By the time the drywall dust had settled and the final panels of reinforced glass were installed on the 43rd floor of the Chicago tower, Naomi Nakamura had already closed three more ISDA negotiations across two time zones. None were as large as J.P. Morgan's, but each built the framework that would make Haizen Holdings not just wealthy, but untouchable.
The company was now fully staffed. Traders, analysts, compliance officers—each vetted personally, though never by Daniel. He hadn't stepped foot in the office since the first elevator test. Naomi had stopped asking. She understood now. The company wasn't a job to him. It was a mask.
Naomi stood in her new corner office, watching the October sky turn sharp above the skyline. The room still smelled faintly of paint and ambition. Her desk was minimalist. The chair behind it had lumbar support engineered by a German company that also made military drone seats. It fit.
A report on the new hires blinked on her screen. Eight new analysts onboarded this week. Two former investment bankers. One ex-CIA economic analyst who thought he was being recruited by a startup. Let him keep thinking that. They all had their delusions. Naomi just made sure they were useful.
On her wall, three clocks ticked softly: New York. London. Zurich.
Time moved differently now.
Across the city, in a modest neighborhood untouched by steel and speculation, Robert and Kristina Haizen were drawing up floor plans for a house they hadn't believed they deserved six months ago. Now they argued about backsplash colors and which suburb had the best public schools.
They had companies of their own now. Robert had taken to the construction business like he'd been waiting his entire life for permission to lead. Kristina, quietly fierce, had turned her architectural sketches into contracts. Daniel had given them everything they needed, then disappeared back into the role of indifferent son.
Naomi knew it was no accident.
He wanted them to own it. Even if they failed. Especially if they failed.
He wanted them to believe it was theirs.
And it was working.
She smiled, just barely, and turned back to her screen. Another ISDA request blinked into her inbox. Deutsche Bank this time.
She cracked her knuckles.
Let the ghosts sleep.
She was still building the empire.
The elevator chimed as it reached the 44th floor—a floor no one else in the company had access to. Naomi stepped out slowly, the soft hush of the doors sealing behind her. She had been in skyscrapers. She had been in penthouses. She had seen the offices of billionaires, princes, and warlords.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
The hallway opened into a dark cathedral of silence. Mahogany panels framed the room like ribs around a ribcage. The air smelled of ink, candle wax, and something impossibly old. The walls were lined with shelves, floor to ceiling, stacked with leather-bound tomes whose spines bore symbols she couldn't identify—and didn't want to try. Columns framed the space like a cathedral library. Low amber lamps glowed like sentinels. No natural light, only the suggestion of it, filtered and diluted by stained glass recesses tucked between bookcases.
The floor alone must have cost forty million to renovate. Probably more. It was like stepping into an alternate timeline. Something between a Victorian occult archive and an imperial strategist's war chamber.
And in the middle of it all, behind a black oak desk longer than a limousine, sat Daniel.
He didn't look seventeen. Not here. Not in this place.
He looked like something older.
Something carved out of time itself.
His desk was clean, save for a single notebook and a sleek, custom-built workstation that vanished against the dark wood, its frame designed to blend invisibly with the furniture. Monitors embedded into the desk surface flickered with lines of data Naomi couldn't immediately parse.
"Welcome to the only floor that matters," Daniel said without looking up.
Naomi raised an eyebrow. "Took you long enough."
He glanced at her, amused. "I came to inspect the flow below. Your floor."
She crossed her arms. "And?"
He grimaced like he'd tasted something rotten.
"Silicon Valley garbage. Minimalist everything. Open concept. Modular furniture. It's like someone designed a kindergarten for emotionally avoidant adults."
Naomi snorted. "That floor is where your money is handled."
"That floor," he said, "is an insult to civilization."
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The light caught the edge of his jaw, casting him half into shadow. In this room, with this atmosphere, he didn't look like a teenager anymore.
He looked like a villain drawn by someone who studied classical tragedy and warfare.
"We need to begin moving long," he said, voice steady. "Middle East tension is going to escalate. The war machine is already humming. Defense stocks, oil, logistics, surveillance infrastructure—they're going to see a climb. I want exposure by mid-November."
Naomi pulled out a notebook. "Sector picks?"
"Lockheed. Raytheon. Fluor. Bechtel if they go public. Anything tied to military contracts or rebuilding. And tech. Especially anyone touching silicon, cybersecurity, or network security. The terror narrative's going to make them indispensable."
She nodded. "You want ETF baskets or direct equity plays?"
"Both. Layer the positions. I want clean exposure and ghost trades."
Naomi jotted notes.
He looked at her, deadpan. "Also, I need a butler."
She blinked. "A what."
"A butler," he repeated. "Someone to bring me tea, handle correspondence, clean this place without touching the books, and make sure my guests don't trip into the wrong century."
Naomi laughed once, short and sharp. "Are you serious?"
"This place is a sanctum," Daniel said. "It deserves ritual."
She couldn't tell if he was joking. Probably not.
"Fine," she said. "I'll find someone discreet."
"And old," he added. "No interns. No coffee-chain rejects. I want someone who looks like they failed to assassinate the Pope and retired into house service."
Naomi was still laughing as she left the room.
And behind her, the boy who had rewritten history leaned back in his forty-million-dollar tomb, watching war come to the horizon like an old friend arriving late for dinner.