The hotel suite was still.
The kind of silence that felt engineered—an intentional absence of sound. Curtains were drawn, muting the skyline. A single lamp cast an amber circle over the desk, where his laptop waited in sleep mode.
Ethan loosened his shirt collar, set it neatly on the chair, and filled a glass from the bottle of mineral water. He drank half before sitting, the routine calming him. Everything had rhythm: breathe, move, build.
The laptop awoke with a soft hum.
Encrypted drives unfolded across the screen like secret blue flowers. The air smelled faintly of ozone from the electronics. He always liked that smell. It meant something was being made.
He spoke to himself, the words quiet and dry:
"Using a billion dollars to buy the gratitude of millions."
His fingers hovered, then typed.
Organization Name: I.M.A.G.I.N.E.
Classification: 501(c)(3) Nonprofit Organization.
Founder: Isaac Maddox.
Board of Directors: Isaac Maddox.
Contact Information: Isaac Maddox, New York, NYC.
Tax ID: Routed through a Luxembourg-based subsidiary of NeoCore Systems.
He paused, reread it, then pressed Register.
The portal confirmed: Status – Approved.
The first seed planted.
On another monitor, his transaction web opened like a nervous system, glowing lines connecting across continents—twelve shell accounts, each pulsing with dormant funds.
He studied the pattern as though it were art.
It was art.
He typed the authorization code from memory.
A single command and a billion dollars began to move.
The source was NeoCore Systems, and the destination would be the Isaac Maddox Holdings.
The total: $1,000,000,000.00
The money leapt across borders—first through a Singaporean venture firm, then a French pharmaceutical proxy, then a dormant mining subsidiary in Iceland and so on. Each hop left behind clean, ordinary paperwork.
No alarms, no anomalies, no digital scent.
Ethan leaned back, the reflection of numbers dancing in his glasses.
He smiled faintly.
"A billion dollars. A sixteen-year-old billionaire. I've really moved up in the world."
He opened a new document—IMAGINE Funding Breakdown and began typing.
Infrastructure & Real Estate – $350 million.
Renovate the dead bones of the city—empty hospitals, abandoned schools, forgotten shelters. "The city has many such discarded places," he whispered. "I'll reclaim and repurpose them." He would also buy newly closed schools, dormitories, and shelters to start off with.
Staff & Operations – $250 million.
Doctors, teachers, psychologists, security. "The integrity of the whole depends on the purity of its core. Every recruit vetted, every motive dissected. I can't allow this organization to rot from within."
Technology & Equipment – $100 million.
Biometric ID systems, predictive logistics, drones for deliveries and protection. "Data doesn't lie," he murmured. "Humans do."
Marketing & Public Relations – $50 million.
He allowed himself a quiet laugh. "Saints require publicity. Isaac Maddox must glow like virtue itself."
Legal & Compliance – $25 million.
His tone hardened. "Lawyers—the most efficient predators. They'll be my fangs, not my shields. Anyone who steals from me, mistreats a child, or interferes will beg for obscurity."
Contingency & Growth – $125 million.
"Because the future always costs more than the present."
Finally, the last line.
Hidden – $100 million.
He typed slowly: Special Projects – Private Research and Energy Studies.
But what he meant was Miracle Magic.
He had learned enough to know the theory: every spell, every summoning, required payment—not in blood, but in gratitude, in human debt willingly given. Thank yous were energy. Enough of them, and a miracle could bend the universe.
A school of children rescued, fed, and educated under the name Isaac Maddox—their gratitude would be a power source beyond measure.
He pressed Save.
The cursor blinked like a heartbeat.
He whispered to it, "And now… the performance. I might be a bit rusty since it's been a while."
He opened the drawer and retrieved the voice modulator. A compact matte-black device, smooth and unremarkable. He flicked the dial until the tone darkened—a husky French baritone edged with cigarette smoke and sin.
He practiced one line, shaping the accent until it rolled from his tongue with elegance and poison. Then he dialed.
The phone rang twice.
"Robert!" His voice burst out like champagne, loud and warm. "My dear friend! How was the vacation in Cannes with your mistress? Did she have fun? Did you see any interesting sights? Tell me you bought your wife and daughter souvenirs—please, I'd hate to think you've grown inconsiderate."
The silence that followed was delicious.
"Mr. Moreau," Robert stammered, breath quick, "everything was fine, sir, I—"
"Good, good," Luc interrupted smoothly, the syllables like velvet over razors. "I was worried the Riviera might have been too bright for someone of your… sensitivities."
He let the silence stretch before sighing theatrically.
"Unfortunately, Robert, our little partnership has reached its curtain call. Before you ask, no, I'm not planning on killing you or revealing your secret mistress to your wife. I simply mean I have nothing left for you to do for me."
A pause. Then, faint hope, "I—I understand, sir."
Luc chuckled. "Transfers are such sad things, aren't they?"
"Transfers?"
"Yes." His tone cooled, becoming almost paternal. "You'll be working for someone else now. A very dear friend of mine, Isaac Maddox. I have nothing for you to do, so I thought I'd have you help him. Consider him family."
Luc's next words slid like a blade through silk.
"He's gentler than I am, Robert. Let's keep it that way, yes? I'd hate to hear you'd tried to cheat him like you did with me when we first talked. If I ever heard such a thing…" He let the sentence trail off into a sigh. "Well, we'd both be very unhappy."
There was a sound on the other end—Robert swallowing hard.
Luc's smile returned. "Ah, don't look so terrified. Think of it as a promotion. New employer, same expectations. Do your job, stay quiet, keep the prices low, and maybe next year you can take that mistress somewhere nice again. Or would it be your wife and daughter this time? I'm unsure how a cheater does these things."
He hung up without a goodbye.
The phone screen reflected the faint glint of his eyes—sharp, amused, untouched by guilt.
Luc Moreau was a monster with manners, a ghost whispered in the black markets of Europe. Ethan had built him about from fragments of lies and made them the truth.
Now Luc Moreau would focus on another aspect, while Isaac Maddox would use this connection to its fullest potential.
He switched the modulator. The hum of the tone changed—warmer, smoother, every consonant wrapped in silk. This was the voice he chose for the philanthropist.
He brought out a different burned phone and dialed the same number.
"Mr. Hughes," Ethan began, crisp and courteous. "Good evening. My name is Isaac Maddox. A mutual acquaintance, Mr. Moreau, mentioned you were seeking a new job opportunity."
There was a long, uneasy pause. "He—he did, sir?"
"He spoke very highly of you," Isaac continued, the tone patient and affirming. "He said you were discreet, adaptable, and reliable. Those qualities are rare, and I value them."
He allowed the warmth in his voice to deepen—not too much, just enough to sound genuine. "I'm currently attempting to organize a network of charitable properties across the city—shelters, educational centers, clinics. I'll need someone experienced with real estate to acquire them quietly and quickly."
Robert's breath caught. "Yes, sir. Of course. What scale are you envisioning?"
"To begin with, three hundred and fifty million dollars' worth," Isaac replied with serene finality. "You'll receive acquisition parameters within the hour. I trust that won't be an issue."
Robert nearly stammered. "No, sir, absolutely not."
"Splendid," Isaac said, the smile audible in his tone. "Mr. Moreau assured me you were the right man. I hope to find out that he was correct. Good evening."
He ended the call.
Ethan removed the earpiece, setting it beside the modulator. His reflection glowed faintly in the laptop screen.
He flexed his fingers, the adrenaline slowly tapering into thought. He rose, crossed to the window, and pulled the curtains open.
"Luc Moreau. It's time," he said. "He'll have to grow and evolve."
Luc wasn't finished. The arms dealer was about to become something much larger. Ethan turned back to the desk and began typing into a new encrypted document labeled Parallel Operations.
Luc Moreau – Phase Reassignment.
Objective: Establish independent criminal logistics network.
Assets: Osborn's archived manifests, encrypted freight routes, and smuggling protocols.
Scope: Global – private ports, ghost freighters, falsified inspection records, invisible docks.
Purpose: Secure transport for weapons, technology, and discreet human resources.
He paused, tapping the pen against his lip. Norman Osborn's personal shipping web had been extensive—illicit but sophisticated. He planned for Luc to resurrect and occupy it. Ethan could rebuild it under Luc's name, fill in the missing gaps with modern encryption and AI-assisted route coordination. Every legitimate kingpin needed a darker hand that could move where laws could not.
Luc would be that hand.
While Isaac Maddox became the saint in the daylight, Luc Moreau would become the architect of shadows.
He wrote a final line beneath the new heading:
Next: Recruit a mercenary broker. Must be discreet, loyal, and morally exhausted. Begin with these people:
The Fixer, aka Paul Norbert Ebersol
The Foreigner (Real name unknown)
The Owl, aka Leland Owlsley
Mikhail "Mack" Kovac
He leaned back, weighing each name in silence.
He closed the Parallel Operations file, then opened a separate note, titling it Continuity Log. The cursor blinked, waiting. He typed.
Phase One: Dual Identities Operational. (Complete)
Phase Two: Capital Redistribution. (Complete)
Phase Three: Real-World Implementation. (Incomplete)
Objective: Construct dual networks—gratitude above, obedience below. (Incomplete)
He sat for a long while, reading the words. "Gratitude above, obedience below." It sounded almost poetic.
He thought of the children again—the ones sleeping in alleys, the ones he pushed Peter to save. Soon they'd have homes, food, and hope. They'd whisper thank you to Isaac Maddox and believe the name meant salvation. And beneath it all, unseen, their gratitude would become the fuel for Ethan's miracle magic. Afterall saying a few words of gratitude to the man who saved you is only fair.