The sky was already dark by the time Lutte walked back into headquarters, the city's neon glow clinging faintly to his shoulders.
In his hands was the leather notebook filled with today's voices—loyalists, critics, professionals, dreamers—all written in their own cadence.
Shira intercepted him near the lobby, tablet in hand, efficient as always.
"Feedback?" she asked.
He passed the notebook over, a faint smile tugging his lips.
"Every word. Raw, unpolished, first-person. I want you to compile them into a clean transcript. Then tell Mara to set up an internal meeting tomorrow morning at nine sharp. Everyone needs to hear this."
Shira's brows arched in interest. "Understood. Meeting room C?"
"No. Main hall," Lutte corrected. "This isn't a quiet memo. It's a company pulse."
With a nod, she was off, already multitasking on her device.
In his office, the quiet was almost a cocoon.
Lutte loosened his tie, sat behind his desk, and pulled up Emberborne Technologies' contact line. This was something he wouldn't delegate—this needed his voice so it could get through faster.
When the operator connected him, Lutte introduced himself with crisp authority.
"Lutte Valance, CEO of Valance Ventures. I'd like to request another meeting with your board, regarding a refined proposal for collaborative AI—specifically for smart food trucks."
The pause was short but weighty. Then, an answer: "Day after tomorrow, 10 a.m. Boardroom A. The slot will be yours."
"Perfect," Lutte replied smoothly. "Thank you."
He set the receiver down, exhaling slowly. The door was cracked open a little further.
The rest of his evening in the office was quiet but alive. He poured himself into the customer notes, not as complaints or praises, but as living stories.
Mrs. Amelia's uneven trays became a point about inclusive reliability.
Milo's intimidation with complexity shaped a slide titled "Empathy in Interface."
Harrold's thunderous criticism became a catalyst for adaptive AI flow.
Chef Dessire's exacting standards framed the summit: Precision defines mastery.
As the slides took shape, a single mantra burned at the core:
Innovation isn't about machines first—it's about people.
He stitched that phrase across the heart of the presentation, then sent the deck to Shira with a note:
"Polish it. Trim where needed. Your judgment, as always."
But the night wasn't finished.
Lutte left his office and headed into the beating arteries of the company.
He stopped by manufacturing—checked the workspaces, asked the engineers if they had enough light, enough tools, enough breathing room.
He went to logistics, chatted briefly with staff about their workload balance.
In research, he leaned over one developer's monitor, nodding at a complex line of code.
Not grand gestures, not speeches. Just presence. Presence that reminded everyone the man at the helm knew their names, their space, their grind.
Only after every department had been seen did Lutte finally step out into the night.
At home, the ritual was nearly muscle memory.
Suitcase left at the study door. Jacket hung. He moved with the surety of habit into the kitchen—except tonight, hunger pulled harder than restraint.
Mrs. Hanson had left braised pork and Chinese fried rice waiting.
He warmed them without hesitation, and within minutes he was seated in the sala, a simple plate of food in hand, sinking into the couch.
The television blinked on—a rare indulgence.
The news cycle ran its usual course until the shorts began. And there, glowing across the screen, was Asher.
The young man appeared collected, composed, not in a crowded mall but under the sharp lens of the press. Headlines rolled:
["Breakthrough in AI for Medical Diagnostics."]
["Emberborne Cybersecurity Team Thwarts Massive Hack on Entertainment Giant."]
The anchor asked a pointed question, and Asher answered with calm, unflustered authority.
No arrogance, no stilted rehearsals—just clarity, the kind that disarmed and commanded at once.
Lutte let out a low whistle. "You really do know how to strike big," he murmured.
Yet what tugged at him was not the genius on display, but the memory of that younger, unguarded Asher in the mall—casual, human, entirely different.
Watching the man on the screen, Lutte smiled faintly. So many sides. Wonder if I could glimpse another different side of you again, Asher?
He leaned back, letting the thought linger, a quiet wish forming. Maybe tomorrow, he would pass by that mall again.
Just in case.
Later, after a bath, after swallowing the daily supplement with a glass of water, Lutte slid beneath his sheets.
But as his eyes closed, his mind didn't linger on Emberborne's boardroom or the slides he'd crafted.
It lingered on Asher.
Not the polished CEO.
Not the celebrated innovator.
But the young man, unguarded in the mall, when calm composure gave way to something softer.
And with that picture drifting in his mind, Lutte surrendered to sleep.
****
The chauffeur eased the sleek black car to a stop, headlights sweeping across a row of modest houses just outside the gated enclave where most of his peers lived.
Asher stepped out, blazer folded neatly over one arm, his silhouette tall but unassuming against the night.
The car pulled away silently, leaving him before the small, clean house that contrasted starkly with his company's towering glass headquarters.
He pressed his thumb against the glowing pad beside the door.
A soft chime. The lock clicked open.
Inside, the lights adjusted automatically. A robot maid rolled forward on smooth treads, its design minimalist but purposeful.
"Welcome home, Asher," it chimed in its soft, programmed voice.
Without a word, Asher handed it his tablet, the weight of the day still lingering in his hand. "Place this on the desk in my room," he instructed.
The robot whirred gently and complied, gliding toward the hallway.
Asher slipped into the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness.
Soon, the bath steamed gently around him, warmth soaking into his tired muscles.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and exhaled the strain of interviews, cameras, lights.
Images replayed—the interviewers' questions, the spotlight that painted him as confident, untouchable.
He should feel triumphant. Yet his mind wandered elsewhere.
The employees deserve this more than me, he thought. Maybe a company party this weekend. A celebration of what they've built, not just what I've fronted.
The thought softened his chest, tugging a small smile from him.
But then another image intruded.
That bustling mall. The press of people. The jostle that knocked him forward, embarrassingly unsteady.
And then—
That man. Calm, grounded. Offering him the book he had been hunting for—a rare signed edition he never expected to find.
He had left hastily, cheeks warm from a kind of embarrassment he hadn't felt in years.
Not embarrassment of failure, but of being… seen. Human, in the messy crush of fellow fans.
Asher's lips curved upward, water lapping softly around him. "Maybe I should've stayed longer," he murmured to himself.
And then, a quieter thought: Maybe he'll be there again tomorrow.
Even if not, he reasoned, it would be no loss to wander the shelves again, to browse freely without the weight of title or reputation. Still, a spark of anticipation stirred in his chest.
Perhaps I'll bring something along… He chuckled under his breath. "Matcha cookies, then. Simple enough."
The decision felt oddly exciting.
Asher rose from the bath, towel over his shoulders, body cooled by the quiet hum of his house's circulation system.
He dressed in light, comfortable clothes, hair slightly damp, and padded into the kitchen.
Dinner was straightforward—seared steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables sautéed with just enough garlic to scent the room.
He plated it neatly, ate without rush, savoring each bite as though grounding himself back into the ordinary.
Afterward came the stretch, long motions easing out stiffness, followed by meditation on the mat by the window.
The city lights outside flickered like restless thoughts, but inside, he found stillness.
When meditation ended, he queued up an audiobook—an old philosophical text—and let the narrator's voice murmur through the speakers.
Meanwhile, his hand moved steadily across his journal, pen scratching thoughts in the quiet: fragments of strategy, impressions from today's interviews, and, tucked between them, a single line:
Mall, tomorrow. Book man. Matcha cookies.
He paused over it, chuckled softly at his own handwriting, and shook his head.
Finally, he closed the journal, dimmed the lights, and stretched into bed. The robot maid had already powered down in the hall.
The city hummed faintly outside, but inside his small house, there was peace.
Asher closed his eyes. His last thought wasn't of the investors, or the hackers thwarted, or even the speeches that painted him as untouchable.
It was the quiet, unguarded memory of a stranger's calm smile as he handed him a rare book amid the chaos of a mall.
And with that memory, Asher drifted into sleep.