The rain hadn't let up. It drummed against the library's tall windows, a dull percussion filling the silence as Michael scribbled feverishly across the pages of his notebook. The equations grew messier with every line, but the rhythm of the pen kept his hands steady.
Across from him, Arthur sat with a mug of coffee, his glasses perched low, studying the younger man with that same half-proud, half-worried gaze.
"You're running faster than your own shadow," Arthur said finally.
Michael didn't look up. "Then maybe I'll leave it behind."
Arthur shook his head. "You don't leave shadows, Michael. They follow you, no matter how far you run. Even if you reach the stars."
The younger man set his pen down sharply, jaw tight. "Then I'll outshine it."
Arthur didn't answer. He knew that tone. It was the same tone he'd heard decades ago in Richard Bellamy's voice—ambition pressed so hard it turned brittle.
---
Days of Silence
The next few days bled into each other. Michael barely slept, barely ate. He covered wall after wall with symbols, diagrams, even fragments of words that read like prophecy. The warehouse had become a chalk cathedral, but here in the library, the heartbeat of the work remained.
Arthur didn't press him. He brought him food, refilled his coffee, and offered the occasional warning. "Don't mistake speed for progress." "Don't confuse obsession with clarity."
Michael brushed them all aside. His focus was relentless.
But Arthur was not idle.
---
An Old Favor
One rainy evening, Arthur disappeared into the stacks, carrying a folder tucked under his arm. When he returned, he said nothing—just sat heavily at the desk and opened a worn leather-bound address book.
He stared at a single name. Richard Bellamy.
The younger Richard had been brilliant, wild, full of impossible ideas. Arthur had guided him then, shaping his hunger into strategy, giving him the wisdom to temper raw ambition. But Richard had outgrown the need for guidance, building his empire through ruthlessness that Arthur had tried, and failed, to soften.
And yet, there had been gratitude once. Promises made. Favors owed.
Arthur closed the book with a sigh. "You still owe me, Richard," he muttered to himself.
---
The Letter
A week later, as the rain broke and sunlight lanced through the gray, Arthur entered the library carrying an envelope.
It was heavy stock, sealed with dark red wax bearing the Bellamy family crest. He set it down on Michael's open notebook.
Michael froze. "What's this?"
Arthur adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. "A door. Whether you walk through it or not is up to you."
Michael picked it up carefully, running his thumb over the seal before breaking it. He unfolded the thick paper inside, eyes scanning the words.
---
Richard's Hand
> Arthur,
Your letter reached me this morning, and though it surprised me, it did not shock me. I have long wondered if you would one day send a name my way, as you once promised.
You speak highly of this Michael Rivers. I admit, I am skeptical. The world is full of men who call themselves visionaries. Few are anything but dreamers chasing their own shadows.
And yet, because it is you who vouches for him, I will extend an invitation. Let him come to my estate. Let me look into his eyes and decide for myself if there is more than fire in him.
—Richard Bellamy
---
The Reaction
Michael folded the letter slowly, his pulse thundering. Richard Bellamy. A man whose name carried weight, whose wealth could move markets. And Claire—her name whispered unbidden in his mind, a ghost from a life he thought closed.
Arthur watched him carefully. "Richard doesn't waste his time. If he's agreed to see you, it means he's at least curious. That's more than most men will ever give you."
Michael swallowed hard. "And if he dismisses me?"
Arthur leaned back, his gaze heavy. "Then you'll know where you stand. But if he sees what I see—God help us, Michael, because everything will change."
The younger man clenched the letter in his hand, eyes blazing. "Then let it change."
Arthur studied him for a moment longer, then said softly: "Richard is a fortress, Michael. If you want him to lower the drawbridge, you'll need more than equations. You'll need conviction. Don't forget that."
---
Later that night, after Arthur had left, Michael sat alone in the dim library light. The letter lay open beside the pocket watch, its words like a summons. The ticking seemed louder, each second a step toward the meeting that would alter his life.
He whispered to the dark:
"Helios has found its first door."
The clock ticked on, as if in answer.
---
The Journey
The letter weighed heavier than any book Michael had ever carried. It sat folded in the breast pocket of his coat, the Bellamy crest pressing into the fabric like a brand. For days, he had read and reread it until the words were etched into his mind, but tonight it felt alive, a summons pulling him forward.
Arthur walked beside him as they left the city behind, the cab carrying them out toward the northern hills where the Bellamy estate rose. The world changed mile by mile: cracked sidewalks gave way to clean roads, flickering neon signs to well-kept hedges. It was a different country, though technically the same city.
Arthur sat quietly, watching the lights fade. His face was turned toward the window, lines of age deepening in the glow of passing streetlamps. He looked like a man carrying more than one ghost.
Michael finally broke the silence. "What was he like?"
Arthur didn't answer at first. When he did, his voice was low. "Sharp. Restless. Too restless. Richard was a boy who thought the world owed him its secrets. Sound familiar?"
Michael smirked faintly. "You saying I'm him?"
Arthur turned from the window. "I'm saying you could be. But Richard chose to build walls. You… you still think you can tear them down."
The cab slowed. Beyond the iron gates, the estate came into view.
---
The Fortress of Bellamy
The Bellamy estate was less a house than a fortress draped in luxury. High stone walls stretched around manicured gardens. Security cameras blinked discreetly from corners, guards in tailored suits standing just far enough to be invisible unless you looked closely.
The cab passed through the gates after a brief inspection. The driveway wound through rows of cypress trees until the mansion itself appeared, pale stone glowing in the moonlight. Columns lined the front like sentries, windows gleaming gold.
Michael swallowed. He had spent his life in cramped apartments and dusty libraries. This was another world.
Arthur's gaze lingered on the house as the cab stopped. "He built this not for comfort, but as a statement. Every stone says: I won."
Michael clenched the letter in his pocket. "Then let's see if he'll let anyone else win."
---
The Reunion
The butler led them into a grand study lined with bookshelves and dark oak paneling. A fire burned low in the hearth. The smell of whiskey and old leather filled the air.
Richard Bellamy stood at the far end, tall, silver at the temples, his presence filling the room even before he spoke. He turned as the door opened, his sharp eyes falling on Arthur first.
For a moment, the years fell away. A rare smile broke across Richard's face. "Arthur Caldwell." His voice carried both warmth and command. "I thought I'd buried you under a mountain of dusty books."
Arthur chuckled, stepping forward. "Takes more than time to bury me, Richard."
They clasped hands, a brief but firm gesture heavy with history. Richard's smile faded into something more guarded as his gaze shifted to Michael.
"So this is the boy."
Michael straightened, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Michael Rivers."
Richard studied him as though weighing metal in his hand. "Arthur says you're chasing the sun. I'm here to find out if you're holding fire or smoke."
---
The First Test Begins
They sat around the polished desk. A decanter of whiskey glowed amber in the firelight. Richard poured for himself and Arthur but didn't offer Michael a glass.
"Arthur tells me you've built something," Richard said. "Or that you think you can."
Michael pulled a notebook from his satchel, sliding it across the desk. Richard didn't touch it immediately. He just stared at Michael, forcing him to speak.
"Helios," Michael said. His voice steadied as he went on. "A new form of energy. Clean. Limitless. A reactor small enough to power cities, strong enough to propel us to the stars."
Richard leaned back, swirling his glass. "Limitless. A word men like you throw around easily. Do you know how many dreamers have promised me limitless?"
Michael's jaw tightened. "How many of them remembered every line of what they read? How many saw the patterns others missed?"
Arthur interjected gently, "Richard, hear him out."
Richard's eyes flicked to Arthur, then back to Michael. "Fine. Convince me."