It starts as a joke.

You’re sitting across from Nate at a nearly empty café downtown, newspapers spread between you, phones buzzing nonstop with notifications neither of you feel like answering. He looks tired—Upper East Side tired, the kind that comes from expectations instead of effort.

“I don’t want to inherit another mess,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I want something that’s actually… mine.”

You tell him you’ve been thinking the same thing. Something small. Something honest. No family name attached. No scandals to clean up.

That’s how the idea turns real.

A small media startup. Local stories, investigative pieces, voices that never make it into glossy headlines. Nate brings connections—but only the ones he trusts. You bring structure, balance, the ability to say no when things start to feel slippery.

The first weeks are messy. Long nights, cheap takeout, stress over money neither of you want to admit you’re worried about. Nate learns quickly—surprisingly focused, surprisingly humble. He listens. He asks questions. He shows up early.

One night, you catch him staring at the office sign you just put up. It’s simple. No Archibald name. No legacy attached.

“I’ve never built something from scratch before,” he admits. “It’s terrifying.”