I'm sitting here in the basement, the cold light from the LED lamps hitting my face directly, reflecting off the main monitor which displays a stack of open windows: cost spreadsheets, provisional patent diagrams, encrypted emails I sent to an intellectual property lawyer I hired anonymously in Delaware.
The clock in the corner of the screen reads 11:47 PM. Upstairs, the house is silent. Mom went to bed hours ago, Dad is still snoring on the living room sofa with the TV on low, probably watching a replay of some NBA basketball game. My younger sister—the 11-year-old girl who still thinks the world is fair—is in her room dreaming about normal childhood things. And me? I'm down here, thinking about what could change all of this.
The clock in the corner of the screen reads 11:47 PM. Upstairs, the house is silent. Mom went to bed hours ago, Dad is still snoring on the living room sofa with the TV on low, probably watching a replay of some NBA basketball game. My younger sister—the 11-year-old girl who still thinks the world is fair—is in her room dreaming about normal childhood things. And me? I'm down here, thinking about what could change all of this.
The last four months have been a slow hell.
Ever since I burned Zsasz alive in front of half a dozen witnesses, my family's life has become a target. It didn't happen overnight. At first, it was just stares in the street, whispers in the supermarket, the mailman taking longer to deliver the mail. Then came the rest: graffiti on the garage ("META ASSASSIN"), windows smashed with rocks in the middle of the night, anonymous calls with heavy breathing on the other end of the line, envelopes with newspaper clippings about the trial taped to the door.
My mother started buying thicker curtains so she wouldn't see the curious faces across the street. My father stopped talking about work at the dinner table—now he comes home, showers, eats dinner in silence, and goes to bed early. My sister… she stopped inviting friends over to play. Once, I heard her crying in her room because a friend said that "her brother is a monster who kills people." She's 11. Eleven.
I killed a serial killer to save a friend's sister. The jury said "self-defense." The city called him a "monster." And my family is paying the price.
We can't continue like this any longer.
I open the folder called "Project Gold" on the encrypted server. Inside, there's a short list, just three items that I considered truly viable in the short term. The others—plasma propulsion, self-replicating nanomachines, second-generation neural implants—are dreams for five, ten years from now.
Now I need fast, clean money in sufficient quantity to get them out of here. To buy a new house in another state, maybe even abroad, hire 24-hour private security, private school for my sister, therapy for everyone if necessary. I need capital that can't be traced back to me and that will generate passive income later.
I am analyzing the two projects that survived the cuts.
The first: multi-touch capacitive screen + gesture algorithm.
In 2006, the world still used styluses and physical keyboards on cell phones. BlackBerry reigned supreme, the Palm Treo was still selling well, and the iPhone hadn't even been publicly announced. Nobody had a screen that responded to multiple simultaneous touches. I built the prototype in five weeks. I used the transmutation circle to create ultra-thin layers of indium tin oxide (ITO) mixed with graphene—a material that nobody had yet commercially mastered.
The glass is ordinary, but I transmuted the conductive layer at home with nanometer precision. I wrote the gesture algorithm in C++ during a sleepless night: pinch to zoom, swipe, two-finger rotation. I tested it on a makeshift 7-inch screen connected to an old laptop. It works. It works very well.
The provisional patent application was filed three weeks ago. The Delaware lawyer handled the paperwork. Now it's just a matter of waiting for the application to be approved and taking the prototype to Wayne Enterprises. Bruce Wayne is investing heavily in portable electronics—they say he wants to compete with Apple and Microsoft. I offer exclusivity for $90 to $120 million upfront, plus 4% royalties on any device that uses the technology. If he launches a tablet or smartphone with a multi-touch screen in 2007 or 2008, I receive a lifetime percentage. That alone covers the relocation, security, and still leaves some for investment.
The second project: a high-density lithium polymer battery with fast charging.
Current batteries last a day if you're careful. My LiPo battery has a density 2.5 times greater than the current standard, using a solid electrolyte that I synthesized through transmutation (a mixture of lithium salts with organic compounds that no one has published yet). It charges from 0 to 80% in 18 minutes with a standard charger. I tested it on an old Nokia—it lasted three days of heavy use. Provisional patent submitted along with the screen patent. The plan is the same: sell to WayneTech (energy division) or directly to Sony/Apple if Bruce doesn't agree. Estimated value: $150–250 million upfront + royalties of 6–8% on all batteries released with this composition.
Two projects. Two and a half months of intense work.
While I was developing the prototypes, life didn't stop. By day, I worked in the basement: soldering, testing, adjusting ITO layers, synthesizing electrolyte, writing code, sending documents to the lawyer. At night, I patrolled with Artemis—robberies, harassment, petty drug thefts, anything that appeared on the streets of Gotham. I learned to move better on rooftops, to calculate jumps, to use the grappling hook without hesitation. Sometimes we arrived too late; other times, we saved someone. One night, we pulled a drug dealer off a 14-year-old girl—Artemis stuck an arrow in his thigh, I burned the hand holding the knife. The guy screamed so loudly that the neighbors called the police. We ran out, laughing nervously, from the top of a building, sweaty and alive.
During the day, I trained virtually with Sensei — 24 hours compressed into 8 reais, every day. My reflexes improved, my strikes became more economical, my falls less painful. The elemental aspect also evolved: recovery accelerated, brute strength increased by about 15%, I can sustain the flames for longer without burning myself from the inside.
But the focus was on the money. Project Gold.
I didn't just want to get them out of here. I wanted to give them a life they never imagined. A big house with a yard, 24-hour security, private school for my sister, travel, peace of mind. My parents never lived in poverty—we always had a spacious house, a decent car, food on the table—but there was never anything left over for luxuries. Now I can change that.
I take another look at the two projects on the screen.
Multi-touch screen: functional prototype, provisional patent filed, demonstration video recorded (zooming with fingers on a map, rotating photos, basic gestures). I'll take it to Wayne Enterprises next week. Bruce will take the bait—he loves disruptive technology.
LiPo battery: prototype tested in three different devices, provisional patent registered, chemical samples stored in the capsule for later analysis. The same path: WayneTech pays dearly for exclusivity.
If both work out… 250 to 400 million upfront + royalties. Even with taxes and the division of legal fees, there's enough left over to buy a fortified property anywhere in the world, hire private security, and still invest in the rest: more prototypes, more training, more power.
I close my eyes for a second. I feel the elemental energy pulsing calmly in my chest, as if in a sign of approval.
I rise from my chair. Time to begin my nightly routine. I no longer sleep in the bed upstairs—I traded the soft mattress for something more practical a long time ago. The surgical capsule I built is open, waiting like a cocoon of metal and bluish light. I enter without hesitation. The adaptive foam molds to my body, the infusion needles automatically connect to my arms—nutrients, sleep modulators, microdoses of painkiller to heal the remnants of today's patrol. I put on the red helmet—the plates fit into the collar of the jacket I'm still wearing underneath—and the neural switch activates with a thought. The real world disappears.
I wake up in the virtual dojo. The starry sky, the polished wooden floor, the paper lanterns swaying in the night breeze. The Sensei is already there, performing a slow and precise kata, his body like a river of fluid movements.
"Good evening, Erick," he says, pausing and bowing slightly. "Ready for another 24 hours?"
"Ready," I reply, also feeling the strong elemental pulse within me. "Let's begin with the advanced redirection. I want to test the magnetic shield in sequence with the hook."
He smiles—a small, but genuine smile. "So, let's begin."
While my body rests in the capsule up there, down here I continue to forge. Forging myself. Forging my family's future.
Project Gold is not just about money.
It is redemption.
And I will fulfill it.
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