Nobody spoke for a long time after the door slammed.
Frank sat with his hands flat on the table, staring at the palm that had struck his daughter. Linda gripped the edge of the table and said nothing. The food went cold.
Ethan didn't move. The bank card sat heavy in his pocket — three million marks, and the weight of a family cracking under the strain of it.
He could tolerate Natalie's resentment. The cold shoulder, the snide comments, the looks of contempt — she was Frank and Linda's daughter, and he was living under their roof. He could swallow all of it.
But what she'd said about his parents crossed a line he'd kill to defend. On that point, not even Frank Holloway's daughter got a pass.
From down the hallway, Ethan could hear muffled crying through the bedroom door. Then the crying stopped, replaced by the sounds of drawers opening and a bag being zipped.
Ten minutes later, Natalie emerged with a packed overnight bag, mascara streaked down her cheeks, and walked straight to the front door without looking at any of them.
"I'm staying at my cousin's place." Her voice was flat. Emptied out. "From now on, just pretend you don't have a daughter."
The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the dishes still sitting on the table.
Linda half-rose from her chair — instinct pulling her after her child — then sat back down. She knew her daughter had gone too far tonight. Chasing after her now would only reinforce the behavior.
Ethan watched the empty doorway and said nothing.
There was nothing to say. Not yet. Words wouldn't fix this — only results would. Once the small nuclear reactor was operational, the money would come back tenfold, the family would heal, and Natalie would understand.
Until then, he just had to build the thing.
After dinner, Ethan followed Frank into the study.
"What's wrong? Hit a wall already?"
Frank read the conflict on his face before Ethan could speak.
"Uncle Frank, the funding's secured, but there's another problem. Some of the equipment and materials I need are controlled substances — restricted procurement. I can't just buy them off the shelf."
"I figured as much. Give me the list."
Ethan didn't argue. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket — prepared in advance, every item cataloged with specifications — and handed it over.
Frank unfolded it. His eyebrows climbed steadily higher as he scanned the page.
"This many?"
"It's actually the simplified version." Ethan gave a rueful smile. "Once it's done, this palm-sized thing will contain enough energy to power a fighter jet engine at full burn for thirty minutes."
Frank stared at the list for a long moment. Then he folded it, tucked it into his breast pocket, and nodded once.
"Three days. I'll have everything on this list."
Over the next seventy-two hours, Ethan moved with the kind of focus that borders on obsession.
He rented a factory building in a remote industrial district on the outskirts of Ashford City — cheap, isolated, and large enough to house the equipment without drawing attention. The lease was month-to-month, and the landlord didn't ask questions as long as the rent cleared.
During the day, he crisscrossed Northvale Province buying every piece of commercially available machinery and raw material on his list. Generators, precision instruments, cabling, coolant systems — each purchase paid in cash, each receipt filed in a binder that was growing thicker by the hour.
At night, he sat on the factory floor with his back against a steel pillar and ran the theoretical framework through his mind for the thousandth time. Stress-testing every variable. Checking every equation against the knowledge the System had downloaded. Making sure the experimental process was airtight — because with five million marks and one shot, there was zero margin for error.
On the third day, Frank arrived at the factory with a truck.
"Last batch," he said, unloading crates with the careful precision of a man who'd spent decades handling equipment in the field. "I called in every favor I had. A few of these came from contacts I haven't spoken to in fifteen years."
Ethan helped him carry the final crate inside and set it on the workbench. He pulled the lid off, checked the contents against his list, and felt a wave of relief wash over him.
Everything was here. Every last item.
All conditions for the small nuclear reactor experiment were finally met.
Ethan planned to live in the factory for the duration of the build. Partly for efficiency — every hour of commute time was an hour not spent on the reactor. And partly for security — the fewer people who knew what was happening inside these walls, the better.
He went back to the Holloway house one last time to pack. A change of clothes, a blanket, some instant noodles, his toothbrush.
He was stuffing shirts into a duffel bag when Frank appeared in the doorway. Then Linda. Without a word, the two of them started folding clothes and organizing supplies — Linda adding things he hadn't thought of (a first aid kit, a thermos, vitamin supplements), Frank checking the duffel's zipper with the critical eye of a man who'd packed military rucksacks for a living.
"Ethan." Linda's voice was brisk, efficient — the tone she used when she was trying not to be emotional. "That girl's been running her mouth to every relative we have. Half the family knows Frank put three million marks into your project. They're all waiting for us to fall flat on our faces."
She zipped the duffel with more force than necessary.
"Some of them have actually shown up at the door. Being so concerned. Offering such heartfelt sympathy." The sarcasm could have stripped paint. "I've been biting my tongue for two days straight, and let me tell you — the moment this reactor of yours works, I am going to personally visit every single one of those people and remind them of what they said."
Ethan bit back a grin. He knew his aunt's temper. The relatives who'd mocked them had no idea what was coming.
"Don't fill his head with nonsense," Frank cut in, frowning. Then he turned to Ethan, and his voice dropped — serious now, stripped of bluster.
"Kid. Don't put too much pressure on yourself. Whether this works or not, you are the greatest source of pride your aunt and I have ever had. The door of this house will always be open to you. No matter what happens."
Ethan's vision blurred. He blinked hard, swallowed, and nodded.
He knew exactly how much pressure Frank and Linda were carrying. To any outside observer, selling off your family's savings to fund a teenager's physics experiment was certifiably insane. If the reactor failed, the money was gone — and the two of them would become punchlines for the rest of their lives.
But they'd done it anyway. Without hesitation.
"I'm leaving, Uncle Frank. Aunt Linda."
He shouldered the duffel and turned toward the door.
"Just watch. When your nephew walks back through this door, he's going to give the whole world a shock."
Ten days after Ethan sealed himself inside the factory, Ashford Preparatory Academy held its most important annual event.
The Commendation Assembly.
Every year, after the National Scholastic Exams concluded, Ashford Prep gathered its entire student body for a celebration of the graduating class's results. It served a dual purpose: honoring the seniors who'd just completed the most important exams of their lives, and lighting a fire under the juniors who'd be taking those same exams next year.
As the highest-performing school in all of Northvale Province — 98.9% university admission rate, triple-digit students funneled into Grandfield and Hartwell every cycle — Ashford Prep's annual assembly drew attention from across the region. The Ashford City television station sent a crew. The provincial network dispatched reporters. Local media outlets and independent journalists filled the remaining seats.
Cameras were set up. Lights adjusted. The principal took the stage.
"First and foremost, I'd like to thank all the members of the press for being here today."
"Ashford Preparatory Academy's reputation is built not just on the hard work of our students and faculty, but on the coverage and support of the media. Please allow me, on behalf of our entire school community, to express our deepest gratitude."
He led the applause. The reporters in the front rows smiled and clapped along — pleased, as reporters always are, to be acknowledged. In an age where media could make or break a school's public image, even a principal of Ashford Prep's stature knew to keep the press happy.
The applause faded, and the principal began reading the year's results.
"This year, a total of one hundred and twelve students from our school were admitted to Grandfield University and Hartwell University."
"Four hundred and forty-two students were admitted to first-tier universities across the Republic."
The numbers rolled on for ten minutes — a parade of statistics that reinforced, year after year, why Ashford Prep sat at the top of the provincial rankings.
When the results concluded, the program shifted to the incoming senior class.
"Next, we invite the Grade Director of our current junior class, Mr. Gerald Thornton, to deliver a speech on behalf of the students entering their final year!"
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.