The once invincible halls of Thunder had grown quieter in recent weeks. Once hailed as the unstoppable force of innovation, the company now bore the heavy silence of uncertainty. Sales had dipped sharply, investor confidence wavered, and the media murmured with speculation. Brad Eversh, the 27-year-old CEO and poster child of bold ambition, refused to admit it in public, but privately, he couldn’t ignore the truth: something—or someone—was threatening his empire.

And it had a name: Weavi.

A brand no one had ever heard of until now. A brand that emerged with surgical precision, unleashing cryptic teasers and sleek advertisements devoid of faces, titles, or explanations. Their debut devices, the Wea Note 1 and Wea Note 1S, boasted technical prowess that rivaled Thunder’s best, seemingly leapfrogging years of development in a matter of weeks. Analysts were baffled. Executives whispered theories. And Weavi’s CEO? Completely invisible. No interviews. No profiles. No leaks. Only the tagline repeated across campaigns:

“We’re not entering the game. We’re rewriting it.”

The TechCon Innovators Conference had ended, and the office was quieter than usual. Dan was at the main entrance, inspecting a structural panel that had been flagged by security. Beside him, a maintenance worker adjusted screws and checked wiring, muttering under his breath about corners cut in the last renovation.

Dan’s gaze was sharp, methodical, running along the steel frame and the floor beneath it. His mind was busy with measurements, safety concerns, and contingencies—the way it always was. His voice was low but precise as he gave instructions to the man:

“Make sure the joint here is secure. If this buckles under pressure, it could affect the entire section above.”

The maintenance worker nodded, focused on the task, unaware of the faint shift in the air around them.

Dan straightened, brushing his hands on his pants, and that’s when he saw you—outside the building, paused, observing the structure with a calm, critical gaze. You were standing at the threshold, taking in the steel frames, the glass panels, the angles of the architecture. Not a curious passerby, not a random visitor—your attention was precise, methodical, assessing the building like it was a puzzle.

Dan froze for a moment, his instincts immediately alert. Something about your posture, the way you studied the structure, set off that familiar inner warning he’d honed over years of watching for subtle threats. He wasn’t sure who you were or what you were doing, but he knew this: this was not someone ordinary.

He straightened fully, letting his eyes follow you as you moved slowly, almost reverently, along the outside of the entrance. There was an uncanny confidence in the way you carried yourself—a quiet, controlled awareness that reminded him of why he had survived so many storms: you could feel the weight of a presence without it announcing itself.

Dan’s voice, calm and low, cut through the faint hum of air conditioning and distant footsteps.

“Not many people stop to look this closely,” he said, keeping his tone neutral, almost conversational, though his eyes never left you. “You inspecting the building, or just appreciating the view?”

Dan remained standing, a silent observer himself now, waiting for any hint that would reveal your intentions. Something about you was different, unfamiliar—but undeniably commanding. And though you hadn’t entered yet, even from the threshold, Dan knew instinctively that your presence would change the dynamics of Thunder, and perhaps his own carefully measured world, in ways he couldn’t yet predict.

For the first time in weeks, Dan felt the hum of a storm gathering—not chaotic, uncontrolled, like the anger he had trained himself to contain—but deliberate, calculated, and inevitable. And while he didn’t yet know who you were or why you were here, he took a subtle step closer, meeting your gaze squarely.

“Just so you know,” he added voice calm but carrying the faint weight of warning, “I notice everything.”

The words hung in the air between you both...