Derek stood at the wide glass windows of his Bel Air living room, hands clasped behind his back, eyes unfocused on the city lights below.
He had been like that for several minutes.
There was no guilt in him—not for the Seventh Sons, not for the broken bodies, not for the terror he had inflicted. If anything, what unsettled him was how clean it had all been. How easily it could have gone wrong. How one minor variable—a camera angle, a civilian witness, a misfired round—could have unraveled everything he had built.
That was the danger.
Not morality.
Exposure.
He understood now, with absolute clarity, that power without insulation was recklessness. What he had done was not irrational because it was violent—it was irrational because it was solitary. He had acted without leverage, without institutional cover, without redundancy. For a man who prided himself on systems, that was unforgivable.
Even if he ever chose to move in the shadows again, he could not do it like this.
Not alone.
He exhaled slowly and made a mental note, sharp and final: never again without distance.
And yet—regardless of his internal rebuke—the conclusion remained immutable.
Project Wraith worked.
The suit had done exactly what it was designed to do. More than that, it had done so under live-fire conditions against trained, armed adversaries. No simulations. No lab assumptions. Reality.
That fact alone changed everything.
The soft chime of the doorbell cut through his thoughts.
Derek frowned slightly. He hadn't been expecting anyone. Bala would have told him if there was a scheduled visit, and no deliveries were due.
He glanced at the internal security feed.
Two people stood at the gate.
A woman in her late thirties, sharp eyes, posture disciplined but not aggressive. Beside her, a man a few years older, broader, with the tired stillness of someone who had seen too much and filed it away.
Unmarked sedan parked discreetly down the street.
Derek didn't react outwardly. He simply adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves and walked to the door.
When he opened it, both visitors raised their badges smoothly.
"Detective Grace Van Pelt," the woman said. "This is my partner, Detective William Lee. Los Angeles Police Department."
Derek blinked once, as if surprised.
"Oh—uh—good evening," he said, stepping back immediately. "Is everything alright?"
His tone was calm, polite, faintly concerned. No defensiveness. No irritation.
"We were hoping to ask you a few questions," Lee said. His voice was neutral, professional. "If now's a good time."
"Of course," Derek replied without hesitation. "Please—come in."
He led them into the living room, gesturing toward the seating area. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"
Van Pelt shook her head. "We're fine, thank you."
They sat. Derek remained standing until they were settled, then took a seat opposite them, hands resting openly on his knees.
Van Pelt glanced around briefly—noting the minimalist decor, the lack of personal clutter, the quiet wealth without ostentation.
"Mr. Morgan," she began, "you attended a charity event at the Westbridge Country Club recently."
"Yes," Derek said, nodding. "I was invited by Mrs. Evelyn Harper. She's… very persuasive." He smiled lightly.
"There was an armed robbery that night," Lee said. "Five suspects. All incapacitated."
Derek's expression shifted—subtle concern, nothing exaggerated.
"Yes," he said softly. "It was… terrifying. I still can't quite believe it happened."
Van Pelt leaned forward slightly. "Several witnesses mentioned you."
Derek looked genuinely surprised. "Me?"
"They described someone intervening," she continued. "Someone young. Calm. Extremely capable."
Derek frowned faintly. "I'm not sure I understand. I didn't… I didn't want any attention. I was just trying to stay out of the way."
Lee studied him carefully. "Did you handle a weapon that night, Mr. Morgan?"
Derek hesitated—not long enough to look rehearsed, not short enough to seem evasive.
"I—" he exhaled. "I defended myself. That's all. I didn't think it would turn into… this."
Van Pelt exchanged a glance with her partner.
"You're aware surveillance footage exists," she said.
Derek nodded slowly. "I assumed so. It's a country club. Cameras everywhere."
"And you don't dispute what's on it?" Lee asked.
Derek shook his head. "No. But I don't want this to become something it isn't. I didn't act for recognition. I didn't act because I wanted to. I acted because people were in danger."
His voice remained steady, almost subdued.
"I understand if there needs to be paperwork. Statements. But I'd really prefer not to turn this into a spectacle."
Van Pelt studied him closely now. Not suspicious—evaluative.
"You're very young," she said.
Derek smiled faintly. "So I've been told."
"And yet," Lee added, "you handled a violent situation with precision most trained officers don't achieve."
Derek's shoulders rose slightly in a restrained shrug. "I grew up… differently. You learn to stay calm."
There was a pause.
Van Pelt finally leaned back. "For now, this is an inquiry, not an accusation. You may be contacted again."
Derek nodded immediately. "Of course. I'll cooperate fully."
They stood. He walked them to the door, polite to the end.
As they stepped outside, Van Pelt paused.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "no one there thinks you did anything wrong."
Derek met her gaze. "That's… reassuring. Thank you, Detective."
When the door closed, Derek stood still for several seconds.
Then he walked to the window.
The unmarked sedan was still there.
Watching.
That evening, Derek sat at his desk, the city dark beyond the glass. He dialed a number he rarely used directly.
It rang twice.
"Tim Bradford," came the voice on the other end.
"Tim," Derek said evenly. "It's Derek Morgan."
There was a brief pause. "I was hoping you'd call."
"I won't keep you long," Derek replied. "There's a project Blackfire is about to initiate. It's… sensitive."
"How sensitive?" Tim asked carefully.
"Sensitive enough that it shouldn't exist on paper yet," Derek said. "And sensitive enough that I need partners who understand discretion as a currency."
Silence followed.
"You're not calling about North Compton," Tim said.
"No," Derek agreed. "That remains out of bounds."
Another pause.
"You want a meeting," Tim said.
"Yes," Derek replied. "In person. No assistants. No minutes."
Tim exhaled slowly. "That's not something I say yes to lightly."
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary," Derek said. "This isn't about capital. It's about insulation."
That got Tim's attention.
"…When?" Tim asked.
"Soon," Derek said. "Before other people start asking the same questions you're smart enough not to."
The line went quiet for a long moment.
"Alright," Tim said finally. "I'll arrange something."
"Thank you," Derek replied. "And Tim?"
"Yes?"
"I value partners who understand when silence is an investment."
Another pause.
"…Understood."
The call ended.
Derek leaned back in his chair, eyes closed.
The board was shifting.
And this time, he intended to be several moves ahead.