CHAPTER 117: CHAPTER 117: RISE AND FALL.

Richard sat in quiet meditation within his private quarters in the Purnas Mansion Underground Base. Two weeks had passed since his forced awakening, and the chaos that once clamored in his mind had been silenced. He had mastered his telepathic abilities, suppressing the influx of thoughts and voices that had previously overwhelmed him. A subtle ripple of energy emanated from him as he extended his telepathic range to its maximum—one hundred feet. He tested sending a clear, concise thought, marveling at his newfound control.

"Two weeks," he thought. "The first was pure chaos, a deluge of voices. But now... silence. Pure, absolute silence. And the range... one hundred feet. Perfect."

Meanwhile, in his room, Jack was engrossed in watching adult videos on his laptop, lost in his own world. Suddenly, Richard’s voice, clear as if he were right there, blasted directly into Jack’s mind.

"Jack. I need you to come down to the basement."

Jack jumped, yelping in surprise. He instinctively slumped down, cursing loudly at the interruption to his private moment. He fumbled to minimize the video, his face flushed with embarrassment and annoyance.

"GAH! WHAT THE HELL?! DUDE! You son of a bitch! Can’t a guy get some privacy?!" He slammed the laptop shut, still flustered. "Fucking Hell! He can do that now?!"

Richard sent another telepathic message, this time calmer, explaining his mastery and his request.

"Apologies, bro. I’ve achieved full control over my abilities. I can now suppress any intrusive thoughts and send focused messages. I need a favor. Can you bring a pair of scissors and some hair dye down to the basement? I need to cut and dye my hair."

Jack, still annoyed, began to formulate a plan for petty revenge involving Richard’s hair. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he imagined the possibilities.

"Oh, you wanna cut your hair, huh? ’Cut and dye.’ Hmm. This is payback for interrupting that. Oh, Richard, you’re going to love what I do with those scissors. Heh." He rubbed his hands together, a glint of mischief in his eye.

As Jack headed downstairs, still chuckling to himself, he was intercepted by Anita and Estello. They looked worried, their concern evident as they inquired about Richard’s whereabouts. He had been secluded and largely out of sight for a month, and they were growing increasingly anxious.

Anita approached Jack, her voice laced with concern. "Jack, have you heard from Richard yet? He’s been so quiet...he never message me for a whole month now. Is he still on that vacation in South Korea you mentioned?"

Estello frowned slightly, his voice echoing Anita’s worry. "Yes, his absence is quite noticeable. We assumed he was just immersed in his work, but a month is a long time even for Richard’s dedication. Is he well?"

Jack stopped, offering a casual shrug, trying to sound convincing. "Oh, yeah, auntie, Grandpa. He’s still on his... ’makeover and vacation’ trip. You know him, when he gets focused. Just unwinding, taking a break from all the stress." He gestured vaguely with his hand, trying to distract them, hoping they wouldn’t ask to see him.

Anita sighed, her worry palpable. "Well, I hope he truly is resting. He works himself too hard. It’s unlike him to be out of sight for so long."

Estello’s eyes flickered with a slight unease, as if sensing something amiss. "Indeed. A change of scenery can be beneficial."

The tension in the air was thick, a result of Richard’s prolonged seclusion and transformation. Jack’s efforts to maintain the illusion of normalcy were strained, especially with the added pressure of Richard’s drastic physical changes.

As Jack continued downstairs, the weight of the secrets he carried settled on his shoulders. The mansion was filled with a mix of concern, humor, and the underlying current of change.

Richard sat in his private office within the Purnas Mansion Underground Base, a plate of AMFS-printed food in front of him. He was on a video call with Lina, who appeared as a holographic projection. The room was filled with the soft hum of advanced technology, a stark comparison to the current cutting-edge innovations that Bytebull was known for.

"Sir," Lina began, her voice clear and precise,

"the Bull EV Motors megafactory construction is still projected for completion in about a year and a half. The CNT fabrication facility and solid-state battery plants are on a similar timeline. We anticipate a complete production launch by 2015 to early 2016. It’s also a bit late for our planned trip to Brazil. I hadn’t considered the impact of incompetent bureaucracy, incompetent construction contracts, and a lack of advanced equipment for construction."

Richard chewed thoughtfully, his expression calm and composed. "That’s fine, Lina. We can adjust the schedule. Until then, we’ll have to oversee the operations ourselves first until they’ll be able to go a complete launch of the first production."

Lina nodded, her holographic form flickering slightly. "Understood. I’ve already preemptively hired local employees to manage and handle the automated equipment as well as specialists for human interface roles. And for the fabrication plants and other factories. However, I might proceed to hire international foreign workers for the specialist jobs, to ensure we are fully ready before the launch."

Richard’s calm demeanor and practical approach showcased his leadership and adaptability in the face of setbacks. Lina’s efficiency and foresight in managing Bytebull’s massive expansion demonstrated her advanced AI capabilities, even when encountering unforeseen human-element complications. The ambitious timeline for Bytebull’s production indicated their aggressive market disruption strategy, now tempered by real-world logistical challenges.

As Richard finished his meal, he leaned back in his chair, a sense of satisfaction washing over him. "I have to inform you though. You can come here again," he said, gesturing with his burger. "I’ll have better control over my abilities now. Though I could just buy a skill from the System to suppress the voices, I can’t always be dependent. I’ll eventually have to learn the stuff myself. Besides," he added, a wry grin touching his lips, "I doubt psionic-based skills are cheap."

Lina’s holographic form seemed to brighten, her smile genuine and relieved. "I understand, sir. I’ll be able to assist you when I have things ready on my end for your take over."

As the video call ended, Richard was left alone in his office. He patted his stomach, reflecting on his physical state. Over the past two weeks, he had been "lazing around" and indulging in a diet of AMFS-printed burgers, fried chicken, and sodas. He observed that he had gained roughly half the body mass he had before his awakening.

"Two weeks of AMFS cuisine," he mused, flexing an arm and observing the new, softer bulk. "Burgers, fried chicken, sodas... a veritable feast. And it shows. Half the body mass back, maybe more."

He couldn’t help but chuckle silently at the irony of Jack diligently working out to fit into his Musashi armor, unaware that Richard could simply print food to gain weight effortlessly. "If he knew I could print him a thousand calories in a minute... he’d be 300 pounds or more in a week."

But Richard knew that this was just mass. Now came the hard part: shaping it, carving it back into something useful. The muscles he wanted would require effort and discipline. "Time to start working again," he resolved, a determined look in his eyes.

Jack then strode into Richard’s office, a barber cutter in one hand and a tub of blackening cream in the other, a wide grin on his face. He immediately offered to cut Richard’s hair, teasing him about the interruption to his "private time."

"Alright, bro! Let me at your hair! I was almost done when you interrupted me, you know!" Jack said, his grin widening as he held up the barber cutter.

Richard laughed, apologizing for the telepathic intrusion. "Oops, sorry about that," he said, standing up and taking the tools from Jack. "Anyway, I couldn’t find scissors, so I have this instead. I figured you’re cutting your long ass silver hair."

Jack, still grinning, replied, "But, who’s gonna cut your hair though? You planning on doing it yourself, Charles Xavier?"

Richard sighed, "I figured I’d cut them myself, on a mirror, but..."

Jack’s eyes lit up. "Oh no! No, no, no. I’ll cut them for you! I’ll make sure it’s good looking. You know deserving hairstyle just for-" He took a sniff, catching the faint scent of cooked food. "Anyway, why do I smell something good on you? Is that a burger with Mac and cheese?"

Richard perked up, a subtle flicker in his eyes as he started to walk away. "Nothing. Anyway, I gotta check something."

Jack followed, playfully accusing Richard of holding out on him. "Come on, bro! Why you keeping the good stuff away from me?"

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Shenyang, China

The air in the dense streets of Shenyang, China, thick with the scent of diesel and the murmur of countless conversations, pressed in on the unnamed courier as he emerged from the UPS office. In his hand, clutched almost casually, were five standard postal mail cards – seemingly innocuous, yet freighted with a hidden, deadly significance.

He moved with the practiced ease of someone who knew the shadows, his face a bland mask among the bustling crowd.

He slid into his aging sedan, the worn fabric of the seat creaking a familiar protest. The engine turned over with a rough growl, and he pulled into the relentless flow of traffic, towards his destination Zhongchao Youyi Bridge where an informant would be waiting there, and a thousand dollars would be waiting for him. A simple exchange. He’d done countless such discreet, shady jobs over the past five years, delivering packages and messages from the unknown to the equally unknown. He had a simple rule: don’t ask. And it had served him well. He hadn’t been caught. Not once.

As he navigated through Nanfeng District, a flicker of unease pricked at him. In his rearview mirror, a sleek, dark red SUV seemed to maintain an almost uncanny proximity. He dismissed it, a practiced reflex. Probably just paranoia. Ive been doing this five years and there’s never an issue. The thought was a familiar awareness against the dangers of his profession.

The district began to thin, giving way to the winding, sometimes narrow, roads that snaked alongside a cliff. Ahead, a slow-moving truck, laden with what looked like steel rebar, hogged the lane, belching black smoke. The courier cursed under his breath, a sharp "Ai, shenme gui!" – What the hell! – escaping his lips. He jammed his foot down, attempting to overtake, the sedan straining with a metallic whine.

Then, in a heart-stopping flash, a large, black van, dark as a void, burst from a side alley, veering sharply into his path. There was no time to think, only react. His eyes widened, a primal fear seizing him. No, not this way!

In a split second, adrenaline surged, and he yanked the steering wheel hard left, a desperate, violent swerve to avoid a head-on collision. The tires shrieked, protesting against the asphalt in a tortured rubber. But it wasn’t enough. The black van still clipped the rear quarter-panel of his sedan. The impact was a sickening CRUNCH, metal screaming against metal.

His car became a broken toy, spinning wildly, out of control. Glass exploded inward, showering the interior. The world outside became a blur of concrete and sky as the sedan spun and then, with a final, violent lurch, flipped onto its roof, landing with a jarring, final groan of tortured metal. The smell of burning rubber and leaking gasoline instantly filled the air.

The red SUV, which had been lurking, now screeched to a halt beside the wrecked vehicle. Two doors swung open with synchronized precision. A man, dressed casually like a tourist but moving with a predator’s grace, emerged from the passenger side. His eyes, devoid of emotion, scanned the scene.

He approached the overturned sedan, its wheels still spinning uselessly in the air. The courier inside was trapped, groaning faintly, blood blooming on his temple.

Without hesitation, the man reached into the shattered driver’s side window, his hand swiftly locating and retrieving the five postcards, now slightly crumpled but otherwise intact.

As the man withdrew his hand, his other slipped inside his jacket, reappearing with a polymer Glock-9. There was no theatrical flourish, no word. Just the soft, almost polite thwip of the suppressed muzzle, followed by a wet, final sound. The courier’s body went limp. The man calmly holstered his weapon.

The red SUV reversed with an efficient hum, turning sharply. In moments, it was gone, swallowed by the ceaseless flow of city life. All that remained was the flipped car, the shattered glass, and a life extinguished.