Washington, D.C. had a way of making danger feel civilized.
Everything about the city was orderly—wide avenues, marble buildings, men in suits speaking softly about matters that ruined lives. Derek noticed it as he stood by the window of his hotel suite, watching headlights slide along Constitution Avenue like disciplined fireflies. Power lived here, but it never announced itself. It whispered, and the whispers carried knives.
The door slammed open behind him.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?"
Derek didn't turn immediately. He recognized the voice. Alan Payne rarely raised it—but when he did, it meant several internal fire alarms were already screaming.
"Do you have any idea," Alan continued, tossing his coat onto a chair, tie already loosened, "what kind of people you just poked in the eye?"
Derek turned slowly, calm as ever. "Good evening, Alan."
"This isn't an evening," Alan snapped. "This is you walking into the middle of a minefield wearing a blindfold and asking if the ground feels warm."
Alan Payne was usually immaculate—controlled, measured, the kind of lawyer who made senators uneasy without raising his voice. Right now, he looked rattled. His jaw was tight. His eyes were sharp with something close to fear.
"Do you want to get yourself killed?" Alan demanded. "Because this—" he gestured sharply, as if indicating all of Washington, all of the pharmaceutical industry, all of human greed "—this is how people get disappeared."
Derek leaned back against the desk, folding his arms. "I cured cancer."
Alan stared at him. "You what?"
"I cured cancer," Derek repeated evenly. "Or rather, I proved that it can be cured. That matters."
Alan laughed once, harsh and humorless. "No, Derek. What matters is that you just threatened an industry worth trillions. Generational money. Institutional power. You didn't disrupt them—you declared war."
"I didn't declare anything."
"That's worse," Alan shot back. "You acted."
He began pacing the room now, anger bleeding into something more dangerous—professional dread.
"Do you know how many people make a living off oncology?" Alan continued. "Not just drug companies. Insurers. Hospital networks. Trial organizations. Lobbyists. Entire wings of the federal government. You don't collapse an ecosystem like that and expect applause."
Derek watched him quietly.
Alan stopped pacing and pointed directly at him. "You are young. Brilliant. And right now, you are dangerously naïve if you think morality protects you."
Derek exhaled slowly. "They let people die for profit."
"Yes," Alan said immediately. "And they will let you die to protect it."
Silence settled between them.
Alan ran a hand through his hair. "The CIA is circling. That alone should tell you how big this is. When Langley starts paying attention, it's because they think you're either an asset—or a liability."
"And which do you think I am?" Derek asked.
Alan hesitated. "Right now? Both."
They weren't the only ones paying attention.
In a windowless office several miles away—unmarked, unlisted, deliberately forgettable—a different conversation was taking place.
A man in a dark suit flipped through a file, his expression flat.
"Orphan," he read aloud. "No known family. Foster system. Scholarship student at Harvard. Dropped out after one semester."
Another voice replied from across the table. "No siblings. No dependents. No spouse."
"Ex-girlfriend," the man continued. "Veronica Sanders. Relationship ended quietly. No contact in over a year."
A third voice chimed in. "What about friends?"
"Minimal," the first man said. "Chad Powers, briefly. That relationship ended with a hostile takeover of Reindeer Logistics."
A pause.
"That's the one that bothers me," the second voice said. "A nobody becomes a billionaire in under a month. Acquires logistics infrastructure. Funnels capital like he's been doing it his entire life."
The first man closed the file.
"He has no safety net," he said. "No political dynasty. No family name. No one to raise hell if he disappears."
The room grew quiet.
Finally, someone said what they'd all been thinking.
"He won't be missed."
Not publicly, anyway.
Another file slid across the table—financials this time. Blackfire Technologies. The Raven Corporation. Asset flows. Investments. Dependencies.
"If he dies," one man said, "the companies destabilize."
"Yes," another replied. "Briefly."
"And the tech?"
The answer came without hesitation. "Recovered. Buried. Licensed. Neutralized."
A beat.
"The cancer cure?"
"Delayed," the second voice said. "Regulated to death if necessary."
No one objected.
The first man leaned back in his chair. "We don't need to rush. Accidents happen every day."
He smiled thinly.
"And Derek Morgan has no one to ask questions."
Back at the hotel, Alan had moved from anger to strategy.
"You need protection," he said. "Real protection. Not corporate security. Not private contractors who fold the second someone flashes a federal badge."
"I already have security," Derek replied.
"You have visible security," Alan shot back. "That's not the same thing."
Alan lowered his voice. "You're being profiled right now. Every mistake you've ever made. Every relationship. Every loose end. They're building a psychological map of you."
Derek's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes sharpened.
"I know," he said quietly.
Alan blinked. "You do?"
"Yes. That's why I came to Washington."
Alan stared at him. "You did this on purpose?"
"I accelerated the timeline," Derek said. "They were going to come eventually. I needed to know how quickly."
Alan swore under his breath. "You're gambling with your life."
"No," Derek replied calmly. "I'm forcing clarity."
He walked back to the window, watching the city glow beneath the night sky.
"They think I'm alone," Derek said. "They think removing me solves the problem."
Alan joined him at the window. "Doesn't it?"
Derek smiled faintly. "No."
Alan studied him carefully now. "You have something planned."
Derek didn't deny it.
"They believe that because I have no family, no roots, no history… I'm disposable," Derek continued. "They're wrong."
Alan felt a chill crawl up his spine. "Because?"
"Because systems don't die with people," Derek said. "And I've built systems that don't require me to breathe."
Alan turned fully toward him. "You're saying that if they kill you—"
"—everything goes public," Derek finished. "Automatically. Data, protocols, redundancies. Distributed storage. Multiple jurisdictions."
Alan closed his eyes briefly. "Jesus Christ."
Derek's voice was steady. "They won't know what they're dealing with until they try."
Alan opened his eyes. "You're making enemies who don't miss."
Derek nodded once. "And they're making the mistake of thinking I'm still playing defense."
Somewhere else in Washington, a message was sent—quiet, encrypted, carefully worded.
Subject identified. Orphaned. Minimal social footprint. High-value destabilizer.
Another message followed minutes later.
Assessment: removal feasible. Risk of retaliation unclear.
The response came swiftly.
Proceed with caution. Observe further. Do not act without authorization.
The irony would have been amusing, if it wasn't lethal.
Derek Morgan had devoted his life—both of them—to extending human existence, to pushing back against death itself.
And now, because he had succeeded too quickly, too cleanly, too far outside the lines, men who had never met him were calmly discussing how easy it would be to end his.
Life-saving technology had made him a liability.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Derek truly understood:
The most dangerous thing you could ever do
was change the rules of survival.