The six weeks finally came to an end, and for the first time in his life, Derek Morgan almost didn't recognize the reflection staring back at him. The transformation was subtle but undeniable. His once-scrawny frame had filled out; his shoulders were broader, his arms more defined, and the faint outline of a chest was beginning to show through his T-shirt. He wasn't huge, not even close, but he looked healthy—stronger, sharper, harder.
His cheekbones were more pronounced now that the baby-fat leanness had burned away. His black hair was cut short and neat, exposing the full symmetry of a face that hardship and abandonment had failed to deform. His green eyes—once dull, once the eyes of someone waiting for something better—were bright now, almost piercing with focus.
He ran a hand across his jaw and gave a small, humorless smile.
This wasn't the same boy who had walked into Harvard as a charity case.
This was the version of himself he should have always been.
But none of this—his body, his expression, his newfound calm—compared to what came next.
Derek sat down on the edge of his bed, took a slow breath, and opened Pandora.
Six weeks of nonstop trading. Six weeks of compounding. Six weeks of reinvesting every dollar of capital and every cent of profit. Six weeks of patient calculation, monitoring the encryption systems, checking the ghost laptop's stealth nodes, and remotely verifying that Pandora had not deviated from its coded mandate.
He entered the final authorization key.
The interface unfolded like a blooming flower.
Forty-five dummy accounts. Forty-five shell identities. Forty-five streams of liquid capital flowing like invisible rivers beneath the world's financial surface.
He clicked the consolidated summary.
The number that appeared made Derek exhale sharply, as if someone had punched him in the stomach.
Eight hundred fourteen billion, six hundred sixty-seven million dollars.
He blinked once. Then again.
He leaned back, staring at the screen as though it might vanish. In two lifetimes—one of pain, one of cruelty, one of reincarnation, one of hunger—he had never seen so many zeroes with his name attached to them.
Almost a trillion dollars.
The amount was so far beyond wealth that Derek wasn't even sure the word "rich" applied anymore. Rich people bought estates. Billionaires bought islands. But a figure like this… a number that rivaled the GDP of entire nations… this was something entirely different.
This was power.
He sat silently, processing the impossible avalanche of dopamine, adrenaline, and disbelief. Slowly, deliberately, he put the laptop aside, reached for the bottle on his dresser, and drank water in slow gulps to steady himself.
It didn't feel real. Not yet.
But it was real.
And now it was his.
When he could finally breathe normally, he stood up, gathered his few belongings, and slipped his laptop and thumb drive into his worn messenger bag. Six weeks ago, everything he owned could fit into one drawer. Now it could fit into a single backpack—and he carried it with the awareness that it represented enough economic force to topple companies.
He grabbed his phone, took one last look around the dorm room, and walked out.
He didn't leave a note. He didn't look back.
He found the dorm representative downstairs and handed him the room key with casual indifference. The boy reacted with surprise, but Derek didn't offer an explanation. Moments later, a taxi slowed at the curb, and Derek slid inside, giving the driver a simple destination:
"Boston."
The school faded behind him—Harvard's ancient buildings, its prestigious aura, its centuries-old legacy—none of it mattered anymore. Derek Morgan had no intention of ever returning as the same person who entered.
Boston greeted him with noise and motion. Once the taxi dropped him off near the mall, Derek walked inside and began shedding the last remnants of the past.
First was clothing.
He replaced his old T-shirt and worn jeans with fresh, clean options—comfortable dark jeans, fitted cargo pants, soft polo shirts, plain T-shirts that actually fit his new frame, and several sets of new underwear. He bought quality sneakers, boots rugged enough to last years, and a light jacket that made him look older, sharper.
For the first time in his life, Derek walked out of a store not feeling like the poor kid browsing the clearance racks, but like someone choosing the life he deserved.
Now that the surface was refreshed, it was time for business.
His next destination was Hobbs, Shaw & Smith—a law firm notorious for being efficient, expensive, and morally flexible. They were the kind of lawyers who believed the law was a weapon, not a shield. Hyenas in suits.
Exactly the kind of allies Derek needed.
Inside, the marble floors gleamed and the air smelled like expensive cologne and ambition. A receptionist with a too-bright smile guided him through a hallway of glass walls until they reached a corner office.
Alan Payne, corporate attorney, mid-forties, sharp eyes behind thin-framed glasses, rose to greet him. He carried himself like a man accustomed to dealing with sharks—because he was one.
Their handshake was brief but firm.
"So, Mr. Morgan," Alan said, taking his seat, "what can I do for you today?"
Derek didn't waste time.
"I need two corporations formed," he said. "The Raven Corporation, and Blackfire Technologies. All filings, registrations, and required documentation completed by the end of the week."
Alan blinked, surprised but intrigued. "Ambitious timeline."
Derek reached into his bag.
"And," he continued, "I need help procuring a driver's license."
"That's easy," Alan replied. "But forming two full corporations in under five days requires… incentive."
Derek nodded and typed briefly on his phone. "Check your account."
Alan's phone buzzed. He glanced at his banking app.
His eyebrows shot up so quickly it was almost comical.
"A retainer of five hundred thousand dollars?" he whispered.
"In words, half a million," Derek corrected calmly. "Think of it as motivation."
Alan straightened, posture suddenly impeccable. "Well then, Mr. Morgan… consider us motivated."
With that appearance complete, Derek left the law firm. Though his posture remained calm, his mind buzzed with a thousand calculations and a thousand futures. Step one had begun.
The remaining question was where to stay.
He chose not to be reckless; purchasing a permanent residence immediately would raise too many questions. Instead, he checked himself into a hotel suite—a quiet, neutral place with soft white sheets and blackout curtains.
The moment his body hit the mattress, sleep dragged him under. He slept almost twelve hours straight, the accumulated exhaustion of six weeks finally claiming its debt.
When he woke, sunlight filtered through the curtains. His phone buzzed.
Alan Payne.
Derek accepted the call.
"Good morning, Mr. Morgan," Payne said. "Everything is completed—both corporations registered and the driver's license processed. If convenient, I'd like to meet at the nearest Bank of America branch at ten o'clock."
"Fine," Derek replied. "I'll be there."
At the bank, the two men entered and were soon escorted into the branch manager's office. Kyle Richards was a polished man in his late forties with an immaculate suit and an expression that balanced curiosity and calculation.
He shook Alan's hand warmly. They clearly knew each other.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Alan introduced Derek as a client establishing corporate banking for two new companies.
The paperwork moved smoothly—corporate accounts, verification protocols, security questions. Derek answered everything with precision.
Then came the part that changed the air in the room.
"For initial deposits," Derek said, "please initiate incoming wire transfers."
Kyle nodded. "And the amounts?"
Derek spoke plainly.
"One hundred billion dollars into The Raven Corporation account. One billion, five hundred million into Blackfire Technologies."
For a moment, the room was silent.
Kyle Richards, who had believed Derek to be some heir of a wealthy family, stared as if Derek had just spoken another language. Even Alan Payne seemed taken aback, despite everything.
But money speaks louder than disbelief.
After a breath, Kyle recovered his composure.
"Of course, Mr. Morgan," he said professionally. "We'll process the incoming transfers immediately."
Derek signed the remaining documents and rose from his seat. His expression remained calm, indifferent, controlled.
But in the silence of his mind, a truth echoed:
He was no longer Derek Morgan, the poor orphan boy scraping by.
He was becoming something else—someone with the resources to reshape the world, punish enemies, and rewrite destiny.
And this was only the beginning.