While the Masonvale plant handled the grim reality of physical production and testing, Noxon's main corporate offices focused on the seemingly benign task of running the Kream social media app.
Unbeknownst to its millions of users, Kream served a dual purpose: its engagement algorithms and challenge data were secretly feeding information to train a component of the Oracle AI.
The core Oracle server and its primary development team were located securely in Falworth, the capital city, where shareholders could directly monitor the progress and ensure the protection of the compan's secrets.
This core AI, the true Oracle, remained shrouded in top-secret mystery. The version interacting with users on Kream, designated Oracle 3, was a significantly watered-down iteration, designed primarily for harmless data collection and benign human interaction.
This secrecy, this compartmentalization, was the dark underbelly of Noxon Group. It came at a staggering cost, draining billions to maintain security, avoid sabotage, and manage the constant setbacks. The immense pressure explained the tension gripping everyone involved, from the boardroom down.
By three o'clock that afternoon, Lonah concluded her visit to the plant. Carrying sensitive files, she left not alone, but with a small, discreet convoy – her private security escort. Noxon left nothing to fate when dealing with Project Aurora's secrets.
The vehicles bypassed the main thoroughfares, heading instead towards the heart of Masonvale's affluent district, branching off into an exclusive, high-security gated community. Here, the air itself seemed different – quiet, heavy with the scent of old money and generational privilege.
No children played on the immaculate lawns; only rows of imposing mansions lined the serene, silent streets.
The convoy slowed and stopped before one particularly large estate. Wrought iron gates, intricately designed, slid open automatically, activated remotely – a subtle display of wealth where manual labor was unnecessary.
The cars proceeded up a sweeping drive and parked in a spacious motor court, where several other vehicles, each costing millions, gleamed under the careful attention of a dedicated attendant.
A uniformed butler met Lonah at the main entrance, welcoming her with practiced deference. He escorted her inside, the cool marble foyer echoing her footsteps. The mansion exuded old-world style: dark wood paneling, mounted animal heads staring glassily from the walls, no trace of flashy modernism. The atmosphere immediately transported Lonah back to earlier days; if not for the crushing weight of her responsibilities, she would visit this place more often. It held complex memories.
A few members of her security detail were politely directed to a waiting room, while the butler led Lonah towards a large study. He opened the heavy oak door but did not enter, simply bowing his head before retreating silently.
Inside, Lonah's stern CEO facade melted into a warm smile. She crossed the room and embraced the older man seated behind a large mahogany desk. This was John Harlan, her late husband's father, a man she deeply respected, and crucially, one of Noxon Group's largest shareholders and the original pioneer of Project Aurora.
They sat on a comfortable leather sofa, exchanging brief pleasantries. John Harlan, at seventy-eight, carried the weight of his years, yet his eyes held a spark, and his face retained a vitality that belied his age – a result, perhaps, of diligently following his doctor's advice.
Lonah placed the file she carried on the low table between them and waited in silence as John picked it up. He straightened his reading glasses, his brow furrowing in concentration as he absorbed the report from the plant. As he read, Lonah found her thoughts drifting.
Her late husband had looked so little like this formidable man, taking entirely after his mother. A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips as she recalled her first time in this very office, years ago, with her husband, when John had been away. A playful memory, innocent fun, a stark contrast to the gravity of today's visit.
John Harlan's presence in Masonvale was unusual. Most of Noxon's sharehplders resided near Falworth, the nation's seat of power. But John's age and delicate health often prevented travel. Like all major shareholders, he rarely attended board meetings personally, instead relying on designated proxies – carefully vetted individuals who acted solely as conduits for the shareholders' instructions.
Their main role was to convey coded messages, received discreetly, sometimes simple texts , which translated into specific objectives for the next day's meeting. They had no autonomy, no language of their own in those chambers. John, however, due to his foundational role in Aurora and his seniority, was the first point of contact for critical issues, the very reason Lonah had come to him directly.
Finished with the file, John removed his glasses and leaned back. He and Lonah began discussing the situation, their voices low and serious, a bottle of expensive wine poured between them. To any outside observer from Noxon, this scene of casual intimacy between the CEO and a major shareholder would be shocking.
For Lonah, it was a necessary, albeit rare, consultation. John offered his perspective, outlining potential strategies to navigate the latest setbacks with Project Aurora, emphasizing the need to avoid further delays.
He looked at her intently, the earlier warmth replaced by shrewd calculation. "A new batch of subjects will arrive soon, Lonah," he stated, his voice firm. "You must ensure they bear fruit. Even small advancements are critical now." He didn't need to elaborate on the illicit means used to acquire these subjects or the immense cost involved.
The unspoken message was clear: results were expected, quickly, if only preliminary ones to appease unseen, powerful interests Lonah wasn't privy to. "This cannot be for naught."
His words confirmed Lonah's unease. Project Aurora was entangled in complexities far beyond her grasp. John wouldn't reveal the full picture; it was a tacit grace that she was allowed this level of operational freedom.
But he knew, and she knew, that her position wasn't unassailable. The project's repeated failures could easily shake confidence, diminishing her authority. Results were the only currency that mattered now.
John then offered a subtle hint of the future. "When Aurora is complete, when we launch and expand..." he mused, swirling the wine in his glass, "there may be a more... fitting role for you." An expansion was being planned. She was the first executive staff member to hear of it. It was a carrot, but also a warning: she was being evaluated. Success would grant entry into the inner circle, the promised land – Noxon's version of Canaan. Failure would mean falling short.
At seven o'clock, Lonah bid farewell, politely declining John's invitation to stay for dinner. The weight of the day, the grim realities at the plant, and the pressure from John settled heavily upon her. This time, she left with only her driver; her security escort team, their task completed, had already departed. Her safety wasn't a major concern – Noxon Group's roots in Kestova ran deep and powerful. They were not a vulnerable startup. The earlier escort had been mere protocol, a symbol of the secrecy surrounding Aurora. She was, arguably, one of the safest individuals in Masonvale.
As Lonah's car disappeared down the long drive, John summoned his butler, whispering a few quiet instructions. The butler nodded in understanding and left. John then stepped out onto the balcony adjoining his study, overlooking his vast, manicured compound.
There was no moon, but the estate lights cast long shadows. He lit a cigar, the tip glowing red in the darkness.
He genuinely preferred Masonvale to the political machinations of Falworth. He had built significant parts of his business empire here long before Noxon ever migrated its headquarters. This city held decades of his own history, unrelated to the tech giant he now heavily influenced.
A few moments later, the butler returned, holding a personal cellphone – a sturdy, traditional model with physical buttons, nothing extravagant. John Harlan, a man who had lived through the transition from analogue to digital, retained certain preferences, especially concerning secure communication. The phone rang, a dedicated, encrypted line. John answered without checking the caller ID; he knew who it would be. Few possessed this number, and fewer still could bypass its security screenings. The butler waited discreetly inside the study.
The call was brief, strategic, direct. Instructions were given and confirmed. The conversation ensured no unwanted eyes were tailing Noxon's movements, no activists or journalists digging too close. As a powerful entity, Noxon constantly attracted scrutiny. Activist groups, investigative reporters, even government agencies and corporate rivals – threats were everywhere. Some protested openly, others dug for skeletons online, spreading rumors. Noxon maintained a dedicated internal task force, working closely with elements within Kestova's Department of Security, to counter these threats, neutralizing opposition, whether public or governmental. Ironically, they worried about exposure as if their own operations were clean.
Miles away, in Falworth, the capital, a different kind of hunt was underway. In a cramped, dimly lit motel room in a rundown district, a man hunched over a laptop, his face illuminated by the screen's glow. He was a field agent for the CIB – the Central Intelligence Bureau. Officially Kestova's foreign intelligence agency, the CIB often handled sensitive domestic issues deemed too volatile for standard law enforcement.
This agent was close, he could feel it, close to finding concrete evidence to incriminate Noxon Group. He had tracked whispers, followed digital breadcrumbs, leading him to a shipping container registry – a container suspected of transporting living human beings.
The worst part? His CIB superiors were likely aware of such trafficking; crimes like these were often swept under the rug when powerful interests were involved. A fiery indignation burned in him. Was this not the very corruption he had dedicated years of service to purging from the nation?
Just as a surge of triumphant certainty flowed through him – the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place on his screen – he remained oblivious to the figures gathering silently outside his door. Masked individuals approached the motel's front desk. A thick wad of cash exchanged hands. The motel owner, a man accustomed to the shadowed corners of the city's underground, received a chilling death stare.
Shown a picture of the agent, the owner's eyes widened momentarily in fear before greed took over. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he quickly pointed towards the dim hallway leading to the agent's room.
Retreating to his grubby office, the owner forced himself to remain calm, the heavy stack of bills now clutched in his hand. He knew what was about to happen. It wasn't the first time. Fear warred with avarice. Such a business is dangerous, he rationalized, but profitable. He wasn't the bad guy here; it was the victim's fault for angering people powerful enough to erase him.
Ten minutes later, a soft knock echoed from his office door. A predetermined signal. Success. They had their man. His job was almost done. Just one more step: call the police, report a disturbance, and wash his hands of the incident. It was a thriving, albeit treacherous, business model for men like him in the city's underbelly – tracking guests, identifying those who might be wanted (not officially, but by certain groups), and selling them out. Dangerous, yes, but highly profitable.
He made the call.
Within minutes, police sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. The area was quickly cordoned off. The scene inside the agent's room was gruesome. The motel owner, forced to stay nearby by the initial responding officers, felt bile rise in his throat. They had done the young man dirty. Sweat streamed down his face, his nervousness escalating as more police, and then more serious figures, arrived. His state did not escape the officers' notice, filed away as suspicious behavior.
Then the CIB arrived. Black sedans, stern faces, an air of absolute authority. That's when the motel owner knew his day had truly come. Seeing the CIB confirmed the victim's identity – an agent of the Department of Security, operating under the Bureau. A CIB operative killed not in some foreign nation, but here, in the capital, Falworth. Panic seized the owner. He tried to bolt, to melt into the gathering crowd of onlookers attracted by the commotion, but strong hands seized him. Guilty or not, he was now entangled, the first piece of collateral damage in a grand, dark cinema he hadn't even bought a ticket for – just a bystander who pointed the way.
Inside the motel room, forensic teams moved with grim efficiency, their protective suits stark against the blood-spattered cream walls. The agent's body, brutalized and dismembered, was too graphic for casual observation; the parts were already being collected into a body bag.
The room was smashed, belongings thrown about, but it suggested a low-level agent – few personal effects. Yet, the brutality sent a chilling message: someone was openly hunting CIB operatives, showing contempt for the nation's intelligence apparatus.
This incident was destined to explode in the headlines, dominating the news cycle for days, potentially igniting political turmoil. Fingers would be pointed. Senior officials would be pressured to PAY, to answer for this atrocity against the state.
The assumption was that government incompetence or rival factions were to blame. They were right, but also deeply wrong. This single death, this motel room massacre, was merely the opening act. It would pull threads that could unravel far more than a few political careers. Once the dust settled, Kestova itself might never be the same, its foundations shaken, its power questioned.
That night, breaking news alerts shocked the nation awake. Citizens watched in horror. But other, less public parties also observed, their expressions hidden, their interests piqued. To them, it was just another brutal incident in a long game. Unfortunate, yes, but someone insignificant would inevitably take the fall. That was how things worked. Responsibility would land on the government, the Department of Security... Or would it? The question hung unspoken in the corridors of power.