The gentle hum of the apartment's air filtration unit was a constant, a low-frequency buzz that most people in New San Antonio learned to tune out. I never could. It was the city's heartbeat, a mechanical thrum underpinning everything. Right now, it was the only sound, a stark contrast to the emotional maelstrom I'd just unleashed in my living room.
Aunt Kate sat on the opposite end of the sleek, grey sofa, her posture ramrod straight, a half-empty glass of water clutched in her hands like a lifeline. The lawyer in her was reeling, trying to find precedent for what I'd just told her. The aunt in her was just trying to find her breath.
I'd laid it all out. Well, almost all of it.
"So," she began, her voice a little hoarse. She cleared her throat, setting the glass down on the low carbon-fiber table with a definitive clink.
"Just to be absolutely, one hundred percent clear…. Meteor Studio. The one that just dropped First Fear and sent the entire VR-horror community into a collective panic attack. The one with the VTuber channel that's somehow dethroned top-tier idol agencies in the charts. That is… you."
It wasn't really a question. It was a statement of absurd fact, needing vocalization to become real.
"It is," I said, my tone even. I kept my hands relaxed on my knees. The last thing she needed was for me to look like some twitchy Bond villain. I was just a guy. A guy with an unimaginable advantage, but still.
"I fully own it. No silent partners, no corporate backing. It's mine."
I watched her process it. Her eyes, a sharp and intelligent blue that missed very little, scanned my face. She was looking for the lie, the tell, the crack in the story. She wouldn't find one. The core of it was truth.
"And this… Sunday?" she asked, the name tasting foreign on her tongue.
A smile touched my lips, genuine and fond. "Sunday is my partner. My collaborator. An A.I. of my own design. She handles the code, the rendering, the logistics I can't be bothered with… I handle the creative direction, the big picture…. Basically we're a team."
That was the sanitized, believable version. The real story—a gift from capricious gods, a system interface only I could see, the soul of a thirty-five-year-old otaku crammed into this seventeen-year-old body—that was mine alone. That secret was a black box I'd welded shut and buried deep. Some truths are too outlandish to confess, even to family you're trying to rebuild. That was a burden I'd carry to my grave.
Kate leaned back, finally, the stiffness in her shoulders easing a fraction. A slow, incredulous laugh escaped her. "My nephew. The genius…. I knew you were smart, Sael, but this… this is paradigm-shifting. Why tell me now? And why like this?"
I shifted forward, the cool fabric of my pants rustling softly. "Because the business is about to expand. Fast. We've dipped our toes into music and creative media with the VTuber project and Milie's tracks…. The water's fine. So, it's time to dive into the deep end."
I could see the legal part of her brain kick into gear, the questions about royalties, contracts, intellectual property law already forming behind her eyes. It was exactly what I needed.
"Which leads to the main problem," I continued, gesturing vaguely at the four walls of my apartment. It was a nice place, secure, but it was just an apartment. A digital castle built on physical sand.
"All of this… it exists in the ether. It's brilliant for creation, but a nightmare for the real-world stuff…. The stuff that makes real, tangible money."
I picked up my own drink, a can of synth-cola. The aluminum was cold and slick with condensation, little beads of water tracing paths down to my fingertips. I took a sip, the hyper-sweet, slightly metallic fizz bursting over my tongue. "Pshht-click. Right now, I'm having to hold back…. A lot."
"Hold back how?" she asked, her professional curiosity fully piqued.
"Merch," I said, the word simple but loaded with potential.
"Physical albums for Milie, art books for First Fear, collectibles, apparel…. People want to own a piece of the worlds we're building. It's a revenue stream I'm deliberately ignoring because I have no way to handle manufacturing, warehousing, or fulfillment. I can't sign a procurement contract from an anonymous VR terminal…. It screams fraud or insanity."
I paused, letting the sheer scale of the opportunity—and the problem—sink in.
"I've had to leave a fortune on the table because I don't have a physical presence. I don't have a legal address for Meteor Studio that isn't a P.O. box run by an automated drone. I can't sit down with a manufacturer, look them in the eye, and shake their hand…. I can't host a meeting."
The city's hum seemed to grow louder for a moment, pressing in on us. Outside the polarized window, the ever-present haze of New San Antonio glowed a sickly orange under the neon's. This was a city that lived through screens, but its gears were still greased by old-fashioned human contact.
"You need a front man," Kate said, her voice quiet with dawning understanding.
"A face. Or at the very least, a legitimate corporate entity with a real office and a real lawyer on retainer."
"I need a real foundation," I corrected gently.
"The digital empire is built. Now it needs a physical anchor. And more than that, I need someone I can trust implicitly to be that point of contact… To be the adult in the room when I can't be."
I met her gaze, letting all my calculated calm and genuine need show. "I'm seventeen. On paper, I'm a minor with a rich, estranged family and a questionable future, especially with Grandma Natalia's… expectations. If I try to do this alone, the vultures—both corporate and governmental—will tear me apart. They'll take Meteor Studio, they'll take Sunday, and they'll stick me in a GMRD facility to breed until I'm dry. I need a shield. I need you."
The mention of the Government Mandated Reproduction Duty landed with the weight it always did—a cold, grim reminder of the dystopian reality lurking just beneath the surface of our entertainment-saturated world.
Kate was silent for a long time. She looked from me, to the window, to the expensive but impersonal art on my walls. She was seeing the invisible machinery now, the immense structure I'd hidden in plain sight. She was also seeing the immense vulnerability at its center.
Finally, she let out a long, slow breath. It sounded like the first real breath she'd taken since she'd arrived.
"Okay," she said, the single word carrying the weight of a signed contract. "Okay, Sael. Let's talk about what a physical Meteor Studio actually looks like. And let's talk about how we keep you—and all of this—safe."
A tension I hadn't even realized I was carrying uncoiled in my chest. The first brick of the foundation had just been laid. And for the first time in a long time, the city's incessant hum outside didn't sound like a threat. It sounded like possibility.