Three weeks later.
I was seated behind a wide oak desk, reviewing a draft contract for the third time, a pen balanced loosely between my fingers as late afternoon light spilt across the glass walls of the office. The city stretched beyond them in quiet motion, cars flowing like veins of metal, distant construction cranes frozen against the sky, while I adjusted clauses about asset allocation and liability distribution as if this had been my life for years.
I signed one page, set it aside, and leaned back in the leather chair.
My office.
I paused, letting that settle.
The polished floors, the minimalist shelves, the discreet company logo etched into the frosted interior glass. The faint scent of new furniture.
Yeah.
My office.
If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be sitting here structuring corporate expansion strategies, I would have assumed they were insane.
Everything happened fast.
Too fast.
And yet here I was.
A couple of weeks ago, I was trying to figure out how to build a company properly.
Not a temporary thing. A real company. One that could start focused and then diversify into multiple sectors once the foundation was stable, investments, logistics, maybe technology later. Something scalable.
Most importantly, something legitimate.
Because legitimacy matters.
I had already earned sixty thousand dollars in a little over a month. That kind of income, appearing out of vague reasons like "prodigy 17-year-old broker", raises questions. Questions lead to investigations. Investigations lead to complications.
I needed a company first, something that could justify cash flow, investments, and movement of capital. A structure that made money make sense.
The idea was simple in theory.
Find someone experienced. A professional. Competent and trustworthy.
In practice?
Not simple at all.
Good professionals don't attach themselves to seventeen-year-olds with vague ambition and limited capital.
I considered an alternative approach: instead of contracting a single individual, I could partner with an established firm to act as a temporary backbone. Let them handle compliance, structure, filings, and oversight until the company grew strong enough to stand alone.
It sounded reasonable.
It was also expensive.
Every proposal they offered came wrapped in suffocating liability clauses. Excessive oversight. Decision-making restrictions. Structures that placed disproportionate control in their hands while leaving me exposed if anything failed.
They smiled politely while explaining it.
"You're young. It's for your protection."
Of course it was.
Even though I spoke more fluently about law and economics than most of them. Even though I understood corporate structuring, tax frameworks, and cross-border financial regulation better than the junior partners trying to lecture me. Even though I spoke more than ten languages and could read international contracts without translation.
It didn't matter.
On paper, I was still seventeen.
And paper is what the world respects.
I could have signed something. I could have accepted a watered-down structure with reduced freedom and inflated dependency.
But that wasn't what I wanted.
I didn't want to be someone's managed project.
I wanted control.
That was the state of my thoughts as I sat in the waiting hall of yet another firm, hands folded loosely in my lap.
My hearing caught fragments of conversation through the hallway wall.
"-unfortunately, with your record-"
"-understandable, thank you for your time-"
The voices were calm. There was no argument, no pleading.
Just quiet resignation.
On the other side of the wall stood a man with grey hair and the posture of someone who had carried responsibility for most of his life. Late fifties, perhaps early sixties. His suit was neat but no longer new, the fabric slightly worn at the cuffs.
He stood inside the HR office with his hands folded politely in front of him.
Then the door opened.
"We wish you the best moving forward."
"Thank you."
He stepped away from the office and walked toward the stairs, moving with measured calm.
My instincts stirred me. His case wasn't as simple as it seemed.
I followed him outside, letting him reach the building's entrance before I spoke.
"Excuse me."
He turned slowly, already wearing the expression of a man expecting yet another dismissal.
"Yes?" he asked politely.
His eyes passed over me, tall, young face, tailored clothing, good watch, and I could almost hear the internal conclusion forming.
Another ambitious child.
"My name is Samael."
I extended my hand toward him. After a brief moment of hesitation, Alfred took it firmly.
He studied me again, this time more carefully. "Alfred," he said at last.
"What kind of job are you looking for?" I asked.
He hesitated, then sighed faintly. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't think-"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it," I interrupted gently.
That made him pause.
He studied me again, this time more carefully.
"Well," he said after a moment, "management, operations, financial oversight, corporate structuring. Though at this stage…" A faint, restrained smile appeared. "I am not in a position to be selective."
"What qualifications?" I pressed.
"You're persistent."
"So I've been told."
He straightened slightly.
"Degrees in economics and law. A master's in business administration. Nearly thirty years in large financial institutions, corporate lending, inter-company transactions, high-value mortgages, structured operations."
"What is the catch?" I asked bluntly.
He did not flinch.
"Fraud. Two years ago."
I watched his pulse. His breathing. Micro-tension around his jaw.
"You don't look like the one who would've done it," I stated aloud.
Alfred hesitated, clearly torn on whether he should say it or keep it buried. I saw the moment he decided to tell the truth.
"No," he replied. "But I accepted responsibility."
That was interesting.
"Why?"
His jaw tightened briefly.
I watched him carefully. "It wasn't your idea, was it?"
"My son owed his boss a considerable sum of money," he said at last. "More than he could ever repay honestly."
I didn't interrupt.
"The man gave him a way out. Said there was something simple he could do. Adjust a few records. Move money where it wouldn't be noticed." His jaw tightened. "My son agreed."
"And he got caught."
"Yes."
The word carried weight.
"So you confessed instead."
"I did." His voice was calm, unshaken. "He is young. A prison sentence would have destroyed his future before it even began."
A faint breath left him.
"I made my choice."
Silence settled between us.
I inhaled.
"And what about your son now?" I asked.
Alfred's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes dimmed.
"He cut contact with me," he said quietly. "Told everyone it was my doing. That I was the one who committed the fraud. That he had no idea." A faint, humourless breath escaped him. "He said he was disappointed in me."
The words seemed heavier than the confession itself.
"I was shocked," Alfred admitted. "I believed the loan was a mistake of youth. The fraud… desperation, foolishness."
He paused, the silence thick.
"I understood then," he finished, voice steady but hollow, "that I had failed in raising a proper man."
All that Alfred said was the truth.
Recently, I had become very good at telling when someone was lying. With my heightened senses and sharpened reflexes, I could catch the smallest shifts in a person's expression, the twitch of a muscle, the flicker in their eyes. I could hear the faintest change in a heartbeat, the subtle stutter or acceleration that betrayed stress.
And with my sharpened sense of smell, I could even detect the small changes in hormones carried in their scent.
Alfred had shown none of it.
"I'm building a company," I said.
He blinked. "You're… what?"
"I need a director. A representative. Someone who understands finance, law, regulatory pressure, and how ugly the system can be."
A short, incredulous laugh escaped him. "You're serious."
"Completely."
He studied me again, but this time the dismissal wasn't there.
"Even if I agreed," he said slowly, "no investor would trust a convicted fraud."
"I'm not looking for investors," I replied calmly.
I stepped slightly closer.
"There will be contracts, layered oversight, independent auditing. You won't be able to move a single dollar without verification."
His eyes sharpened, not offended.
Impressed.
"And if I still betray you?" he asked.
After he asked the question, a thin trail of cold sweat slid down his spine. My facial expression had changed-sharpened, emptied of warmth.
"I wouldn't recommend it."
Something in my tone convinced him that this was not bravado. He understood then that betrayal would be the worst decision he could ever make.
Two days later, Ark was officially registered.