The Starbucks on Wilshire Boulevard was never quiet, but it was anonymous in a way that mattered. People came and went with laptops, earbuds, half-finished conversations. No one looked twice at two men sitting across from each other near the window—one dressed like a graduate student who forgot to sleep, the other in a suit that belonged in a boardroom overlooking the Pacific.
That was precisely why Derek had chosen it.
Tim Bradford arrived on time, as always. He ordered a latte with the confidence of habit, scanned the room, and then smiled when he saw Derek already seated, hands folded around a plain black coffee.
"Derek," Tim said, sitting down. "You always pick interesting venues."
Derek returned the smile, polite and faintly self-effacing. "I figured this way no one would assume anything important was happening."
Tim chuckled. "Fair point. If this were actually important, we'd be in a glass tower with terrible lighting and worse pastries."
They exchanged brief pleasantries—how business was going, how exhausting the market had been, how Los Angeles traffic seemed to be getting worse by the month. Derek listened more than he spoke, nodding at the right moments, letting Tim settle.
Then, without ceremony, Derek reached into his bag and slid a slim folder across the table.
"I'll get straight to it," Derek said. "I'm working on a medical project. Oncology."
Tim's expression shifted—not alarm, not excitement, but interest sharpened by caution. He didn't open the folder immediately.
"That's a departure from your usual domains," Tim said.
"Only on the surface," Derek replied. "Please. Take a look."
Tim opened the folder.
The first page alone made him pause. He read it once. Then again, slower. He flipped to the next page, then the next. His coffee sat untouched as the noise of the café faded from his awareness.
"This can't be right," Tim said finally, lowering his voice. "These remission timelines—weeks?"
"Yes."
"And these aren't targeted subtypes," Tim continued. "This is… broad-spectrum."
"Yes."
Tim looked up, eyes searching Derek's face for some hint of exaggeration or bravado. He found none. Derek looked almost embarrassed by the attention.
"You're saying this cures cancer," Tim said quietly.
"I'm saying it eliminates malignant cells entirely," Derek corrected. "Across multiple forms. Without chemotherapy. Without radiation."
Tim leaned back slowly. "That would change the world."
Derek nodded once. "That's the intention."
Tim flipped further through the document, brow furrowed. "There's no explanation of the mechanism. No compound breakdown. No delivery vector."
"That's intentional," Derek said evenly. "The treatment works. The science behind it is proprietary."
Tim closed the folder carefully. "You're asking me to take this to my partners without showing them how it works."
"I'm asking you to take results," Derek said. "Verified results."
Tim studied him. "You're very calm for someone claiming they've solved one of humanity's oldest problems."
Derek smiled faintly. "Excitement tends to complicate things."
Tim exhaled through his nose, half-laughing. "All right. Let's assume for a moment that this is real. How much does it cost to bring to market?"
"Five billion dollars," Derek said.
Tim blinked. "Five."
"Yes."
"For development, trials, manufacturing, distribution?"
"All of it."
Tim whistled softly. "That's ambitious."
"It's conservative," Derek said, his tone mild.
Tim leaned forward. "And how much are you asking from JBL?"
Derek's smile returned, slow and almost apologetic. "Nothing."
Tim stared at him. "Nothing?"
"Not in cash," Derek clarified.
Derek reached back into his bag and placed a second document on the table.
"This," he said, "is what I need."
Tim picked it up, scanning the first page. His eyebrows rose almost immediately.
"Equity," Tim said. "One point five percent."
"Yes."
"For JBL."
"Yes."
Tim flipped the page. "In exchange for… legislative access?"
"Lobbying," Derek said plainly. "Regulatory insulation. FDA acceleration. Political goodwill."
Tim's expression hardened slightly. "You're asking us to move governments."
"I'm asking you to open doors," Derek replied. "On a scale appropriate to the outcome."
Tim read further, then stopped. "There's a non-disclosure clause here."
"Yes."
"Immediate dissolution upon breach," Tim continued. "No warnings. No arbitration."
"That's correct."
Tim leaned back, stunned despite himself. "You're offering us a fraction of the most profitable medical breakthrough in history, and the only thing you want is influence."
"I don't need money," Derek said. "I need time. And silence."
Tim studied him for a long moment. "You realize what this would do to the market."
"Yes."
"To insurance models."
"Yes."
"To entire national healthcare systems."
"Yes."
"And you're okay with that?"
Derek met his gaze evenly. "People shouldn't die because treatment is slow."
Tim laughed quietly, shaking his head. "You don't negotiate like anyone I've ever met."
"I'm not negotiating," Derek said. "I'm offering."
Silence settled between them.
Finally, Tim nodded. "I'll take this to the partners."
"Please do," Derek said. "But there's an NDA embedded in the document. Anyone who reads it is bound by it."
Tim's eyes flicked back down. "You're serious."
"I'm very serious."
Tim closed the folder and slid it into his briefcase. "I'll be honest, Derek. This is the most dangerous pitch I've ever heard."
Derek smiled gently. "Then I appreciate your discretion."
They finished their drinks in relative quiet. When they stood to leave, Tim paused.
"If this is real," he said, "you're holding the world by the throat."
Derek adjusted his backpack. "I'd prefer to think I'm holding it together."
The next morning, JBL Investments' executive conference room was sealed, phones surrendered at the door. Tim sat at the head of the table, flanked by senior partners, legal counsel, and two compliance officers who had already signed enough documents to bury the meeting forever.
"All right," Tim began. "What I'm about to show you does not leave this room."
The documents circulated.
At first, the reaction was skepticism.
Then confusion.
Then silence.
"This is impossible," one partner said flatly.
"Not impossible," another countered. "Just… unprecedented."
The head of legal frowned. "There's no disclosure of mechanism. That alone is a regulatory nightmare."
"Unless the results are bulletproof," a third said quietly.
"And if they are?" asked a woman near the end of the table. "What happens to our pharmaceutical holdings?"
That question lingered.
"Short term volatility," someone said. "Long-term dominance."
"Or total collapse of existing portfolios."
Tim raised a hand. "Focus. This isn't about disruption. It's about leverage."
"Leverage?" legal repeated.
"He doesn't want our money," Tim said. "He wants our influence."
That drew murmurs.
"FDA fast-tracking. Legislative shields. Quiet approvals."
"And one point five percent equity," someone said. "That's nothing."
"That's everything," another replied. "If this works."
The room fractured into argument—ethics versus profit, risk versus opportunity. One thing, however, was unanimous.
No one spoke lightly.
By the end, no vote was taken.
"Adjourn until Friday," Tim said finally. "Think about it. Every angle. And remember—this conversation never happened."
As they filed out, no one joked. No one smiled.
Some ideas were too big to treat casually.
And some doors, once opened, could never be closed again.