Lucas stared out the bulletproof window of the black car as Shanghai blurred past in shades of steel and silver.
He hadn't been here in years. Not since a high school tournament brought him to the city with a duffel bag and taped-up sneakers. Back then, he'd slept on the gym floor and thought victory was the only thing worth chasing.
Now he was here again. Older. Tired in a way that training had never taught him. Holding a suit jacket he didn't own until last night, bought on sale because his mother said he needed to look "like someone whose name is on the will."
The driver—a silent man with a buzz cut and a Bluetooth earpiece—navigated through traffic without a word. The address on the folder Diana had handed him was tucked in Lucas's lap.
Han Global Tower.
Seventy-eight floors of glass, algorithms, and unspoken power. The crown jewel of Cyrus Han's empire.
He couldn't feel his hands.
The elevator was silent, lined in black stone and etched with thin silver filigree patterns that shifted under the light. When the doors opened on the 65th floor, a woman was waiting.
Tall. Severe. Hair in a perfect twist. A black tablet in one hand.
"Mr. Pan?" she asked.
"Yes."
"This way, please."
Her heels clicked across the marble like a metronome. Lucas followed, trying not to look like he belonged in a gym instead of a skyscraper. His reflection kept catching in the glass: too big for the hallway, too casual despite the suit, too obviously out of place.
They entered a private conference room—long, minimalist, quiet as a grave.
At the head of the table sat a man in a dark three-piece suit. His hair was perfectly parted, and his eyes had the polished edge of someone used to speaking last and winning.
He rose when Lucas entered.
"Mr. Pan," the man said, extending a hand. "Julien He, lead counsel for the Han estate. Thank you for coming."
Lucas shook his hand—firm, cautious.
To Julien's right sat two more people: a slender woman in a grey pantsuit with steel-rimmed glasses, and a man with silver hair and a hard smile. Neither introduced themselves. But both watched Lucas like he was a lab result that hadn't been verified yet.
"You're late," the woman said.
Lucas looked at the time. "It's 11:59."
She adjusted her glasses. "Still late."
Julien cleared his throat. "Let's begin."
He pressed a button on the table console. A recessed screen rose smoothly from the tabletop, flickering to life with the Han Global logo—sharp lines, rotating glyphs, the illusion of calm technology hiding brutal ambition.
Julien folded his hands.
"As you may already be aware, Cyrus Han passed away last Thursday. He left behind a sealed, personal addendum to his corporate will—one which was not disclosed to board members, shareholders, or his legal team until it activated at the time of death."
Lucas nodded slightly. He felt all three pairs of eyes on him.
"This document," Julien continued, "establishes you, Lucas Pan, as the sole legal heir to Cyrus Han's personal fortune—including the remaining 28% private shares of Han Global, full ownership of five international holding companies, the AI project designated ATHENA, and several sealed trust accounts."
Lucas blinked. "Sorry—back up. I own what now?"
The woman on the left muttered something in Mandarin under her breath. Something sharp.
"You are now the controlling interest in Han Global," Julien said evenly. "With your portion of shares, you technically outrank the board, including the acting CEO."
Lucas glanced at the woman. "Let me guess. That's you?"
She gave a tight, humorless smile. "Frances Luo. Widow."
Ah. So that was her.
The infamous young second wife. Rumored to be a manipulator, strategist, and fashion icon, depending on which media outlet you believed. Right now, she just looked like a knife with earrings.
"You're the gym teacher," she said, lips barely moving.
"I coach basketball," Lucas said. "And Teach accounting. Don't forget accounting."
Julien continued before either could escalate.
"Additionally," he said, "Mr. Han left instructions to transfer a private asset to your possession. It is not monetary."
Lucas frowned. "What is it?"
Julien tapped a key on the console. A second screen blinked to life. The image was simple: a glowing orb with lines of code radiating outward. Beneath it, one word pulsed in clean white text:
ATHENA.
"The ATHENA system," Julien said, "was Cyrus Han's final personal project. Unlike Han Global's commercial AIs, this one was coded to serve only its designated owner. It's fully autonomous, unreplicable, and bound by a biometric lock."
Lucas stared. "Bound to me?"
Julien nodded. "It was designed to interface with your cognitive behavior. Essentially… it learns you."
Frances stood.
"This is ridiculous," she snapped. "You expect us to believe that Cyrus built an AI and left it to a—"
Absolutely. Below is a rewritten section of Chapter 3, starting from Frances Luo's objection and continuing with Lucas's quiet assertion of identity, the legal bombshell of the prenuptial agreement, and a brief emotional flashback as he recognizes the senior lawyer.
"This is ridiculous," Frances snapped, rising from her chair like a blade unsheathed. "You expect us to believe Cyrus built an AI and left it to a—"
"To his son," Lucas said.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
He reached into his backpack, pulled out a worn leather folder—his mother had handed it to him right before the flight—and laid it flat on the table.
Frances scoffed. "What is that, your resume?"
Lucas opened the folder slowly, revealing three carefully preserved photographs inside. Old ones. The colors softened with age. One of him on a dock, maybe three years old, arms raised toward a tall man with dark hair in sunglasses. Another of them at a beach, Lucas buried up to his neck in sand while the man crouched nearby, laughing. The last—Lucas asleep on a couch, head resting on the man's chest, a book still open beside them.
Frances stopped talking.
"I was there," Lucas said quietly. "He tried. Maybe not well. Maybe not for long. But he was there."
The room fell completely silent.
The door opened.
An older man entered—tall, spare, neatly dressed in a charcoal suit with gold cufflinks. His silver hair was slicked back, and he moved like someone who had never once been hurried.
Julien stood immediately. "Chairman Tao."
Frances's eyes narrowed. "You're still alive."
Lucas looked up—and something shifted in his chest.
He knew that face. Not from television, or headlines, or boardroom portraits. From a long time ago.
Seven years old. Sitting in a high-backed leather chair, legs swinging, waiting for the man with the nice suit to stop talking so he could go home. He remembered the smell of cigar smoke and citrus, the low timbre of Cyrus's voice as he said, "Lucas, this is my old friend. He makes the rules."
The man had shaken his hand like it mattered. Like he mattered.
"You were there," Lucas said, half to himself.
Chairman Tao studied him for a long moment, then gave the barest nod. "You've grown into your shoulders."
Julien stepped back as Tao took the head of the table.
"As per the late Mr. Han's directives," Tao said, voice smooth as a scalpel, "I am here to confirm the legitimacy of the personal heir and address the distribution of marital and non-marital assets."
He turned his gaze on Frances.
"The prenuptial agreement signed between you and Mr. Han in 2018 stipulated a fixed inheritance cap of $18 million, contingent on five years of marriage. You were married for four years and eight months. The agreement also voids claim to any AI development assets or controlling shares."
Frances's expression didn't move—but her hand twitched slightly against the table.
"You will retain the properties listed in Section 3A," Tao continued, "and the equity trust Cyrus assigned for your mother. But you are not, under any reading, entitled to override the personal heir's claim."
Frances said nothing. Her eyes were locked on Lucas—but not with disbelief anymore. With calculation.
Tao looked back at Lucas. "Mr. Pan. Welcome."
Lucas stood a little straighter.
That old memory tugged again—his feet dangling from the chair, Cyrus's hand resting firm on his shoulder, the quiet sense that for one brief moment, someone powerful was proud of him.
He folded the photos and slid them back into the folder.
"I'm not here to start a fight," he said, looking around the room. "But I'm not walking away either."
Frances smiled without warmth. "You don't have to start a fight, Lucas. It's already started."
She turned slightly, but didn't leave. Her gaze lingered on him, heavy and clinical, as if she were taking measurements.
"You think just because Cyrus left you something in a letter that you understand this world?" she said softly. "You think you can show up in a sale-rack suit, claim a throne, and walk away with everything he built?"
Lucas didn't flinch. "I think I'm the one holding the key."
She stepped closer—three slow strides in pointed heels—and lowered her voice so only he could hear.
"Let me explain how this works," she murmured. "I don't need to break you. I only need to make you doubt yourself long enough for someone else to do it for me."
Lucas held her stare.
She smiled wider. "I'll leak your school records. Your income. That disciplinary warning from last year. Did they mention that in the press yet? The one where you raised your voice at a student and had to apologize in writing?"
Lucas's jaw tensed.
Frances circled slightly, slow and precise, like a lioness waiting for a weak spot. "You're broke. Unmarried. No legacy. No allies. They'll eat you alive. And when they do, they won't remember your name. Only that you were Cyrus Han's mistake."
Julien opened his mouth to speak, but Lucas raised a hand without looking away from her.
"You done?"
Frances tilted her head. "Not even close."
Then she turned on her heel and walked to the door. Just before exiting, she glanced back over her shoulder, the smile gone.
"Enjoy the tower, Mr. Pan. It looks tall, but the fall's faster than you think."
The door shut behind her with a soft, echoing click.