The Grilling
Richard finally reached for the notebook Michael had pushed across the desk. He flipped through the pages, his sharp eyes scanning equations, diagrams, sketches of containment cycles. His expression didn't change, but the silence stretched long enough to feel suffocating.
At last, he shut the notebook and leaned forward. "You've written bold words. But words don't power cities. Equations don't build reactors. Tell me—what makes you different from every dreamer who came before you?"
Michael's mouth went dry, but he forced himself to speak. "Because I don't forget. Because everything I've read, everything I've learned, it stays with me. Not just theory. Detail. Precision. I see patterns others can't."
Richard raised an eyebrow. "Photographic memory? That's your argument? Memory without discipline is just hoarding. A library doesn't save the world—it only collects dust."
Arthur cleared his throat. "Richard—"
Richard silenced him with a glance. "No, let the boy answer."
Michael leaned forward, fire in his voice. "A library doesn't change the world. But a mind that remembers everything… that can apply everything… can."
---
The Push and Pull
Richard's stare was unblinking, cold but curious. "You think conviction alone can change the world? Conviction built Rome, but it also burned it."
Michael's jaw tightened. "Then maybe the world needs fire."
Arthur's hand gripped the arm of his chair. "Careful, son."
Richard studied him for a long moment, then allowed the faintest smile. "Arthur was right. You do burn. Question is—will you give light or turn everything to ash?"
Michael didn't answer. The silence between them was thick, tense.
---
Claire's Entrance
The door to the study opened with a soft creak.
Claire Bellamy stepped inside, her presence drawing every eye. She moved with quiet confidence, her dark hair pulled back neatly, her bearing unmistakably shaped by years of discipline. Michael noticed the subtle military stiffness in her posture, the steadiness in her gaze. But beneath it all, he sensed something else—grief carried with grace, loss worn like invisible armor.
Her voice was steady, but beneath it was the faintest lilt, the kind that had once belonged to a girl running barefoot in the grass. Michael lifted his eyes, and there she was—Claire Bellamy."Father," she said, her voice calm but firm. "You didn't tell me we had guests."
Richard gestured toward Arthur with a rare warmth. "An old friend returned from the dead. And a young man chasing fire."
Claire's eyes flicked to Michael. Their gazes locked. For a moment, time seemed to slow. She didn't look away quickly, but neither did she soften. She studied him like a soldier sizing up a stranger.
Michael felt the weight of her gaze more than Richard's questions. There was no malice in it, but no indulgence either. She saw him—not as a dreamer, not as a prodigy, but as a man standing on the edge of something dangerous.
Years had reshaped her. The child he remembered only faintly was gone; before him stood a woman who carried herself with quiet authority, her military posture ingrained in every movement. Her dark hair, tied back neatly, glistened with the dampness of the rain outside. Her gaze—clear, direct, the same shade of gray as her father's—locked onto Michael for a moment before shifting to Richard.
"You summoned me," she said.
Richard gestured to the empty chair beside Michael. "Sit. You may as well hear this."
Michael tried not to shift under her presence. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind without realizing it—what he might say if he saw her again. But the reality left him wordless. Claire Bellamy, in her tailored jacket and boots, belonged to this place of chandeliers and portraits. He, in his worn suit with the watch ticking like a shackle in his pocket, did not.
Yet when her eyes flicked to him again, something passed between them. Recognition—not sharp, but like a shadow glimpsed through fog.
Michael swallowed. "Claire."
Her brow creased faintly. "Do I… know you?"
Richard's voice cut in before Michael could answer. "You knew him once, briefly. Years ago. But that's not important. What matters now is whether this man can prove himself useful."
The word useful burned. Michael's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.Richard leaned back, sipping his whiskey. "Arthur believes in you. That carries weight. But belief is not enough. You want me to open my doors, risk my name, my resources, my daughter's future—for you?"
Michael didn't flinch. "Yes."
Richard's voice hardened. "Then prove yourself. Build me something worth believing in. Not sketches, not equations. Something real. Something that shows your fire can warm instead of devour."
Michael's hand tightened around the notebook on the desk. "I will."
Richard smirked faintly. "Good. Because if you don't… you'll find I close doors as quickly as I open them."
The conversation shifted, but Claire's presence changed everything.
Richard leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Mr. Rivers claims he has a vision. He believes he can offer the world something that others cannot. But I have yet to see more than a boy scribbling numbers in notebooks."
Michael forced himself to breathe evenly. "It isn't just numbers. It's a system. Energy without waste. Power without chains. Helios—"
Richard raised a hand, silencing him. "Big words. But empires are built on more than words." His eyes cut to Claire. "You've dealt with men who believed themselves visionaries. Tell me, daughter, what becomes of them?"
Claire studied Michael for a long moment, her gaze steady, unreadable. Then she turned to her father. "Some of them burn out. Some of them burn others. And a rare few… change the world."
Michael's chest tightened. The words weren't for him, not exactly, but they left a door open.
Richard's lip curled. "Romantic optimism. Dangerous." He leaned forward, eyes boring into Michael. "If you want me to invest in your vision, you must show me that it's more than hunger dressed up as genius."
The ticking of the watch grew louder in Michael's ears. Tick. Tick. Tick. His borrowed time gnawed at him with every second.
---
As Richard pressed harder, Michael's mind slipped back.
He was eleven again, standing on the edge of a park where the grass grew long and the air smelled of clover. Claire, twelve, had run ahead, her laughter ringing like bells. For a brief summer, before her family's wealth carried her into another orbit, she had been his companion. They had sat under trees trading secrets children thought mattered—dreams of flying, of running away, of never being told no.
He remembered the way she'd plucked a daisy and handed it to him like it was treasure. He had kept it pressed between pages for years until the paper turned yellow and brittle.
Now, sitting beside her in her father's mansion, that memory felt like a ghost pressing against his ribs. Did she remember? Or was it only him, clinging to scraps of warmth in a life grown cold?
---
Richard's voice cut through his reverie.
"Speak, Michael. What do you see that others cannot?"
Michael inhaled slowly. "I see patterns. Not just in books. In people, in markets, in the rise and fall of nations. Helios isn't just about energy—it's about breaking the cycle of greed and scarcity. You've built your empire on those cycles. But they can be dismantled."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Richard's eyes narrowed.
"And why," he asked softly, "would I invest in something that could destroy everything I've built?"
Michael leaned forward, the hunger in his eyes unmasked. "Because if I succeed, your name is tied to the man who changed the world. And if I fail… you've lost nothing more than a footnote in your ledgers."
Silence. The watch ticked.
Claire's gaze lingered on Michael, curious now. A flicker of something—was it memory, or simply intrigue?
Richard finally exhaled, reaching for his glass. He swirled the amber liquid, studying the way it clung to the sides.
"You gamble with borrowed chips, Mr. Rivers," he said. "And borrowed time. But perhaps… perhaps there is merit in watching where you place your bets."
He raised his glass in a gesture that was not approval, not yet—but not dismissal either.
"Show me, then. Show me proof. If you want a throne, build it from more than words. But remember this: every throne rests on bones."
Michael's stomach clenched, but he forced himself to nod.
"Yes, sir."
Richard waved a hand. "We're finished."
As the meeting ended, Arthur and Michael rose to leave. Richard poured himself another glass, already dismissing them with the wave of a hand.
Claire, however, lingered by the doorway. Her eyes followed Michael as he gathered his things. There was no smile, no words—but something unspoken passed between them. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition.
Michael felt it, sharp as the ticking of the watch in his pocket.
Michael rose, heart pounding. As he turned toward the door, Claire spoke again.
"Father."
Richard looked up. Claire's gaze flicked once to Michael, then back to her father. "May I walk him out?"
The silence that followed was heavy, but Richard finally inclined his head. "As you wish."
---
In the corridor, the rugs muffled their steps. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and rain drifting through distant windows. For a while, neither spoke.
Finally, Claire said, "You spoke as though you've known me before."
Michael's throat tightened. He kept his eyes forward. "We played together once. A long time ago. A park near the river."
She frowned, searching her memory. "I don't recall."
"I do," he said softly.
Her steps slowed. She studied him, her expression unreadable. "You're strange, Mr. Rivers. Strange, and… haunted."
Michael gave a humorless chuckle. "Haunted is the only way to live when the clock's already counting you down."
Her brow furrowed, but before she could press further, they reached the doors. The storm outside hissed against the stone steps.
Claire hesitated. "Whatever it is you're chasing… I hope it's worth it."
Michael looked at her, the ghost of the daisy pressing against his ribs once more. "It has to be."
He stepped out into the rain.
Behind him, Claire watched, her hand lingering on the doorframe, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps, or the first spark of memory—glimmering in her eyes.
Back in the cab, Arthur watched Michael stare out the window, the city lights blurring past. The letter burned in his coat again, but now it felt like a challenge branded onto his skin.
Arthur finally spoke. "He gave you a chance. Don't mistake it for mercy. Richard doesn't deal in mercy."
Michael's voice was low, almost to himself. "The door is open. Now I have to walk through."
The pocket watch ticked, steady as ever, each beat counting down to the moment Helios would either rise—or burn him alive.