Location: Executive Boardroom. Room 011, Level 3,Building A, National Exhibition and Convention Center, Beiping, The East Nation
Time: 11:00 am
The giant screen projected smooth curves, glowing charts, and every promising metric, asset growth, R&D investment, market penetration. Applause was implicit in every pair of eyes.
Except hers. On the next slide, Lyra had typed two stark words:"Structural Bottleneck."
"We've built WindCore into the world's most promising supply system," she began, voice steady and clear, eyes sweeping across the polished table.
"But as a supplier, we hit a ceiling. What WindCore needs…isn't expansion. It's conversion from supplier to an irreplaceable operating system."
A whiteboard behind her scrolled with internal reports, pharma pipelines, weapons labs, intelligence webs. All robust. All disconnected.
"What we lack," she continued, "is an executor. Someone who operates between black and white, enforces order between legality and chaos."
Fay raised her hand, calmly activating a comprehensive intelligence audit. Her tone was surgical, precise. "We analyzed all major global paramilitary units. Thirty-seven actives, nine with manufacturing capabilities. Only one meets all critical parameters: combat strength, command capability, and scalable territorial control."
She opened a dossier. The name was unmissable.
Arthur Graves - The Umbra Operations
"They outperform the second-tier players by a long margin," Fay stated. "And the commander himself, ex-Marine, spec ops, blocklisted by half the agencies we track, runs a company that's famously ungovernable."
Lyra didn't flinch. Instead, she smiled, walking slowly to the window overlooking the skyline. "Then we give him a reason to be governed."
The silence held, tense and electric. Then, from the window-side seat, a low and uncompromising voice cut through.
"Disagree." It was Jenny Fan, code-name: North Wind, lead of the neuro-weapons division, chief medical strategist of WindCore's tactical research.
She closed her tablet calmly, eyes sharp. "Graves' issue wasn't his capability. It's his ambition. Yes, he's the most effective executor on record. But he's not a loyal hound. He's a stray, ruled by instinct, not allegiance.
"You see a man who delivers military miracles. I see someone who despises control, who feeds on defiance, who understands power only in terms of domination."
Another screen flashed: a list of Graves' history, ex-special forces, unauthorized missions, defiance of command protocols, red-flagged by seven nations as a volatile independent.
"This is not someone you bind with contracts or buy with bonuses. If he accepts any control, it's only because he's calculating the next reversal."
She paused, gaze drifting toward Lyra, then Fay. Her voice dropped a degree colder:"WindCore is not a patron of mercenaries. We're architects of a new order. Let's not trade long-term stability for short-term brute force."
Just as tension seemed to peak, another voice broke the air, measured, quiet, commanding. "That's enough."
It was Mulan Chou, code-name: West Wind, Director of WindCore Security and architect of its entire tactical protocol system. Clad in a crisp uniform, she rarely spoke in debates, but when she did, everyone listened.
"He's unreliable," she said, glancing at Jenny. "But he's containable." "He's dangerous," she turned to Lyra. "But useful."
A pause blanketed the room.
"WindCore has reached the optimal configuration under current rules," Mulan continued. "But that's exactly the problem is we can't scale this framework any further.""In three to five years, if we don't expand, fracture, or transform, we vanish.""I don't care if Graves is the answer. What I know is the question is already here. And if we don't confront it head-on, then none of these discussions will matter." She swept a slow gaze across the room, calm, but deep with unspoken momentum."So the real question is not whether we want him. It's how much we are willing to pay to survive."
Fay slowly closed her tablet, her fingertip still resting on the dossier titled : Graves, Arthur."If you're asking for intel, I can give you five years of his mission history, behavioral models, and a combined threat-grade from both black market networks and state-level agencies," she said evenly. "But cost? There's no conclusive projection."
"His unpredictability breaks every possible model we've run." Jenny gave a dry exhale, arms crossed tightly. "We can build our own team," she said, clipped and cold."WindCore has the resources, the tech, and the talent. We don't need an off-leash outsider who bites the hand that feeds him."
"That takes time," Mulan cut in, tone factual, not argumentative. "And we haven't even made contact. Arguing over projections is meaningless. Drafting a contact protocol and gathering field data, that's what we should focus on."
Again, all eyes turned to Lyra.
She rose slowly, picking up a single page from the table. Thin paper. Heavy implications."We can't afford to cling to the illusion of a 'clean' solution."
Her voice was calm, steady, like an undercurrent in deep waters. "If Arthur Graves is currently our best shot," she looked up. No hesitation in her gaze. "Then our only task is risk management —— Study him. Understand him. Predict him. And then, make him ours."
Silent Encirclement...
Location:Wind Storm Office Sales Department. Internal Briefing Room. Longsand City. The East Nation.
No one had expected her to come.The Group CFO herself, Lyra Jar, was seated quietly in the back corner, untouched coffee at her side, calmly flipping through the maintenance requests sent by Umbra Operations.
"Fifth batch of M4A1 component diagnostics," she murmured, voice steady, clearer than the department lead's."Application format, timestamp alignment, equipment ID… even the label logic is inconsistent." The sales director blinked. "Well, we've already sent revision requests twice." Lyra looked up. No anger. Just a quiet observation."This is the third time."
Silence thickened. Even the air conditioning felt loud. Without another word, she tapped the screen and pulled up the live relay: a logistics coordination meeting from across the ocean, Umbra Operations HQ. Arthur Graves wasn't present. But his decisions echoed in every directive, every system call, every speaking pattern on that call.Lyra watched. Not the content. The cadence, the command structure, the Ghost behind the system.
At the same time, Fay sat in her surveillance chamber, terminal glowing in the dark. Twenty-four folders lay on her table.
Each marked with a title:
[ Umbra Ops], [Underground Arms Trade], [Private Security Contracts], [Arthur Graves – Combat Record], [Arthur Graves – Women]
She read, annotated, cross-referenced, like a surgeon dissecting a body still warm.
"Former Marine Captain. Alleged to have run a private detention site in Libya. 2015, linked romantically with a Gulf royal, later flagged by Saudi intelligence."She closed the file, eyes narrowing at the digital map of Graves' operations."Who are you, Arthur Graves?"
Location: Commander's Office, Umbra Operations HQ, Dallas, Texas, USA Time: 09:20 am
Arthur Graves was half-leaning in his chair, chewing on a stolen slice of bacon from the kitchen, lazily flipping through shipment logs.
The latest batch from WindCore arrived six days early. And this was the third time this month.
Each crate bore a "Priority Channel" tag. One shipment even contained upgraded drone modules, better than what they'd ordered.He squinted. "Who greenlit this?"
"WindCore did," Logistics replied. "They submitted their own modification request and authorized the upgrade. There's… also a personal email. You might want to read it."
He tapped open the message. The sender: Lyra Jar. Elegant. Measured. Calm. The kind of letter that didn't belong in his world.
Dear Mr. Graves,
Please accept my apologies for the typographical error in your recent M4A1 maintenance request.As a gesture of goodwill, I will personally review all future Umbra Operations orders moving forward.
Additionally, WindCore would like to extend priority access to our upcoming T-09 drone prototype for your team's exclusive evaluation.
Looking forward to your feedback.
Warm regards,
Lyra Jar
Chief Financial Officer
The WindCore Holdings
He read it twice. Then smiled. That wasn't just politeness. That was a calculated move. He leaned back, tapping the edge of the desk with an unlit cigar between his fingers. "The CFO herself… apologizing over a typo and offering prototype tech."Arthur whispered, eyes narrowing. "WindCore. You're making your move." And then, he chuckled. Dark, amused. "Let's dance."
"I want to place a new order," Arthur said through a lazy cloud of smoke. "A big one." His aide blinked, scanning the list on the tablet. His brows furrowed deep.
"Sir, these items… they're not even listed for export. And the antidote? We don't even have full specs yet.""She will," Arthur cut in. Calm, assured. He leaned back, fingers tapping out a message like dealing cards at a poker table.
Dear Ms. Jar,
It's a pleasure to connect with you over email.
Thank you for the meticulous attention you've given to our recent requests—your precision hasn't gone unnoticed, and frankly, neither has your style of handling complexity.
I've submitted a new order request involving several high-grade assets. Your insight on feasibility and structuring would be, as always, invaluable.
To facilitate this dialogue, I'd like to formally invite you to Umbra Operations HQ for an in-person consultation.
Incidentally, we're hosting a private celebration this week for select partners and core teams. I believe you'd find the company... interesting.
It would be a privilege to have you with us. On both counts.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur Graves
CEO, Umbra Operations
The email landed in Sydney by dawn.WindCore HQ. Financial Division. Lyra sat alone at the head of the boardroom, the morning sun casting slanted light across the table. The notification pinged.
She read. Once. Twice.Then leaned back in her chair, lips barely curving. Drones, robot dogs, restricted formulas, and a celebration? She tapped her lower lip."So… you finally took the bait, Mr. Commander."