They tested him the next day. A fake report. A fake prediction.
The boy corrected it, casually pointing out a minor merger that would influence the price.
When the merger was announced publicly two days later, the family went silent.
That night, Marcus summoned the board of Dilworth Holdings. Within a week, the boy was moved to the basement.
Officially, it was called the Vault Wing—built deep beneath their estate with reinforced walls, biometric locks, and complete isolation. A basement designed not to imprison, but to preserve.
The child, now five, was kept in a room no larger than a shipping container. A cot. A table. A chair. A tray slot where food was delivered—twice daily.
Two pieces of bread. Water. A single candle.
And documents. Stacks upon stacks of market predictions, corporate records, and investment patterns.
They told him it was a game. Every right answer earned him a piece of fruit or an extra slice of bread. Every wrong one lost him all his food. The boy was trapped in the dark
He never knew sunlight again.
His eyes adapted, slowly evolving into organs of darkness. He could see in near total blackness, the whites of paper glowing under even the weakest flame. His metabolism slowed. His senses sharpened.
And his predictions continued to come true.
Division X—Dilworth's secret biotech arm—began producing a specialized bread, packed with precisely what the boy needed to survive and remain cognitively sharp. Each loaf cost more than a five-star meal. But it worked.
He never asked for toys. He never asked for freedom. He didn't know what those things were.
Only that he must perform. Or go hungry.
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