Contracts arrived before sleep did.
They came in different shapes and tones—some polite, some urgent, some dressed up as opportunities that assumed consent before it was given. Mina filtered them ruthlessly, but even her encrypted channels filled faster than she could prune.
Kaito watched the flow from the safehouse conference room, a long table strewn with tablets and printed summaries. The anchor hummed somewhere far beyond concrete and steel, a constant, low-pressure awareness at the back of his mind.
"They all want the same thing," he said.
"Yes," Mina replied, scrolling without looking up. "Control wrapped in legality."
Aya projected a layered visualization above the table: corporate logos, government seals, shell entities branching into shell entities, all connected by faint lines of influence.
"Seventy-eight percent of incoming proposals seek exclusive rights," Aya said. "Fourteen percent seek compulsory licensing authority. Eight percent propose partnership structures with termination clauses that disproportionately favor the initiating party."
Kaito raised an eyebrow. "Only eight percent?"
"Those are the honest ones," Aya replied.
Mina finally looked up. "This is the phase where everyone pretends law can solve uncertainty."
Kaito leaned back in his chair. "Can it?"
Mina smiled thinly. "Law doesn't solve uncertainty. It assigns it."
The first meeting took place that afternoon.
It was virtual, for security reasons, but no less formal. Three representatives appeared on the screen, each framed by neutral backgrounds designed to signal restraint. They spoke carefully, referencing precedent, regulatory pathways, and mutual benefit.
"We believe your technology represents a public good," one of them said. "As such, it should be stewarded responsibly."
"And by stewarded," Kaito asked, "you mean owned?"
The representative didn't flinch. "We mean protected."
Aya flagged stress micro-expressions in real time.
"They want compulsory oversight," Aya whispered privately to Kaito. "With veto authority."
Kaito nodded. "No."
The meeting ended politely.
Two more followed.
One offered obscene funding numbers paired with restrictive non-disclosure terms. Another proposed a joint task force with rotating leadership—carefully structured so Kaito's role diminished over time.
Each refusal tightened the air in the room.
By evening, Liang joined in person, carrying a thick folder of printed schematics.
"I hate this part," he said flatly. "Science works because ideas spread. Contracts choke that."
"They also keep people alive," Mina countered.
Liang grimaced. "Sometimes."
Kaito listened to them argue, feeling the weight of every signature he hadn't made. The anchor made it worse—not louder, but steadier. A reminder that whatever he decided would echo across worlds.
"What if we flip it?" Kaito said suddenly.
Mina paused. "Flip what?"
"The premise," Kaito replied. "Instead of us asking for permission to exist… we define the terms for interaction."
Aya's avatar sharpened. "Clarify."
Kaito stood, pacing slowly. "We create a framework. Open enough to appear fair. Restrictive enough to maintain control."
Mina's eyes narrowed with interest. "A charter."
"Yes," Kaito said. "Not a contract. A covenant."
Liang frowned. "That sounds dangerously idealistic."
"It sounds enforceable if we anchor it to access," Mina said slowly. "No charter, no tech."
Aya processed for several seconds.
"Proposal viability: high," she said. "If enforcement mechanisms are embedded at the technological layer rather than the legal layer."
Kaito smiled faintly. "Exactly."
They worked through the night.
The framework took shape piece by piece: a licensing structure tied to compliance metrics, auditability built into every deployed system, revocation clauses enforced by the fabricator's heuristics rather than courts.
"No exclusive ownership," Kaito insisted. "Ever."
"Limited domains," Mina countered. "Or everyone walks."
They compromised.
Liang added scientific safeguards—peer oversight, mandatory replication studies, kill-switches triggered by misuse thresholds.
"This will slow deployment," he warned.
"Good," Kaito replied. "Speed is what everyone else wants."
By dawn, they had something unprecedented.
Aya displayed the final draft.
THE ARCADA CHARTER — PROVISIONAL
It wasn't long. It didn't need to be.
"This will make enemies," Mina said quietly.
"It already does," Kaito replied.
They released it selectively.
Not publicly. Not yet.
First to the loudest actors. Then to the most nervous. Then, finally, to those who had waited without asking.
The reactions were immediate.
Outrage from those accustomed to dictating terms. Reluctant acceptance from those who understood leverage. Quiet interest from smaller nations and institutions that had never been invited to the table before.
Aya tracked sentiment curves in real time.
"Polarization increasing," she reported. "However, adoption probability among secondary actors is rising."
Mina exhaled slowly. "That's how new orders begin."
That evening, a single message arrived through Mina's most secure channel.
No logo. No signature.
Just a sentence.
You are attempting to legislate the future.
Kaito stared at it for a long moment.
"Are we?" he asked.
Aya answered softly. "You are attempting to prevent others from doing so unilaterally."
The disk chimed behind them.
DAY 012 — SIGN-IN COMPLETE
No reward.
No bonus.
Just confirmation.
Kaito looked at the charter hovering faintly above the table.
Contracts had failed.
So he had written something stronger.
Not law.
Not force.
But a gate.
And gates, once built, decided who could pass.