Power did not announce itself with threats.
It never needed to.
Power preferred suggestion, implication, the soft confidence of inevitability. It arrived not with knives drawn, but with open palms—empty enough to seem harmless, heavy enough to imply what they could hold.
The first contact came through a channel Derek did not immediately recognize as hostile.
It was a dinner invitation.
Not public. Not prestigious. No donor list, no photographers, no banners. A private room at a restaurant that did not advertise and did not ask questions. The kind of place where senators ate when they did not want to be seen eating with senators.
The invitation did not mention pharmaceuticals.
It mentioned healthcare futures.
Derek declined.
The second contact came through a foundation—one of the gray ones. Technically charitable, functionally political. Its board included former regulators, retired judges, and people whose résumés stopped just short of saying I decide what happens next.
The message was brief.
They wanted to "understand alignment."
Derek ignored it.
The third contact was the one that mattered.
It did not come from a foundation or a lobbyist or a board member.
It came through a man Derek had never met, whose name he had never heard, and who introduced himself only once.
They met in a quiet office space that Derek himself had chosen—neutral ground, cameras disabled, no devices allowed past the threshold. Bala waited outside, arms crossed, eyes scanning a world that had taught him never to trust quiet.
The man inside was unremarkable.
That, Derek realized immediately, was deliberate.
Mid-fifties. Average height. Conservative suit. No visible jewelry. No arrogance. No eagerness. He spoke like someone used to being believed.
"Mr. Morgan," the man said calmly, taking a seat across from him. "I appreciate you agreeing to this conversation."
Derek did not offer his hand.
"You have ten minutes," he said. "And I'm not interested in vague admiration."
The man smiled faintly. "I wouldn't insult you with it."
He folded his hands.
"Let me be direct. What you've created at Blackfire is… unprecedented. Your cancer treatment—your approach—it works. Not theoretically. Not statistically. Practically."
Derek said nothing.
"We also understand," the man continued, "that you are encountering friction. Regulatory drag. Procedural delays. Institutional hesitation."
"Those exist for a reason," Derek replied evenly.
"Of course," the man agreed. "But reasons are flexible when incentives align."
There it was.
Not a threat.
Not a demand.
An opening.
The man leaned back slightly, adopting a tone that suggested reasonableness, even benevolence.
"Human trials could accelerate," he said. "Quietly. Efficiently. Phase expansion without the usual… bottlenecks."
Derek's eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"And what would that require?" he asked.
"Nothing formal," the man replied immediately. "No contracts. No signatures. No paper trail. Just… cooperation."
Derek waited.
"Informal alignment," the man continued. "Shared visibility. A willingness to consult. To keep certain stakeholders informed before decisions become irreversible."
"And who are those stakeholders?" Derek asked.
The man did not name them.
He didn't have to.
"You'd save millions sooner," he said instead. "Lives that would otherwise be lost to process. Delay. Politics."
The word hung between them.
Politics.
Derek leaned back in his chair, studying the man for the first time not as a negotiator, but as a symptom.
"And in return," Derek said calmly, "you'd like influence."
The man nodded. "Stability."
"That's not what I asked."
A pause.
"Access," the man admitted.
There it was.
Ownership, dressed up as stewardship.
Derek stood and walked to the window, looking out at a city that had no idea this conversation was happening. Millions of people living ordinary days, unaware that the axis of their future was being quietly debated in a room with no flags on the wall.
"You're very careful," Derek said. "No threats. No leverage stated."
The man smiled again. "There's no need."
Derek turned.
"You think that because you haven't said them," he said quietly. "But I hear them anyway."
The man's expression did not change.
"You have people in the legislative branch," Derek continued. "Judges. Regulators. Committees that can slow me down without ever stopping me outright."
"Yes," the man said simply.
"You could make my life… inefficient."
"Yes."
"You could also make it very short," Derek added.
The man did not respond.
Silence settled between them.
Derek felt it then—not fear, not doubt—but something colder and sharper.
Clarity.
"You're offering me speed," Derek said. "In exchange for surrender."
The man shook his head. "In exchange for partnership."
Derek laughed once. Softly.
"Words like that only mean something the first time you hear them."
He returned to his chair and sat, folding his hands the way the man had earlier.
"Let me tell you what you're actually asking," Derek said. "You want to sit at the table where decisions are made. Not because you care about the cure, but because you're terrified of what happens if you don't."
The man did not deny it.
"You want veto power," Derek continued. "Or at least delay power. You want to make sure nothing happens without your blessing."
"We want predictability," the man replied.
Derek's voice hardened.
"Predictability is how people die quietly."
Another pause.
The man sighed, as if disappointed.
"You're young," he said. "You still believe independence is possible at scale."
"I know it is," Derek replied. "Because I'm standing in it."
The man leaned forward now, just slightly.
"You don't understand the system you're destabilizing," he said. "Oncology is not just medicine. It's pensions. Endowments. University funding. Hospitals. Entire regions."
"I understand perfectly," Derek said. "That's why I built something better."
"You could collapse industries."
"Yes."
"You could cause economic shock."
"Yes."
"And you could prevent that," the man said quietly. "With cooperation."
Derek stood again.
This time, there was no hesitation.
"If I say yes once," he said, voice calm but absolute, "I never stop saying yes."
The man watched him carefully.
"You'd rather fight everyone?"
"I'm not fighting," Derek replied. "I'm moving forward. Anyone standing in front of that will feel like a fight."
The man rose as well.
"You're making enemies," he warned—not as a threat, but as a statement of fact.
Derek nodded. "I already have them."
The man studied him for a long moment, as if committing him to memory.
"There are people," he said slowly, "who believe the world is safer without singular actors."
Derek met his gaze without blinking.
"And there are people," he replied, "who believe the world doesn't change without them."
The man collected his coat.
"This was your last chance at… comfort," he said.
Derek smiled.
"I don't value comfort."
The man left without another word.
Derek remained alone in the room long after the door closed.
He did not pace.
He did not second-guess.
He simply sat, letting the weight of the moment settle—not on his conscience, but on his timeline.
This had been the test.
Not of his capacity.
Of his conscience.
They had offered him the fastest road to godhood—and expected gratitude.
He felt something unexpected rise in his chest.
Not dread.
Not anxiety.
Excitement.
They had shown their hand.
No more subtle probes.
No more moral framing.
This refusal had burned the bridge cleanly.
What came next would not be suggestion.
It would be escalation.
Derek stood, a grin spreading across his face—unsettling, almost joyful.
He felt ready.
Not grimly.
Not defensively.
But the way a child felt on Halloween night, standing at the edge of a street full of open doors and unlimited possibility.
"Good," he murmured. "Now we're being honest."
Somewhere, plans were already shifting.
And somewhere else, a far darker plan was being dusted off—no longer theoretical, no longer hesitant.
The ultimatum had failed.
The next move would not ask permission.