By Wednesday morning, January 30th, the air around Blackfire Technologies had changed.
The glass-and-steel lobby that usually felt restrained and deliberate now vibrated with urgency. Camera rigs crowded the marble floor. Microphones bristled like antennae. Reporters stood shoulder to shoulder—legacy networks beside independent streamers, foreign correspondents whispering into translation mics, bloggers livestreaming from their phones.
Security was tight but unobtrusive. No uniforms on the floor. No visible weapons. Just calm men in tailored suits who watched everything.
At exactly 10:00 a.m., Derek Morgan stepped onto the stage.
The noise collapsed into silence.
For the first time since his name had entered public consciousness, the world saw him clearly and without interruption. Not a leaked clip. Not a shaky phone video. Not a freeze-frame pulled from surveillance footage.
Derek stood tall—six foot two, broad-shouldered, composed. His face was striking in a way that cameras struggled to flatten: sharp cheekbones, steady eyes, the kind of symmetry fashion magazines obsessed over. He wore a simple dark suit, no tie, no jewelry. Nothing performative. Nothing defensive.
He placed his hands on the podium and waited.
The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable.
Then he spoke.
"My name is Derek Morgan," he said evenly. "I am the founder and CEO of Blackfire Technologies."
Flashbulbs erupted.
He didn't blink.
"Two days ago," Derek continued, "there was an attempt on my life here in Los Angeles. I will not speculate on motives. I will not dramatize the event. I am alive. Others are not. That is the extent of what I will say about the violence itself."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"But I want to be very clear about what does not change," he said. "Blackfire Technologies will proceed with human trials of our oncology treatment."
The murmurs became noise.
"We are naming the treatment P-1000," Derek said. "The first human trial will consist of one hundred patients. Selection will be overseen by independent medical professionals. No political favoritism. No financial prioritization."
A hand shot up.
"Mr. Morgan—"
He raised a finger, not dismissive, just firm.
"Let me finish."
He paused, eyes sweeping the room.
"P-1000 will make me a great deal of money," he said plainly. "I won't insult anyone by pretending otherwise. But my profit will not come at the cost of prolonged suffering. It will not come from scarcity. And it will not come from delaying relief in the name of quarterly projections."
That line landed hard.
Some reporters stopped typing.
"Now," Derek continued, "yesterday evening, Blackfire Technologies released evidence identifying one of the entities involved in the attempt on my life. That evidence is publicly available on our official platforms. It includes financial transfers, shell structures, and communications trails."
A reporter from CNN stood. "Mr. Morgan, are you saying you solved a crime that the LAPD and federal agencies couldn't—or wouldn't?"
Derek looked at her calmly.
"I don't know why certain agencies failed to reach conclusions," he said. "What I do know is that the FBI, CIA, and Department of Homeland Security have had me under varying degrees of surveillance for weeks."
The room exploded.
"What—"
"Did he just say—"
"Are you confirming federal—"
Derek waited again. The noise burned itself out.
"If I can be followed," he said, "then information can be found. That is not bravery. That is arithmetic."
Another reporter shouted, "Are you afraid?"
Derek smiled—not wide, not arrogant. Almost curious.
"No," he said. "And I want to say this clearly, so there's no confusion later."
He leaned forward slightly.
"If anyone believes violence will stop Blackfire, I invite them to try. I will always fight back."
The words were calm.
The implication was not.
A financial journalist raised her hand. "Mr. Morgan, analysts estimate Blackfire's valuation could reach anywhere from five hundred billion to three trillion dollars. Are you planning to take the company public?"
Derek's smile returned, this time warmer.
"No," he said. "Blackfire Technologies will remain private for as long as I am capable of preventing that."
With that, he stepped away from the podium.
He didn't take questions.
The internet detonated.
Within minutes, #P1000, #DerekMorgan, and #Blackfire dominated every platform.
On Twitter:
@BioEthicsNow:
"This is either the greatest medical breakthrough in human history or the most dangerous concentration of power we've ever seen."
@WallStreetOracle:
"Private company. Refuses IPO. Cured cancer. Survived assassination. This is not a CEO—this is a geopolitical event."
@LAFashionWatch:
"Can we talk about how Derek Morgan looks like he walked out of a Greek statue and into a Bloomberg terminal?"
TikTok split into factions.
One video broke down his posture during the press conference, highlighting how he never leaned on the podium.
Another stitched the press conference with the Larchmont footage.
Caption: "Same calm. Same eyes. This man does not panic."
Reddit lit up.
r/conspiracy:
"He baited them. He wants escalation."
r/medicine:
"If P-1000 works, oncology as an industry collapses overnight."
r/investing:
"Private valuation at trillions means he doesn't want shareholders. Why?"
On YouTube, a former pharmaceutical executive sat in a dimly lit studio.
"If this is real," he said quietly, "every long-term cancer revenue model is dead."
Cable news followed.
One anchor asked, "Is Derek Morgan a hero or a vigilante?"
Another replied, "That question may already be obsolete."
In Washington, the response was colder.
Phones rang without being answered.
A DOJ official closed his office door and said, "He just declared independence."
At the FDA, a senior administrator whispered, "He skipped the script. Entirely."
At Langley, a CIA analyst replayed the press conference twice.
"He didn't threaten us," she said. "He challenged assumptions."
The station chief nodded. "Which is worse."
Back online, conspiracy theories mutated hourly.
• He's ex-special forces.
• No—private intelligence asset.
• No—foreign-backed.
• No—something else.
A viral post claimed P-1000 was alien technology.
Another insisted Derek had faked the assassination attempt.
A third simply said:
"They tried to kill him. He responded with a cure."
That night, Derek sat alone in his office.
The screens around him showed nothing but raw data—public reaction metrics, media sentiment curves, institutional response timelines.
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't angry.
He was thinking.
The world now knew his face.
His name.
His refusal to bend.
And somewhere, far from cameras and hashtags, people with very different kinds of power were recalculating.
Because Derek Morgan had just made one thing unmistakably clear:
He was no longer asking for space.
He was taking it.
And the next move—whatever it was—would not be polite.