Lucas returned to his father's office after another two hours of evaluations and back-to-back strategy briefings, most of which felt like political traps in PowerPoint form. He loosened his collar and collapsed into the chair that once belonged to Cyrus Han.
The skyline was beginning to bruise into evening.
"You could've warned me half those people were lawyers in disguise," he muttered.
"I tried," ATHENA replied. "You didn't listen."
Lucas groaned. "Tell me this gets easier."
"No. But you will get stronger."
There was a soft knock at the glass door.
Before Lucas could answer, it slid open and a young man stepped inside—mid-twenties, sharp suit, narrow face, glasses that somehow made him look both overqualified and chronically over it.
He gave a polite half-bow. "Mr. Pan. I'm Ethan Yu, your assistant. Officially assigned as of two hours ago. I work under you, and technically, under ATHENA."
Lucas straightened in his seat. "Under ATHENA?"
Ethan walked forward, set a sleek silver tablet on the desk, and tapped in a sequence with practiced fingers.
"Fully integrated access system," Ethan said. "ATHENA transmits directives to my interface in real time. I see what she sees—minus the biometric data and… emotional commentary."
"A shame," ATHENA murmured. "He has a very expressive forehead."
Lucas blinked. "So she tells you what to do?"
"In real time. I'm essentially her fingers. You give the direction—she refines the strategy—I execute it logistically. Calendars, scheduling, message buffering, legal document filtering, and operational alerts. I also make excellent tea."
Lucas glanced between ATHENA's pulsing blue orb and the assistant who seemed born ready for war.
"So I have a PA who takes orders from a machine."
"Not just a machine," ATHENA replied. "Your machine. And he was trained on Han protocol for two years. He knows more about the company's habits than most of your directors."
Ethan smiled faintly. "I've also worked with Ms. Zhao before. She likes her coffee jet black, her releases embargoed, and her typos punished."
Lucas stood and rounded the desk, glancing toward the door.
"Where do I live now?" he asked.
Ethan didn't miss a beat. "Cyrus's private penthouse. Already secured. Keys are in your jacket pocket, code delivered to your secure email fifteen minutes ago. Your wardrobe was restocked this morning, and ATHENA selected five transitional suits based on your body data. I've already rejected two."
Lucas stopped. "You—wait. I haven't even seen them."
Ethan shrugged. "You'll thank me later."
Lucas opened the inner coat pocket and pulled out a small chrome keycard. It gleamed under the overhead lights, etched with the Han Global insignia.
"There's more, isn't there?" he said.
"Plenty," ATHENA replied. "He also has access to Cyrus's restricted comms vault, two dormant offshore trusts, a private island you'll never visit, and an unreleased biometric phone OS prototype coded to your gait and voiceprint."
Lucas stared down at the keycard.
Cyrus had planned this.
Not just the will. Not just the AI. But the infrastructure. The logistics. The positioning. Even the suits.
Every step of the ascent had already been laid out—quietly, methodically, like someone who knew he wouldn't be around to walk it.
Lucas swallowed the sudden tightness in his throat.
"I didn't ask for any of this," he said.
"No," ATHENA agreed. "But he asked it of you."
The elevator that led to the penthouse didn't have a button—just a biometric scanner.
Lucas pressed his thumb to the panel. A moment passed. Then the doors whispered open, revealing a minimalist interior with soft cream walls and copper trim. A bottle of whiskey rested untouched on a glass tray in the corner, beside a white orchid that looked so flawless it might be synthetic.
The lights came on as he entered.
Soft jazz began to play from hidden speakers.
And the curtains pulled back automatically to reveal the full stretch of Shanghai below, glowing and alive.
He dropped the keycard on the marble counter and stared.
The place wasn't just beautiful—it was intentional. The kind of space made for someone who needed the world to believe they were already winning.
There were two studies, a private gym, a bulletproof balcony, and a walk-in wardrobe filled with tailored suits in various shades of menace.
Lucas walked to the far end of the living room and found a glass desk with a sealed black envelope resting neatly at its center.
He opened it.
Inside: a handwritten note.
"If you're reading this, you made it to the part where they stop underestimating you. Good. Now make them regret it. —C.H."
Lucas stared at the initials. They didn't feel like a signature. They felt like a dare.
The next morning, Rhea Zhao arrived at the penthouse at precisely 6:00 AM.
Lucas opened the door in sweatpants and a T-shirt. She looked him over once, made no comment, and stepped inside without waiting for permission.
"Two interviews this week," she said, handing him a printed press calendar. "I've ghostwritten your quotes, vetted the journalists, and made a soft launch post on your Weibo feed."
Lucas blinked. "I don't use Weibo."
"You do now."
She scanned the apartment in one slow sweep, then turned back to him. "You live here?"
"Apparently."
She nodded. "Good light. We'll stage a casual photo shoot here before the week ends. You'll look powerful, but approachable. If you have a dog, that would be ideal."
"I don't have a dog."
Rhea raised a brow. "Get one."
Lucas sighed. "Anything else?"
"Yes," she said, walking to the counter. Her heels clicked softly on the marble. "You need to decide what kind of myth you want to become."
Lucas stayed where he was, arms crossed over his chest, the city burning blue and gold behind him.
"I didn't ask to be a myth."
Rhea turned, slow and precise, and fixed him with a look. "No one does. Myths aren't chosen. They're made. Usually in the silence after someone powerful dies."
He scoffed. "You sound like you practice this in the mirror."
"I do," she said without missing a beat. "I practice everything. So that you don't have to."
Lucas let that hang in the air. Then he stepped toward her, just once. "You really think I can pull this off?"
She studied him. Not like she was judging—more like she was measuring tension lines in a bridge. "I think you already did. The question now is whether you can survive the story they're going to write about you next."
Lucas frowned. "And what's that story?"
Rhea gave him a small, enigmatic smile. "That you're either your father's greatest revenge… or his final mistake."
She turned, pulled a black case from her bag, and set it on the counter. Inside was a slim, immaculate phone—a prototype model with no logo, no visible interface, and no cords.
"This is your line now," she said. "Public and private. Preloaded with ATHENA's shadow OS. Every message that matters will come through here."
Lucas picked it up. It was lighter than it looked.
"I'll call you at 7. We'll begin prep for your first media appearance," she added. "Dress like someone who doesn't need approval. And eat something with protein. You look like you ran uphill all night."
"I did," he muttered.
Rhea smiled faintly, heading toward the door. "Good. You'll need stronger legs where we're going."
She stopped just before leaving. "Lucas?"
He looked up.
"The world's already watching. Don't blink."
Then she was gone.
Lucas stood alone, the weight of the phone in his hand, the silence of the penthouse pressing in. Outside, the skyline gleamed like a game board.
And somewhere in the walls, ATHENA stirred.
"She's not wrong. Myths are not born. They are demanded."
Lucas turned to the window. His reflection stared back—half-shadowed, half-lit.
"Then let's give them one they'll choke on."