A month passed.
Not in a rush. Not in a blur. It passed with the steady, grinding certainty of something moving toward inevitability.
By the end of it, the Wraith stood complete.
Both versions.
Derek stood alone in the lower-level workspace, the lights dimmed to a low industrial glow. The suit occupied a reinforced mannequin frame at the center of the room, upright and motionless, yet somehow imposing in a way inanimate objects had no right to be.
The armor was dark—matte, light-absorbing, engineered to reject reflections rather than catch them. Not black exactly, but something deeper, layered. The surface drank in light and returned nothing. The plating flowed instead of segmented, overlapping like musculature rather than steel, every curve designed to preserve movement rather than restrict it.
The powered version stood beside the standard suit, indistinguishable at a glance unless you knew where to look. Slightly thicker at the joints. Subtle reinforcement along the spine. Power conduits hidden beneath the armor's geometry, invisible unless exposed intentionally.
The helmet rested on its own stand.
That had been the hardest part.
The visor was a single continuous surface, seamlessly integrated into the helmet's angular profile. No visible seams. No weak points. When powered on, faint red illumination bled to life behind the eye slits—not bright, not theatrical, just enough to suggest awareness. Presence. Something looking back.
Scary wasn't the right word.
Predatory was closer.
Even powered down, the helmet gave the impression that it was waiting.
Derek knew—without a single live-fire test—that what he had built was revolutionary. Not because of arrogance, but because he remembered the alternative timeline where it had been dismissed, buried, ignored. The math hadn't changed. The physics hadn't changed.
Only the circumstances had.
He let the moment sit. No triumph. No smile.
Then his phone chimed.
The sound felt strangely out of place down here, echoing faintly off concrete and steel. Derek glanced at the screen.
Charity Gala – Harper Invitation
Reminder: Tonight
Evelyn Harper.
He exhaled slowly and looked back at the Wraith.
For a moment, he considered skipping it.
The work wasn't done—never truly done. There were refinements already forming in his mind, stress points to revisit, software layers to optimize. And socially, events like this were… inefficient. Loud. Performative. Full of people who spoke in circles and shook hands with ulterior motives.
But avoidance created patterns.
Patterns attracted attention.
And Evelyn Harper had been nothing but polite. Insistent, yes—but polite.
Derek shut down the workspace systems, secured the room, and headed upstairs.
He showered quickly, letting the heat wash away the metallic scent of the workspace. When he dressed, he kept it simple. Dark jeans. A fitted but understated shirt. Clean shoes. Nothing flashy. Nothing that tried too hard. Respectful without signaling deference.
When he stepped into the garage, the Mercedes waited.
The 1990 Mercedes-Benz 560 SEC AMG 6.0 Wide Body sat low and wide, its proportions subtle enough to be mistaken for ordinary by the uninitiated. Deep charcoal paint. Clean lines. No badges advertising what lurked beneath the hood.
A V8 engine that had humiliated far newer cars.
Derek drove himself.
The country club sat nestled behind manicured hedges and controlled access points, glowing warmly against the darkening sky. Luxury vehicles filled the circular drive—modern supercars, long-wheelbase sedans, bespoke SUVs. Valets moved with practiced efficiency, smiles fixed, eyes trained.
The Mercedes barely registered.
A valet took the keys with a polite nod, unaware of what he'd just been handed.
Derek walked inside.
The hall was exactly what he expected.
Crystal chandeliers. Soft music engineered to fade into the background. Tables arranged to encourage conversation while maintaining hierarchy. Laughter that lingered half a second too long. Deals waiting to happen behind smiles.
This wasn't charity.
It was networking with plausible deniability.
High-powered lawyers clustered near the bar. Judges spoke quietly in corners. CEOs and board members traded pleasantries while assessing one another's leverage. Derek even spotted a few faces he recognized from news clips—district attorneys, political figures, people who shaped outcomes without ever appearing on ballots.
He felt eyes on him.
New face. Young. Fit. Calm.
Evelyn Harper spotted him almost immediately.
She crossed the room with purpose, her smile genuine, her posture radiating ownership of the space. She took his arm without asking.
"Derek, you made it," she said warmly. "I'm so glad."
"Thank you for the invitation," he replied. Polite. Measured.
Since she had invited him, he was seated at her table. But it was early, and Evelyn had no intention of letting him sit quietly.
She paraded him through the room, introducing him as the new neighbor, the young man who'd bought the secluded ranch-style house down the road. Derek smiled when appropriate, spoke when addressed, never interrupted.
He didn't overshare.
It was his politeness—his restraint—that made Evelyn take a genuine liking to him.
And that was how he met Judge Simmons.
The man was older, his presence commanding without effort. The kind of person people deferred to instinctively. Normally, Derek would have been invisible to him.
But Evelyn made the introduction personally.
Judge Simmons engaged.
They spoke.
Parents?
"I don't know them. I grew up in foster homes."
Education?
"Harvard. Dropped out."
Work?
"I run a tech startup."
Each answer shifted the room subtly. Derek felt it. The recalibration. The quiet judgment. He wasn't one of them. Not really.
But he wasn't insecure. He didn't compensate.
That made some of them uncomfortable.
Then came the announcement. The keynote speech. Polite applause. Smiles turned toward the stage.
And then—
Chaos.
The doors slammed shut.
Gunfire tore through the air.
Screams followed.
Five men burst in, masked, armed with submachine guns. Their movements were practiced, aggressive, efficient.
"Everyone stay where you are!" one shouted. "Phones, watches, jewelry—on the tables. Now."
The room complied.
People who controlled systems, courts, and markets now trembled. Power, Derek noted, was situational.
He wasn't bothered.
He assessed.
One at the exit. Three collecting loot. One moving between tables.
He wrapped a napkin around his hand.
Picked up a steak knife.
When the robber leaned in to gather valuables, Derek moved.
The strike was precise. Silent. The blade driven into the back of the neck with full force. The man collapsed instantly, his body folding without resistance.
Derek dragged him under the table.
A finger to his lips.
Silence.
He took the MP5. The Glock.
One down.
Four to go.
He acted before absence became suspicion.
Three shots. Controlled. Left to right.
Neck. Chest. Stomach.
Each man dropped before sound caught up.
The last robber turned too late.
"Don't move," Derek shouted.
Then fired anyway.
Two shots to the chest.
Silence returned.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Derek turned to Evelyn Harper.
Smiled.
"Could my involvement remain… unofficial?"
She stared at him, stunned.
He didn't wait for an answer.
Derek walked out.
By the time sirens filled the night, he was already gone.