, in gaming forums. Physical locations. Digital puzzles. The first one thousand people to finish get access to the Reality Quest demo."
"And everyone else?" Derek asked.
"They watch," Maria said. "Livestreamed gameplay. Reactions. Screams. Rage quits. Triumph."
Derek nodded. "Timeline?"
"One week to set it up properly."
Derek reached into his wallet and placed a black card on the table, sliding it toward her.
"No limit," he said. "I want this impossible to ignore."
Maria raised an eyebrow. "You're confident."
"I know what we built," Derek replied. "Once they see it, they won't be asking if it's real."
She pocketed the card. "By launch day, gamers won't be wondering what Reality Quest is."
"They'll be wondering how to get in," Derek finished.
As Maria left, Derek stood and walked to the window.
Outside, the city buzzed—ignorant of the fact that two worlds were about to change.
One brick by brick.
The other, player by player.
And Derek Morgan was orchestrating both.