Two weeks passed in a blur that Derek barely registered.
Time, for him, had become elastic—compressed around projects and stretched thin around anything resembling a personal life. His nineteenth birthday arrived quietly, acknowledged only by a short message from Alan Payne and an automated notification from a private bank. There was no celebration, no pause for reflection. There would be time for that later, he told himself. There was always later.
What mattered now was Minnesota.
Alan had done what Alan did best: moved quietly, efficiently, and without unnecessary attention. Peter Bishop, CEO of Beowulf Tech Services, had agreed to a meeting—but on his own terms. No flashy offices. No investor presentations. No boardroom theatrics. Just a conversation, face-to-face, in Bishop's hometown.
Derek preferred it that way.
He boarded one of the newly acquired private jets at Santa Monica Airport just after dawn. The aircraft was still pristine, barely lived in, the scent of new leather lingering faintly in the cabin. It wasn't ostentatious—no gold accents, no unnecessary extravagance. Clean lines. Functional luxury. A flying office designed for thinking.
As the jet lifted into the pale California sky, Derek settled into his seat, tablet untouched, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Three hours in the air gave him something he rarely allowed himself: silence.
Below him, the country unfolded in shifting patterns—desert giving way to farmland, grids of civilization stitched together by highways and rivers. Derek didn't romanticize it. He saw infrastructure. Logistics. Density curves. Everything was a system if you looked long enough.
By the time the jet touched down in Minnesota, the afternoon sun was already descending, casting long shadows across the tarmac. Derek declined the car waiting on standby and opted instead for something simpler. Less noticeable.
At exactly three p.m., he walked into a small café tucked between a bookstore and an insurance office on a quiet street that looked like it hadn't changed in decades.
Peter Bishop was already there.
He was easy to spot—not because he stood out, but because he didn't try to. Mid-forties, slightly rumpled jacket, wire-rim glasses perched low on his nose. A man more comfortable with equations than people. He was nursing a cup of black coffee and reading something on a tablet when Derek approached.
"Peter Bishop?" Derek asked.
Peter looked up, eyes flicking over Derek with visible surprise before settling into careful neutrality.
"Yes," he said slowly. "And you're… Derek Morgan."
Derek nodded and extended his hand. Peter hesitated only a fraction of a second before shaking it.
They sat.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Peter was the first to break the silence. "I'll be honest," he said, folding his hands around the coffee cup. "I expected someone older."
Derek smiled faintly. "Most people do."
Peter studied him again, more openly this time. "You're young. But you don't move like someone who needs to prove it."
"I've learned that proving things wastes time," Derek replied. "I prefer building."
That earned him a short, surprised laugh. "Fair enough."
There was no small talk after that.
Derek went straight to the point.
"I was researching long-duration power sources," he said calmly. "Not for consumer electronics. Not for grid storage. For systems that require reliability measured in decades, not cycles. That's how I found Beowulf."
Peter stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"You won't find much," he said carefully. "We're not exactly popular."
"No," Derek agreed. "You're inconvenient."
That got Peter's full attention.
Derek continued, unfazed. "Your nickel-diamond battery design is elegant. Stable. Predictable. Low output, but continuous. It's the kind of solution that only fails if someone actively tries to sabotage it."
Peter exhaled slowly. "My father used to say that the best ideas rarely survive contact with markets."
Derek's eyes sharpened slightly. "Walter Bishop?"
Peter nodded. "You know his work?"
"I've read everything that's publicly available," Derek said. "And a few things that aren't."
That wasn't entirely true—but it was close enough to unsettle.
Peter leaned back in his chair, studying Derek as if seeing him properly for the first time. "My father believed in systems that endured," he said quietly. "Beowulf was meant to be one of them."
"And investors didn't," Derek replied.
"They saw a dead end," Peter said. "A battery that doesn't degrade doesn't create repeat customers. No scaling narrative. No exit strategy."
Derek nodded once. "I'm not interested in exits."
That, more than anything else, changed the tone of the conversation.
They talked for nearly an hour—about materials science, about energy density versus reliability, about the compromises Peter had been forced to make just to keep the company alive. Derek asked precise questions. Not the kind investors asked. The kind engineers asked.
At some point, Peter stopped guarding his words.
"What exactly are you planning to use these batteries for?" he asked eventually.
"For now," Derek said evenly, "prototypes."
Peter frowned. "Prototypes of what?"
Derek didn't answer directly. Instead, he slid a tablet across the table. The screen displayed a simplified power flow diagram—no schematics, no identifying labels. Just enough to show scale and intent.
Peter's breath caught.
"That's…" He stopped, recalibrating. "That's beyond anything we planned for."
"Your battery is," Derek corrected. "The applications were always there. People just weren't willing to see them."
Peter looked down at the diagram again, then back up at Derek. "Do you know what this could mean?"
"Yes," Derek said softly. "That's why I'm here."
They discussed partnership terms next—not lawyers, not contracts. Just alignment. Derek made it clear that he wasn't interested in absorbing Beowulf or turning it into a branding exercise. He wanted the company intact. Quiet. Focused.
In return, he offered something Peter hadn't had in years.
Time.
Funding without pressure. Development without artificial constraints. A future where Beowulf didn't have to justify its existence every quarter.
Before they parted, Derek placed one final order.
"Ten batteries," he said. "At one hundred thousand dollars each. Minus transportation."
Peter blinked. "That's… that's a serious commitment."
"They're the cost of validation," Derek replied. "Consider them a proof of faith."
Peter nodded slowly, still processing. "They're each about twice the size of a smartphone," he said. "You understand what you're getting."
"I do," Derek said.
What Peter didn't know—what he couldn't know—was that those ten batteries would anchor something the world was not ready to name yet. A foundation stone. A quiet ignition point.
When they stood to leave, Peter extended his hand again, this time without hesitation.
"I don't know what you're building," he said. "But I have a feeling history will."
Derek accepted the handshake. "History rarely notices the first step," he replied. "Only the footprint it leaves behind."
By evening, Derek was back in the air, the jet turning west as the sun dipped below the horizon. Los Angeles awaited him, unchanged and yet already different.
In his mind, Wraith was no longer waiting on paper.
It was breathing.