"Let's start broadening the horizon," Lutte told the manufacturing team, folding his sleeves as he leaned over the glowing schematic on the worktable.
"If solar alone can't shoulder the spikes, then we need alternatives. Wind microturbines. Compressed bio-gas. Even hybrid kinetic options for smaller subsystems. Think modular, think resilient."
The engineers exchanged wary but hopeful glances. They knew this meant more work, more late nights—but also that their boss believed in them.
"And listen," Lutte added, catching sight of one young tech rubbing his temples.
"You're not machines. I want scheduled breaks. Take twenty now. Stretch. Hydrate. Breathe."
A ripple of laughter moved through the bay, a mix of relief and amusement at his persistence.
He stayed until he saw them pull back, power tools set aside, shoulders loosening. When the clock crept toward the late evening, he clapped his hands once.
"That's it. Go home. Families are waiting. Those who have to stay, I'll make sure the night shift keeps an eye out. Nobody runs themselves into the ground on my watch."
The foreman nodded. "Understood, sir. Thank you."
Only when the last of the evening crew had left did Lutte finally allow himself to head out.
His car was already waiting at the curb. The sleek black sedan's door swung open, and Arnold, his long-time driver, greeted him with a warm nod.
"Evening, boss. Long day?"
Lutte dropped into the seat with a weary laugh. "It's days like these I'm glad I have you, Arnold. If I had to fight traffic after all that, I'd fall asleep at the wheel."
Arnold chuckled, pulling the car smoothly into the street. "And it's days like this I'm glad I've got you, boss. Can't imagine working for anyone else."
Lutte snorted, waving him off. "Ha. I know why you stick around—it's not me, it's my sweet talk. Admit it."
The two men laughed, the sound carrying through the hum of the city's nightlife as they drove toward the western edge of the city.
The air in the car was lighter now, exhaustion softened by camaraderie.
When they pulled up before Lutte's modern townhouse—a modest but elegant space nestled close to the elite district—he clapped Arnold on the shoulder.
"Thanks for the ride, my friend. Go get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodnight, boss."
Inside, the house was quiet, still, lit only by the soft glow of the city beyond his wide windows.
He stepped into the foyer, set down his keys, and—ignoring the voice-activated panels scattered around—reached up to flick the wall switch. The light came on with a sharp click.
A small act of rebellion against a world rushing too fast into automation.
He carried his suitcase into his study, then made for the kitchen. Hunger gnawed at him, heavy but oddly picky.
Mrs. Hanson, his housekeeper, had left spaghetti for dinner, but Lutte wasn't in the mood for pasta.
Instead, he raided the fridge with a grin, pulling deli ham, sliced spinach, cucumber, pickled carrots, pickled cabbage, and the meatballs she'd cooked that afternoon.
Within minutes, he had built himself a stacked, messy deli sandwich that looked more like a feast than a snack.
He devoured it too quickly, laughing at himself mid-bite. "You'd think I hadn't eaten in days," he muttered, wiping his mouth.
Still restless, he dug out a bag of sweet potato chips and tore into them while spooning yogurt between handfuls. It wasn't elegant, but it was honest.
When the edge of his hunger finally dulled, he showered, letting the hot water wash away the weight of steel and ambition that clung to him.
By the time he emerged, toweling his hair, the clock ticked past midnight.
At his nightstand, he downed his vitamins with a glass of water, then slid beneath the cool sheets.
His body welcomed rest, but his mind lingered elsewhere.
Not on solar inefficiency. Not on manufacturing setbacks.
On Asher Emberborne.
That stern, unflinching gaze. Composed, commanding, the kind of presence rare for someone so young.
It wasn't dominance—it was steadiness, the sort that could draw people in without crushing them.
The image haunted him as his eyes drifted shut, the last thought before sleep claimed him.
****
Morning began for Lutte with the same discipline that anchored his life.
At six sharp, he ran along the trimmed pathways of his neighborhood, his breath even, his stride steady.
The rhythm of his shoes against the pavement cleared the cobwebs of yesterday's burdens. At 6:40, he was back home, sharing breakfast with Mrs. Hanson in the bright, quiet kitchen—black coffee for him, a soft-boiled egg, and toasted rye with a smear of avocado.
She fussed over whether he was eating enough, as always, and he humored her with a second slice.
Afterward, he sank into ten minutes of stillness—meditation that slowed his racing thoughts until the hum of strategy and invention quieted into silence.
Watering the houseplants that lined his study windowsill came next, each green leaf a reminder that growth took both care and patience.
Inbox clearing: twenty-five minutes. Sorting, prioritizing, responding to what only he could, leaving the rest in flagged folders for his secretary.
News after that: industry shifts, world reports, energy policies. He preferred the certified portals, stripped of noise and speculation.
By midmorning, he changed into casual clothes—dark jeans, a linen shirt rolled at the sleeves—and decided he'd indulge in something personal.
The mall was already alive with weekend bustle when Arnold dropped him off, and Lutte moved quickly, his target clear: the newest release of The Moondust Chronicles.
It was a story he carried close to his heart. A young man who could see the dimming starlight in others and who made it his mission to rekindle those fading sparks.
A metaphor, yes, but also something that felt achingly real in a world where ambition often swallowed warmth.
The bookstore was in chaos.
A line snaked into the concourse, and readers pressed against each other, jockeying for a chance.
Inside, it had devolved into a small war—hands reaching, voices rising, elbows sharp.
Lutte, taller than most in the fray, managed to wrestle a single copy into his grasp. He exhaled in triumph, though a smile tugged his lips at the absurdity of it.
Then he saw it.
A young man, shoved out of the press of bodies, stumbling, about to fall. Lutte's body moved before his mind did, steadying him with a firm hand on the arm.
The young man straightened, brushing himself off, his lean frame taller than Lutte's by a margin.
"Thanks," he muttered, eyes flicking past him toward the now-empty stand. His tone was calm, but the reluctance in his glance betrayed disappointment.
Lutte noticed the eyes then. Shining peridot, sharp yet unguarded for a moment. They caught him off guard.
"Here," Lutte said, holding out his hard-won copy.
The young man blinked. "I couldn't—"
"I already have the digital version. And a pre-order. This was just a gamble for a signed one," Lutte lied with an easy smile, though it wasn't entirely untrue. "Take it. It'll mean more to you."
Reluctance warred with pride in the young man's expression, but after a pause, he nodded, accepting the book with quiet grace.
"...Thank you."
He paid at the counter, the slim volume in hand.
As he turned, Lutte caught the sharp lines of his face, the way he carried himself with restraint, and recognition landed like a sudden weight.
Asher Emberborne.
He didn't call it out, didn't break the fragile anonymity of the moment.
Instead, he let a small, private smile linger as he left the store. So, Asher liked the same story—the tale of rekindling fading stars.
That alone told him something no boardroom maneuver ever could.
Back at the car, Arnold glanced at his empty hands. "Boss, what happened to the book you were fighting half the mall for?"
Lutte chuckled, leaning back into the seat. "I gave it to a prince."
Arnold shook his head, amused. "Of course you did."
As the car rolled away, Lutte rested his elbow against the window, the city passing in glimmers of glass and sunlight.
His mind lingered not on projects or failures but on Asher—the image of him with that book in hand. The stern corporate heir in the boardroom and the quiet, almost hesitant reader in a bookstore, both Asher and that, made it intriguing.
And worth exploring.