A week passed in a blur of activity, the kind that turned an empty skyscraper into the beating heart of a rising empire.
Derek barely slept—not because he was exhausted, but because his mind vibrated with ideas, calculations, and the quiet thrill of building something monumental.
During that week, Ruth Garcia worked harder than anyone. With her help, Derek handpicked twenty-five ex-military operatives to form the first wave of Blackfire Security. The group was a cocktail of experience—former Army Rangers, Marine Raiders, Airborne infantry, and two former Navy SEALs who had retired early and were looking for purpose again.
Convincing them had been easier than expected.
The salary was obscene.
The mission was intriguing.
The employer—an impossibly young, unnervingly calm billionaire—piqued their curiosity.
They signed on without hesitation.
The security team worked in rotating shifts. Their initial responsibilities were simple on paper, but intense in execution:
1. No unauthorized electronic devices past the lobby.
Anything smart, metallic, or suspicious was checked, logged, or confiscated.
2. Prevent any company property—documents, hard drives, prototypes—from leaving the building without Derek's authorization.
3. Maintain strict surveillance through metal detectors, handprint scanners, and constantly changing access codes that reset every forty-eight hours.
The guards were professional, disciplined, and loyal. They moved like soldiers, spoke like soldiers, and looked at every newcomer as a potential threat.
And then there was Ruth.
She sat at the main reception desk—a polished wooden fortress that hid more than paperwork. Beneath the surface, she kept a pump-action shotgun and a loaded sidearm, positioned for quick draw. She had insisted on placing them there, and Derek had approved without a second thought.
She was the first line of defense.
If the guards were overwhelmed or caught unaware, Ruth was the choke point that would keep the company alive long enough for the rest of security to respond.
It was Monday again.
And the Blackfire building, which had been echoing and hollow just seven days ago, now hummed with controlled chaos. Furniture had arrived, desks were assembled, sleek workstations lined the walls, and the scent of fresh paint was fading, replaced by coffee, ambition, and nervous excitement.
Every floor had a purpose:
• Floor 24 — Derek's private office and personal conference room.
• Floor 25 — Derek's private living quarters, complete with a gym, kitchen, bedroom, and a spacious living room overlooking downtown LA.
• Floor 23 — The temporary server room, a precursor to the massive data facility Derek planned to build elsewhere in the city.
• Floor 3 — The employee conference area for major announcements.
He had also hired a team of chefs—capable of cooking everything from street food to gourmet international dishes—to serve free meals during working hours. Morale mattered. Happy workers produced miracles.
---
By 9:00 AM, one hundred employees sat in the third-floor conference room, filling every chair. Some were eager. Some terrified. Some confused. All were curious.
Derek stood in front of them wearing a simple white shirt, dark jeans, and a black jacket. No theatrics, no tie, no billionaire posturing. Just calm authority.
He looked around the room, making eye contact with as many people as possible.
"Good morning," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried. "Welcome again… to the beginning."
A projector hummed to life behind him.
The lights dimmed.
A single phrase appeared on the white screen:
Reality Quest
A ripple of whispers spread across the room.
Derek let it simmer, then spoke again.
"This is our first project. The reason all of you were hired. The reason this company exists."
He paced slowly, hands behind his back.
"Reality Quest is a video game. But not just any game. It will be the most immersive, most accurate, most addictive open-world multiplayer experience ever created."
He stopped pacing and faced them.
"It will change how the world sees gaming… and reality."
The room went silent.
Derek continued, projecting the vision with a clarity few had ever heard from someone his age.
"Reality Quest will be set in the twelfth century. A full open world. Historically accurate. Brutal. Beautiful. A living simulation of medieval Earth."
He clicked the remote.
Images flashed—vast forests, medieval towns, battlefields, blacksmith forges, plague-ridden villages, primitive hospitals.
"Players will spawn randomly across the map. Their only objective is to survive. They can become whatever they want. Knights in royal armies. Thieves in alleyways. Doctors, assassins, kings, priests, serial killers… anything."
He waited a second, letting the idea hit them fully.
"But death is permanent."
Murmurs erupted.
"If you die in the game," Derek said calmly, "you start over. No exceptions."
He let the tension rise, then added:
"And Reality Quest's in-game currency will be tied to a real exchange system. Players can trade it for money, like cryptocurrency."
Shock spread. Some employees looked like they had been hit by lightning.
"The world will never be the same," Derek said. "This game will redefine addiction, entertainment, and even economy."
He pointed at the different sections of the room.
"Web developers—your task is to build the UI, backend systems, and world logic."
"Designers—create the visuals, textures, and environment aesthetics."
"Historians—your job is to make sure everything is accurate. Clothing. Speech. Culture. Architecture."
"Psychologists—you ensure the game is addictive. Not harmful—but irresistible."
"Engineers and cryptographers—you will handle the servers, safety, encryption, and anti-cheat systems."
He folded his arms.
"And one more thing. Remember your NDAs. Nothing leaves this building. Ever."
The room was silent for a heartbeat.
Then Derek gave a short nod and walked out.
The door closed behind him.
And immediately—
Chaos.
Everyone began arguing.
Panicking.
Shouting.
Debating.
Trying to figure out whether they were building the future… or madness.
"This is impossible!"
"He's insane!"
"No, no—this could be revolutionary!"
"Permanent death? Is he serious?"
"What kind of servers would even run this?"
"The psychology behind this would be insane!"
"Historically accurate twelfth century? That's decades of work!"
"Derek Morgan is out of his mind."
"Or he's a genius."
"Or both."
But in the mi
ddle of the storm, one thing became clear to everyone:
This wasn't just a job.
This was history in the making.
And they were now part of it.