Reality Quest had taken four months to build from the ground up and a little over three hundred million dollars to bring into existence. From concept to execution, it had been a calculated gamble—one that Derek Morgan had never doubted, even when others quietly assumed the project was nothing more than an overfunded fantasy.
Two weeks after its release, the numbers spoke louder than any press conference ever could.
One hundred and ten million downloads.
Ninety-three point five million dollars in revenue, even after the mandatory game store fees had taken their cut. The price point—just a single dollar—had been derided by analysts as reckless before launch. Now, the same analysts were scrambling to revise their projections, writing long-winded articles explaining why the strategy had been "inevitable in hindsight."
If the current trajectory held, Derek would begin collecting pure profit in forty-five days.
Not revenue. Not gross figures padded by optimism.
Profit.
Reality Quest had become more than a game. It was a phenomenon. Forums were flooded with players dissecting medieval trade routes, debating the realism of feudal taxation systems, and sharing screenshots of obscure Easter eggs hidden in forgotten villages or deep within ruined keeps. Streamers clocked ten-hour sessions exploring continents modeled after Africa, Europe, and Asia, marveling at how cities felt alive rather than staged.
The phrase "It feels like a real world" began appearing repeatedly across social media.
And Derek noticed everything.
But Reality Quest wasn't the only engine quietly reshaping the landscape.
Across California, companies with even the loosest ties to the construction industry began experiencing noticeable spikes in their stock prices. Cement suppliers, steel manufacturers, logistics firms, prefabrication specialists—investors were pouring money into anything remotely connected to large-scale development.
Northern Compton had become the spark.
Derek's insistence on simultaneous construction had sent shockwaves through the industry. Instead of the traditional staggered approach—one project finishing before the next began—multiple residential high-rises were rising at once. Cranes dotted the skyline like permanent fixtures. Night crews worked under artificial light as relentlessly as the day crews under the sun.
Contractors pushed themselves to exhaustion, not because Derek bullied them, but because his deadlines were immovable. If a firm couldn't meet them, another one would. Payment was immediate upon task completion—no delays, no bureaucratic stalling, no creative accounting.
That alone had made Raven Corporation a preferred client.
Still, Derek wasn't blind to reality.
Nearly seven thousand residents still needed permanent housing before he would even consider commercialization. Offices, retail centers, entertainment complexes—those were future concerns. For now, residential stability came first. He had received assurances from multiple firms that several high-rise residential buildings would be completed within a few months, enough to ease the pressure and maintain public goodwill.
Promises were cheap, but progress was visible.
And visible progress created belief.
Belief, Derek knew, was far more valuable than money.
Inside the offices of JBL Investment, belief was in short supply.
The air was heavy, thick with restrained irritation and something closer to resentment. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a city that seemed to be accelerating past them, indifferent to their influence.
Reality Quest had been released.
That fact alone irritated the top partners more than they cared to admit.
Blackfire Technologies had been dismissed months ago, brushed aside after Fabian Matthews returned empty-handed from what should have been a straightforward acquisition or partnership. At the time, JBL had assumed it was a matter of leverage. A young founder. An ambitious developer. Someone who would eventually fold.
Instead, Blackfire had detonated across the market.
But that still wasn't the real problem.
The Raven Corporation was.
The partners had begun quietly, the way they always did—reviewing portfolios, running internal risk analyses, contacting banks that had long-standing relationships with JBL. The plan was simple and proven: identify loans tied to Raven's massive redevelopment projects, buy up the debt, and use it as leverage.
Debt always existed. It was the invisible skeleton holding modern development upright.
Except this time, there was nothing to grab onto.
Banks reported no outstanding loans tied to Raven Corporation. No structured debt. No quiet lines of credit. No bonds issued under shell entities. Even the suppliers and contractors—normally eager to extend terms—were being paid immediately upon completion.
Cash.
Pure, liquid, relentless cash.
That alone was alarming.
JBL's analysts dug deeper, expanding their inquiries beyond traditional channels. Insurance firms. Logistics partners. Secondary suppliers. Everyone said the same thing: Raven paid on delivery. Sometimes even ahead of schedule.
The model made no sense.
Projects of this magnitude should have been leveraged to the teeth. Yet Raven operated as if capital constraints simply didn't exist.
And then a familiar name surfaced again.
Derek Morgan.
The same Derek Morgan who had rejected Fabian Matthews outright. The same Derek Morgan whose name appeared on Blackfire Technologies' paperwork. And now, unmistakably, the same name attached to The Raven Corporation.
It wasn't coincidence.
The realization settled heavily across the boardroom.
"He's connected to both," one partner said quietly.
"He is both," another corrected.
Silence followed.
JBL had made a mistake. Not in underestimating a company—that happened all the time. But in dismissing a person. Derek Morgan wasn't behaving like a founder desperate for validation or capital. He was moving like someone who had already won and was simply deciding how much of the world to touch next.
"What do we actually know about him?" a senior partner finally asked.
Very little, it turned out.
No major interviews. No flashy public appearances. No social media presence worth mentioning. His companies spoke when necessary; he did not. Raven remained private. Blackfire issued only controlled releases. Even his personal history was frustratingly sparse.
Too clean.
They didn't like that.
"If we can't pressure the company," one of them said, "we pressure the man."
Heads nodded slowly.
Derek Morgan needed to be drawn into the open. Visibility created vulnerability. Public narratives could be shaped. Influence could be exerted once a figure became unavoidable.
They didn't need him to fail.
They just needed him exposed.
Outside the JBL offices, the city continued moving, unaware that powerful interests were recalibrating their strategies. To most of the world, Derek Morgan was still little more than a name whispered in articles and speculation threads.
But that was changing.
Momentum had a way of dragging people into the light—whether they wanted it or not.
And for the first time since Reality Quest went live, Derek felt it.
Not as fear.
But as pressure.
The kind that preceded escalation.