For seven straight days, the questions didn't stop.
They came from business channels, technology blogs, political analysts, and lifestyle magazines that had never cared about infrastructure or gaming before. Every headline circled the same absence.
Who was in charge?
Blackfire Technologies continued to release no statements.
The Raven Corporation remained silent.
Inside the Blackfire building, silence bred panic.
Developers whispered in hallways. Department heads lingered longer than necessary in meetings. The public relations team—handpicked, highly paid, and used to controlling narratives—were the most visibly shaken. Every morning they arrived armed with talking points, draft statements, and media strategies. Every evening they left unused.
By the fifth day, they confronted Derek directly.
"What exactly are we supposed to be doing?" the head of PR asked carefully, choosing every word like it might explode. "We're being paid to manage perception, and perception is spiraling."
Derek didn't raise his voice.
He didn't even look irritated.
"Then you're focusing on the wrong audience," he said calmly.
They stared at him.
"The media isn't our problem," Derek continued. "They're noise. Temporary."
"Public confidence isn't temporary," someone pushed back.
Derek finally looked up.
"Public confidence doesn't build cities," he said. "Stakeholders do."
He slid a tablet across the table.
"Focus on the co-op signers," he instructed. "They're shareholders now. Make sure they understand one thing clearly—this project isn't under threat."
Someone hesitated. "And if they want out?"
Derek's expression didn't change.
"They can't," he said simply.
No one mentioned that the properties tied to those contracts had already been demolished. No one needed reminding that the agreements were airtight, layered with clauses written by lawyers who billed by the minute and slept soundly at night.
The message was clear.
Reassure them—not because they could leave, but because fear spreads faster than facts.
Outside the building, political allies quietly stepped back.
Governor Wesley stopped returning calls.
Councilwoman Lakeisha Williams delayed appearances connected to North Compton.
Mayor Reed, once eager for cameras, suddenly found scheduling conflicts.
No one wanted to be seen standing too close to a fire they didn't fully understand.
Derek noticed.
He said nothing.
Then, on Monday morning, Fabian Matthews walked into the building.
That—more than the articles, more than the think pieces, more than the whispers—was when Derek knew.
Fabian didn't announce himself. He didn't schedule through assistants. He didn't wait for clearance beyond the front desk.
He assumed access.
Security escorted him up out of protocol, not invitation.
By the time Fabian entered Derek's office, Derek was already certain.
This wasn't coincidence.
This was JBL.
Fabian smiled the moment he saw Derek, smooth and professional, like the past months had never happened.
"Derek," he said warmly. "It's been a while."
Derek stood, shook his hand, and gestured for him to sit.
Fabian launched into his pitch immediately.
"You're under pressure," he said, folding his hands. "Media scrutiny. Political distance. Regulatory interest. That doesn't go away on its own."
Derek listened, silent.
"JBL specializes in insulation," Fabian continued. "We manage narratives. We smooth political relationships. We structure capital in ways that protect founders from exposure."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You've built something extraordinary," Fabian said. "But you're too big to be alone."
Derek smiled.
It wasn't friendly.
It was patient.
Fabian kept talking.
He spoke about advisory boards, controlled disclosures, partnerships that provided "credibility." He framed JBL as a shield—an institution that could absorb attention while Derek focused on execution.
"You don't need to fight the system," Fabian said. "You just need someone who knows how to stand between you and it."
Still, Derek said nothing.
He just watched.
The smile never left his face.
It was the kind of smile a parent wore when a child insisted they hadn't taken the cookie—crumbs still on their lips.
Finally, Derek spoke.
"What do you really want?" he asked quietly.
Fabian paused.
Just for a moment.
Then he exhaled.
"Access," he admitted. "A seat. Participation."
"In what?" Derek asked.
Fabian didn't pretend anymore.
"North Compton," he said. "That project is generational. JBL wants in."
"No," Derek replied instantly.
Fabian blinked.
"I'm sorry?" he said.
"No," Derek repeated. "Outright."
Something snapped behind Fabian's eyes.
It wasn't the rejection.
It was who was rejecting him.
Fabian straightened, his voice tightening. "You should reconsider."
"Why?" Derek asked.
Fabian laughed once, sharp and humorless.
"Because you're making this harder than it needs to be," he said. "Because JBL doesn't like being shut out."
"And?" Derek prompted.
Fabian leaned back, his tone shifting.
"We did our homework on you," he said. "You're not exactly… established."
He listed it casually.
Orphan.
Foster homes.
Scholarship student.
Harvard dropout.
Each word was delivered like evidence.
Fabian continued, voice cool. "Ivy League education. Generational wealth. Institutional backing—that's how people like me end up where we are."
"And people like you," he added pointedly, "don't usually say no to firms like ours."
The room felt colder.
"You're stubborn," Fabian said. "And the media will eat you alive. Blackfire. Raven. Reality Quest. Every angle."
Derek stood.
Slowly.
The smile finally faded.
"You're done," Derek said.
Fabian rose as well, anger barely contained. "This isn't over."
Derek met his gaze.
"It is," he said calmly. "Now I know who's pulling the strings."
Fabian left without another word.
The door closed softly behind him.
Derek didn't move.
JBL had confirmed everything.
The media pressure.
The ethical panic.
The questions that weren't really questions.
They wanted leverage.
They wanted access.
And now they'd revealed themselves.
Derek turned back to his desk, already planning his next move.
The game had shifted.
And JBL had just made the mistake of stepping onto his board.