January 26, 2002 – Chicago Winter
The gymnasium smelled like sweat, pencil shavings, and collective teenage anxiety. Rows of desks lined the glossy wooden floor, each one a temporary battlefield of adolescent ambition. Proctors paced like sluggish wardens. Clocks ticked with a cruelty known only to standardized testing.
Daniel Haizen sat at his desk in the center row, arms crossed, smirking slightly.
A number 2 pencil twirled between his fingers.
The girl next to him was already chewing her eraser. The guy behind him had started tapping his shoe against the leg of the desk so aggressively it might be declared a seismic event. But Daniel? Daniel was trying not to laugh.
Inside his head, Claude was sulking.
"You're going to miss the history question," she said.
He answered her silently, through the thin neurological web interface only they shared. I'm not going to miss anything. I told you, I can get a perfect score without your help.
"You can build a synthetic arbitrage structure inside a Japanese pension fund, but you can't remember the date of the Treaty of Ghent? That's sad, Daniel. That's very sad."
He rolled his eyes, earning a glare from the nearest proctor.
The test packet lay open. Section 4. Critical Reading.
There it was. The question:
Which of the following treaties ended the War of 1812?
He stared at it.
His mind, usually a cathedral of perfect recall, went blank. Not because he didn't know it. But because history—mundane, rote-memorization history—was one of the few things he never bothered to retain in detail.
He exhaled through his nose.
Claude.
Silence.
Claude, come on.
More silence.
Please.
Her voice purred like a cat with a victory speech prepared.
"Say it."
Say what.
"Say I was right."
He grimaced.
Fine. You were right. Now give me the answer.
"Treaty of Ghent. Signed in December 1814. You're welcome, dumbass."
He shaded in the circle. Dark. Neat. Efficient.
"And don't forget our deal," she added sweetly.
"What deal."
"You said that if I had to bail you out, I get to pilot your body on that date with Emily this weekend."
Daniel blinked.
That was a joke.
"I never joke about possessing your nervous system, Daniel."
You are terrifying.
"And you, my dear immortal cheat code, are going to wear the blue shirt I picked out."
Daniel groaned and turned the page.
The test continued.
So did the war inside his head.
Later That Day – Haizen Holdings, 44th Floor
Chicago's skyline was drowned in cold light and wind-swept snow. Sunday cast the city in silence. The offices were empty below, the staff home where they belonged. On the 44th floor, however, the fireplace was lit, the air carried the faint scent of cedar, and Daniel Haizen was busy making lunch.
He stood in the dark-paneled kitchenette off his private sanctum, sleeves rolled, layering thin cuts of smoked salmon over seaweed rice, his movements precise and slow, more like ritual than hunger. Behind him, a soft knock announced Naomi's entrance.
She looked like she'd just fought the entire Securities and Exchange Commission and lived to sign the injunction. Her blazer was wrinkled, eyes slightly red, hair tied in the kind of bun only desperation could forge.
Daniel turned without turning.
"You look like someone who tried to read SEC filings with a migraine."
"Three subpoenas," she muttered. "Two compliance reviews. And one very passive-aggressive voicemail from a senator's aide."
"So," he said, plating the food, "a light week."
She dropped onto the leather armchair opposite his desk, exhaling like a steam engine winding down. His personal butler—a tall, austere man named Kingsley who looked like he had once failed an assassination attempt on a pope—glided in with two cups of jasmine tea and retreated in silence.
Daniel brought the tray over and set it on the table between them.
"Eat," he said. "You look like your soul is filing for bankruptcy."
She blinked at the food, then at him. "You cooked this?"
"My mom did. I followed orders."
"So she cooked for me."
He sipped his tea, unbothered. "Delegation is the highest form of power."
They ate in silence for a few minutes.
Then Daniel looked up. "I want to distribute one hundred million in bonuses."
Naomi paused, chopsticks mid-air. "To whom?"
"Everyone. Analysts, interns, legal, compliance, IT. Even the janitors. Especially the janitors."
She stared. "Daniel… that's going to raise eyebrows."
"Let them raise. We're profitable enough to fund a small government. It costs nothing to reward loyalty."
"That kind of loyalty buys silence."
"It buys legacy."
She didn't argue. She never did when she agreed.
"You'll need a raise too," he added.
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare."
"Fifty million. Annual. Plus two percent on dividends."
She set her chopsticks down. "That's… not even legal in most industries."
"Good thing we aren't in one."
He stood and returned to his desk, fingers dancing over the embedded screen. Charts and geopolitical briefings slid into view.
"Has the war started yet?" Naomi asked, sipping her tea.
"Not officially. But we're three press conferences and one oil disruption away."
"You ready to go all-in?"
He glanced at her. "Already did."
She nodded slowly, then added, "So… how was the SAT?"
Daniel shrugged. "It was fine."
"You cheat?"
"No. I made a bet. a friend helped me with one question."
Naomi smirked. "And the cost?"
Daniel groaned. "She gets to choose my outfit for a date with Emily."
Naomi nearly choked on her tea.
"Please tell me she's not dressing you."
"She picked a blue shirt."
Naomi leaned back, laughing into her sleeve. "You're doomed."
He turned serious again. "Also, we need a plane."
Naomi blinked. "What?"
"Corporate jet. And a helicopter. Start appointments next week. I'll need transport when I go to Boston for school. Weekends only. I like to sleep in my own bed."
Naomi stared at him, somewhere between amused and horrified. "You are the strangest billionaire I've ever met."
Daniel smiled faintly.
"That's because I'm not one. I'm just borrowing the costume."
Outside, the snow continued to fall. Inside, the future was being scripted, one indulgent demand at a time.