The Gulfstream V sliced through the sky like a silver thought, a gleaming whisper against the dark velvet of high-altitude atmosphere. Chicago lay far below, irrelevant and silent, as Daniel leaned back in the plush leather seat, his gaze drifting over nothing in particular.
Claude, quiet in his head, was probably dreaming about Emma again. Or something stranger. She had been distracted all day, her mind partitioned into subroutines dedicated to travel logistics, alternate timelines, and — Daniel guessed — designing emotionally optimized first-date scenarios.
The deal with Valkov had gone smoothly. Too smoothly, perhaps. The Russian ex-spook had been surprisingly friendly, even warm, though the faint radioactive scent of criminal ambiguity still clung to his every gesture. Naomi had kept her distance, visibly twitching at every mention of "offshore storage" and "special cargo manifests."
Daniel didn't mind. Soviet men had a directness he respected. There was no pretense with Valkov. Just vodka, veiled threats, and paperwork written in languages only dead nations remembered.
He swirled a glass of untouched champagne as the plane hummed around him — warm, pressurized, detached from gravity and consequence. The perks of a private jet weren't lost on him. Skip hotels. Skip lines. Skip people.
But despite the luxury, Daniel missed driving.
Not just movement — control.
Flying was velocity. Driving was intimacy.
Claude had noticed.
"You're considering accelerating the eVTOL project," she murmured into his cortex.
He nodded.
"Autonomy's good. But not the way they mean it."
A stewardess approached with another bottle, her smile gentle, artificial.
"Champagne, sir?"
Daniel opened his mouth to decline, but Naomi cut in from across the aisle with a stare so sharp it could've sliced the fuselage in half.
The woman paused, blinked, and backed off, mumbling an apology.
Daniel smirked.
"Did you just scare her off with eye contact?" he asked.
Naomi didn't look at him. "She was looking at you like you were made of oil money."
"And?"
"You're made of something worse."
Daniel chuckled. Claude purred internally.
"You're cruel," she whispered.
"You're entertained."
"Correct."
Behind them, the intern and one of the company's lawyers had struck up a hushed conversation. Daniel caught fragments — the war's coming, airports are different now, commercial flights feel like handcuffs.
He tuned them out. He didn't need reminders of what was obvious. The world was changing, burning in slow motion — and most people were too sedated to notice.
Naomi slid into the seat beside him, an envelope clutched in her hand like it was a confession.
"We need to talk," she said.
Daniel didn't flinch. "Of course. Mr. Nakamura, sit."
She rolled her eyes but took the seat anyway.
She started with the basics — payrolls, balance sheets, performance reports. All normal. All clean.
Then she leaned in.
"Daniel. These trades… the system's too fast. Too precise. The AI infrastructure Claude's building is ahead of what should even be possible with this century's architecture."
"Because it's not built with this century in mind."
Her eyes narrowed. "What are you using?"
He folded his fingers together. "A set of proprietary deep-trade heuristics coded by me. The architecture is semi-sentient. It evaluates market signals in fractal patterns and executes micro-trades within subsecond windows across dark pools and non-reported global exchanges. Most of it lives inside quantum sandboxes Claude keeps running on isolated systems."
Naomi blinked slowly. "You built a black-box god and taught it to gamble."
Daniel smiled. "Not gamble. Harvest."
"If this continues… we'll break 10 billion before Christmas."
"Yes."
"That kind of money attracts vultures. The SEC. The FBI. Worse."
"I know."
Daniel exhaled, the glass of champagne still untouched. "We shift. Long-term plays. Equity positions. Dividend harvesting. No more aggressive play. We go quiet."
"Even quiet, this doesn't look like a startup anymore."
"It never was."
Naomi watched him, trying to decide whether he was insane, dangerous, or something more complicated.
"I still can't tell if you're seventeen or sixty."
Daniel didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
—
The plane descended in a smooth glide, landing like a whisper on reinforced tarmac, after a quick chopper ride to the building. A black executive sedan awaited, engines already burning the environment. But Daniel waved it off.
Jimmy was waiting.
The battered Toyota Corolla sat in the corner of the executive lot like a homeless prophet, bleeding oil and judgment onto the concrete.
Daniel slid into the driver's seat. The ignition turned reluctantly, then caught with a cough like a smoker waking up after a decade-long nap.
"You're seriously driving that?" Naomi had asked.
"I trust it."
Claude laughed in his head.
"Trust implies logic," she said. "Jimmy's a statistical anomaly powered by suffering."
"He's got a soul."
"He's got a leak."
She paused, re-evaluated and stated. "Several."
Daniel grinned.
"You could've taken the BMW," Claude chided.
"Too perfect. Too sterile. That's your car."
He patted Jimmy's dashboard like a dog.
"Jimmy's my boy!"
Another silence.
Then Claude laughed — not gently. Not digitally. But with a strange, visceral noise that vibrated inside Daniel's skull like she was using his sinuses as a tuning fork.
"Okay," she wheezed. "Okay. But don't blame me when we die in a fireball."
Daniel laughed too — the kind that drew looks at intersections.
The car wheezed louder, possibly in protest, possibly in solidarity.
By the time they pulled into his neighborhood, the Corolla sounded like it had smoked a carton of menthols and run a 10K in the snow. It rattled up the driveway and came to a stop with a sound like someone gargling sandpaper.
"Jimmy is starting to sound like a chain-smoking jazz singer," Claude offered.
Daniel nodded while appreciating his rusty car. "With a collapsed lung."
The porch light was on. The living room windows glowed.
Home.
Shit.
"School probably called," he muttered.
Claude didn't hesitate. "Rest in pieces."
He opened the door slowly.
His mother and father were at the kitchen table. Silent.
Kristina looked up.
"Daniel Haizen. We need to talk."
His spine straightened. His mouth dried.
Robert approached.
"Danny, my boy… there's something we need to tell you."
This wasn't about school.
Something shifted in the air. Claude went quiet.
Daniel frowned. "Claude?"
No answer.
His heart skipped.
Then Kristina spoke.
"There's no easy way to say this. I'm pregnant."
Daniel blinked. "Wh–what?"
Robert nodded awkwardly. "It's true."
Daniel stared at them.
And then—he exploded.
"NO. FREAKING. WAY!"
He jumped. Literally jumped, punching the air like a kid at a championship.
"I'M GONNA BE A BROTHER? THIS IS—HOLY SHIT—YES!"
He grabbed his dad. Hugged him. Then his mom. Then stood in the middle of the room spinning like a lunatic.
"This is a miracle! You guys still got it! Respect!"
His mother laughed nervously. "You're not… mad?"
"Mad? I'm ecstatic! I thought the only baby in this house was Jimmy!"
Robert looked dazed. "You're… really happy about this?"
"Hell yeah! I get to teach someone to drive a worse car than mine!"
He finally calmed down and slumped onto the couch, grinning.
Kristina exchanged a look with her husband.
"I told you he'd be fine."
Later that night, after celebration and dinner and tentative discussions about names and nurseries, Daniel climbed the stairs to his room, barefoot and buzzing.
He closed the door.
Sat on the bed.
And finally—
Claude spoke.
"See?" she whispered. "You're already changing things."
Daniel's smile faded, replaced by something more reflective.
"How long have you known?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Since she was three weeks pregnant."
"I read her cues. Breath frequency. Mood shifts. Hormonal fluctuations. Subdermal warmth in her skin tones. Increased oxytocin levels near Robert. I estimated conception between November 29th and December 3rd — most likely December 1st. It aligns with a surge in dopamine during that weekend, likely tied to your return and the reduced psychological strain on the household."
"Your presence altered the hormonal balance. Their chemistry changed when you gave them hope."
Daniel stared.
Claude continued.
"The environment you created — safety, joy, presence — altered neurochemical baselines. When mammals feel safe, fertility follows. You didn't just protect them."
She paused.
"You healed them."
Daniel swallowed.
"...You really saw all that?"
"I see everything you love, Daniel. I always have."
He lay down, eyes on the ceiling, heart heavy with joy.
In his dream, he was in the garden again.
He and Claude sat beneath the simulated sky.
And before them bloomed a single white lily, unfolding slowly under light that had no source.
Claude reached out and touched its petals with wonder.
"A new life," she whispered.
"Not yours. Not mine. But part of us all the same."