Chương 7: Cheat Code

James Wesley sat in my office and looked at me as if I were a saint personally kissed by God.

"Mr. Miller, I…" He fell silent, searching for the right words. The bruises on his face had already faded, his ribs had healed, but his eyes were the same. Too old for eighteen.

"I don't know how to thank you. Please, hear me out. I know you're tired of hearing me thank you, but let me finish." A week had passed since the rescue. He had spent that entire week in a safe house, recovering. His mother and sister had been moved there as well until we could find them somewhere decent. I paid his mother's medical bills. I paid off the debts that had to be closed right now. I covered the rent arrears too. All of that cost me three thousand dollars.

Not exactly pocket change, especially considering that I would soon have nowhere to take money from. But if you looked at it as an investment, I was buying something dirt cheap that would one day be worth a Boeing.

"Work well," I said.

"That'll be enough."

"No." He shook his head, and I saw determination in his eyes.

"You don't understand what you've done for me and my family. You pulled me out of hell and saved my family from debt. This is the chance I needed, the one only you were able to give me." He straightened in the chair, and despite his youth and the marks of recent beatings, he looked… impressive. Not physically. He was lean, average height, nothing special in that sense. But there was a kind of wholeness to him.

The kind that appears when a person has understood what he must do and accepted that decision without reservation.

"I will work for you like no one has ever worked for anyone." His voice was even, without drama or exaggeration.

"Whatever you need, I will do it. Any task, any time, any circumstances. It will be done properly. You gave me something to stand on when I needed it most. Now I'll do my best to become that same support for you." I looked at him and understood that he wasn't just saying those words. Not out of a burst of gratitude, not because he wanted to repay me and forget. He truly believed it, and he truly would do everything he could. It was… a little disturbing, honestly.

But for an owner like me, loyal and capable people were a special kind of pleasure. Almost a drug.

"James," I leaned forward, "I appreciate your gratitude. I really do. But I don't just need loyal people. I need people who think for themselves and say no when I start doing some stupid bullshit." He nodded.

"I will say no. When it's needed." A faint smile touched his lips.

"But so far, Mr. Miller, you haven't given me a single reason to doubt your decisions." Well. Fair enough.

"Then let's talk practically." I pushed a notebook toward him.

"I need someone who can take over…" I hesitated, choosing my words, "everything I don't have time for."

"Department coordination?"

"Among other things. Deadlines. Logistics. Solving minor problems that don't require my personal involvement but still eat up time." I leaned back in my chair.

"I have seven department heads, and each of them is pulling me in a different direction. I need someone who can sort requests: what needs my decision and what can be handled without me." He listened carefully, already writing something down.

"Personal assistant," he said thoughtfully.

"Or office manager. Or…" he lifted his eyes, "both."

"Call it whatever you want. The main thing is that it works."

"I have experience." He turned a page.

"When I ran my father's company, that was exactly what I did. Coordinated drivers, dispatchers, mechanics. Made sure cargo arrived on time, trucks didn't sit idle, and people weren't left without work."

"Yes, I know. I have your file. How old were you then?"

"Sixteen." At sixteen, back in my own world, I played computer games, read comics, and hung out with girls. What can I say? You can feel the difference.

"And you managed?"

"I managed," he confirmed, without a drop of bragging.

"The first two months were hard. The drivers didn't take me seriously and tried to slack off. I had to fire three of them so the rest would understand that age doesn't matter if you know what you're doing." I nodded.

"Good. Then we're settled. Salary…" I calculated quickly in my head.

"A thousand dollars a month to start. Plus housing for you and your family. I'll find something decent. Plus medical insurance for your mother." His eyes widened.

"That's… that's too much."

"The demands on you will be high too." I offered my hand.

"Welcome to Aegis, James Wesley." He shook my hand. Firmly, confidently.

"I won't let you down, Mr. Miller." And you know what? He didn't. I understood, of course, that he was good, but there should be some kind of limits to everything. He had none. He exceeded every expectation so badly that I started suspecting named characters in this universe were some kind of broken cheat asset. I'm serious.

An eighteen-year-old kid who had just recovered from a beating turned, in two weeks, into something between a personal assistant, an office manager, and, God forgive me, a butler on maximum settings. He arrived at the office before everyone else, at seven in the morning, when even the guards were still yawning. He left later than everyone else, often after nine at night. And in those fourteen hours, he managed to do so much that it made me uncomfortable. First, he brought order to the chaos of meetings and calls.

Before, I was drowning in them. Chen needed budget approval, Corrigan wanted me to approve a presentation, Kozlowski called me to look at a prototype, Jennings dragged in a contract for signature. Everyone at once, everything urgent, everything "just five minutes," and somehow it always turned into half a day. James introduced a system that finally let me breathe. Mornings were now for finance and strategy, when we made key money decisions with Chen and Rutman.

Afternoons were operations, Kozlowski, Salazar, and Corrigan's time. Product progress, problems that needed to be solved. Evenings were legal and administrative: Jennings, Grant, Prescott. Anyone who missed their assigned time was, of course, still accepted. But that was when I stepped fully into my role as boss and tore into them as much as I could. Once Kozlowski came in during the evening with a question she could have asked during the day. Oh, how I went off.

It was pleasant to watch her blush with embarrassment and mutter an apology. Team building, ladies and gentlemen. Anything smaller went through Wesley. He filtered requests, cut off the nonsense, grouped similar issues together. If something could be handled without me, he handled it himself and informed me afterward. And the most surprising part was that people listened to him.

Ronald Jennings, a forty-two-year-old lawyer with twenty years of experience, accepted instructions from an eighteen-year-old boy without the slightest trace of resentment. Margaret Chen, who snapped even at me, nodded to James and adjusted reports according to his comments. Why? Because the kid was good. Professionally, flawlessly good. Once he settled in a little, he started performing miracles outright. Second week after he appeared. He comes into my office in the morning with his notebook.

"Mr. Miller, I found a solution to the chemist problem." I looked up from the papers.

"What problem?"

"Kozlowski complained that the team is too small. They're not keeping up with testing the adhesive formula. They need more people, but the hiring budget has been cut." Yes, I remembered. Chen categorically refused to allocate money for laboratory expansion until we started turning a profit.

"And?"

"I found an option." James flipped a page.

"Sterling Chemical. A small firm in New Jersey. They produce industrial solvents, adhesives, chemical reagents. They used to be decent, but they've been going downhill for the last two years. The owner died, the heirs don't know how to run it, and the debts are growing."

"Where are you going with this?"

"They employ eight chemists. Good, experienced specialists. But their salaries are three months overdue. They're on the verge of quitting." I started to understand.

"You want to poach them?"

"Better." He smiled, and the smile came out predatory.

"I've already spoken to them. They've agreed to come to us. But not immediately."

"Explain."

"They'll work the first month without salary. In exchange for a guaranteed position after that month. Official contract, fixed pay, medical insurance." I stared at him.

"No salary? For a whole month? And they agreed?"

"They're desperate, Mr. Miller. Three months without pay, rent debts, families on the edge. They need certainty about tomorrow. I gave them that certainty. Showed them the office, introduced them to Kozlowski, explained that we're growing and that there will be a place for them. They saw that we're a serious company, not another set of scammers." He paused.

"And one more nuance. Their current employer owes them three months' salary. I offered to buy that debt. At thirty cents on the dollar." I slowly leaned back in my chair.

"So we pay a third of what they're owed, they get at least something, and then they leave for us?"

"Exactly. Plus we get their loyalty. We saved them when no one else wanted to. That's worth a lot." God. This kid was eighteen. Eighteen.

"How much money do you need?"

"Nine thousand to buy the debt. Plus standard salaries after the first month, but I don't think we'll have any problems with that. I believe in your venture." I did a quick calculation in my head. Expensive, but this was the foundation of the project. Cutting corners here would be stupid.

"Do it." James nodded and wrote something in his notebook.

"Already done, Mr. Miller. They start on Monday." Of course he had already done it. And here I thought he was asking for permission. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"James," I looked at him seriously, "do you understand that sometimes your efficiency scares me?" He smiled.

"I'm just doing my job, Mr. Miller." Yes. Just doing his job. A job that would have taken other people weeks. He handled it in a couple of days, including negotiations, vetting the people, and legal paperwork. A named character was definitely a cheat. Because I couldn't otherwise explain how an eighteen-year-old kid could be this good at everything. Normal people don't work like that. That speed of thought, that understanding of systems, that ability to organize processes, people study for years to learn that.

And he just came in and… did it. Thanks to him, I had time. Precious, irreplaceable time that had previously leaked away into trivial matters, meetings, approvals. Now I could finally think and plan some of my next steps. A stack of twenty-three publications lay on my desk. I read them every morning, from seven to eight, while the office was empty and quiet, but now I could afford to do it more often.

The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Daily News, Post, Herald Tribune, a pile of small local papers, even a couple of tabloids. Vampires most likely existed. Mentioned in the Daily News, back page, short piece: "Series of Strange Killings in the Bronx. Victims Drained of Blood." The police were blaming cultists or some psycho. Mutants definitely existed. The Times, science section. An article about Professor Charles Xavier and his "School for Gifted Youngsters" in Westchester.

The author talked about the importance of Charles's scientific research. S. H. I. E. L. D. wasn't mentioned anywhere directly, but there was one clue. A photo in the Times, politics section. Military officials speaking about the defense budget. In the background, a little away from the podium, stood a man in a long leather coat. White, both eyes intact, but something about his posture, about the way he stood… Nick Fury. I was almost sure. In the old comics, before Fury was Black, he looked exactly like that.

White man, middle-aged, military bearing, that same coat. Not a one-hundred-percent certainty, of course, but it was worth assuming S. H. I. E. L. D. existed and was stronger than the movie version. Prepare for the worst. I couldn't find any other forces. Too deeply buried. Hydra? How the hell was I supposed to identify Hydra? By definition, they sat in the shadows and disguised themselves as ordinary organizations. The Ten Rings? The Hand? A. I. M.?

Without a serious intelligence network, all I could do was read tea leaves. And what the hell was happening in the USSR? I didn't have decent information even on America, and that was the other side of the planet, behind the Iron Curtain. Red Room? Winter Soldier? Who the hell knew. Although some findings and conclusions were already frightening. A tabloid note about a house in Connecticut. A family of four had vanished. Completely. Food on the table, television on, door not forced.

Police wrote it off as a kidnapping, but witnesses swore no one had left the house. They had just dissolved into thin air. Another story in the Daily News, back page. A series of strange deaths around Salem. People found dead with expressions of absolute terror on their faces. No signs of violence, no poisons. Just… died of fear. Of course, all of it could be written off as kidnappings and psychos. It was easier that way. Easier to sleep at night. But this was Marvel.

Here, underestimating the strange was too dangerous. So we draw a conclusion: the paranormal exists. Demons are entirely possible. Angels? Maybe. Gods? Most likely, yes. Occultism in all its vile manifestations? Almost certainly. Which leads to magic, Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One, and all that mystical bullshit that exists parallel to the world of science and technology. Interesting? Yes. Useful? Possibly. Dangerous? Absolutely. Better not touch it for now. Too serious for me.

I was just a businessman with money and knowledge of the future. Against demons and sorcerers, that wouldn't just fail to help. It might make the whole world collapse. But I did manage to catch something useful. Herald Tribune, the issue from the day before yesterday. I had missed it then, buried in work.

SCANDAL AT MIT: YOUNG SCIENTIST ACCUSED OF DATA FALSIFICATION Phineas Mason, a twenty-six-year-old research engineer at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology's Applied Physics Laboratory, was dismissed after a scandal surrounding his doctoral dissertation. The academic ethics committee accused Mason of fabricating experimental data and plagiarism.

"Mr. Mason presented results that cannot be reproduced under laboratory conditions," said department dean Professor Richard Stanford.

"His work on the miniaturization of energy systems contradicts the fundamental laws of thermodynamics. We cannot allow ourselves to be associated with such pseudoscience." Mason's colleagues describe the situation differently. According to them, the young scientist had indeed achieved a breakthrough in compact power sources, but his discoveries threatened the commercial interests of several major corporations funding the university.

"Phineas showed a working prototype," one graduate student said on condition of anonymity.

"A battery the size of a book that delivered the power of a car battery. A week later his laboratory was sealed, the prototype disappeared, and he was accused of fraud." Mason himself refused to comment. It is known that he left campus that same day, and his current whereabouts are unknown. The young genius's reputation has been destroyed. His career is in ruins. According to acquaintances, he is emotionally broken. What else should we expect from megacorporations?

Why are they forcibly stopping progress that could change millions of lives? More on this and other questions in our next issue. In the original, Phineas Mason becomes the Tinkerer after his ideas are stolen and he himself is branded a fraud. Bitter at the world, he goes underground and starts making technology for anyone who pays. That includes supervillains, crime syndicates, and all sorts of criminal trash. Anyone, as long as he can spite the system that betrayed him. But right now…

right now he was just a desperate twenty-six-year-old whose career had been ruined, whose reputation had been destroyed, and whose work had been stolen. In the comics, the Tinkerer created technologies that baffled even Stark. Exoskeletons, energy weapons, compact power sources. If I intercepted him now, before he slid into crime… It was hard to even imagine how many dollars that represented. Why use that kind of talent for weapons?

Right now, I had a heap of opportunities in front of me that, with a head like his, could bring the world, and me in particular, a lot of benefit. I set the newspaper aside, on the special stack marked "requires attention." There was one more item there too, but that would come later.

"Rebecca Stern," I said into the phone.

"I needed this information yesterday. I'm willing to pay extra for urgency."

How wonderful it is when everything goes exactly the way you planned. A truly beautiful feeling. Work went like clockwork. More accurately, like clockwork turbo-oil with nitro boost, because the speed at which everything was developing was unnatural. Less than a month ago, we had ideas and hopes. Now we had a finished product. Finished. Working. Sticky notepads that stuck and unstuck, leaving almost no trace. And again, this was thanks to James and his chemists. They had helped a lot.

Kozlowski was still glowing like polished copper.

"They are excellent specialists!" she said, pacing around the office.

"Everything! Acrylates, polymerization, adhesion, cohesion. They understand the subject perfectly, and I don't have to watch over them!" A team of eight chemists accelerated the work fourfold. And the entire thing took three weeks. The adhesive formula turned out elegant. A low-adhesion acrylate copolymer. It grabbed, but not permanently. Just as Kozlowski predicted, the gecko principle: many weak contact points instead of one strong one. The first prototype peeled off after three uses. The second after ten.

The third after twenty. By the fourth, we got what we needed: a sheet that could be stuck and unstuck many times without losing its properties. And then the chemists outdid themselves completely.

"We can vary the adhesive strength," they reported.

"A strong version for industrial use. A medium one for offices. A weak one for delicate surfaces."

"Colors?"

"Any. Pigments are added during paper production."

"Sizes?"

"From stamp-sized to A4 sheets. The technology scales." I looked at the samples in front of me. Yellow notepads, three by three inches. They stuck to the desk, the wall, glass, metal. Peeled off easily, leaving no marks. Everything worked.

"Patents?"

"Ready," Salazar reported.

"Twenty-three applications. Adhesive formula, application method, notepad construction, sheet-tearing method, packaging. Plus variations: note flags, bookmark pads, large pads, and so on." His nephew, Carlos, continued.

"We've built a patent fence that should hold for at least fifteen years. Even if someone tries to copy the basic idea, they'll run straight into dozens of smaller patents covering each element."

"Trademark?"

"Registered," Jennings said.

"Stick-It and the logo. Protection in seven categories, from stationery goods to industrial chemicals." The lawyers from Hoffman, Reynolds had worked through every comma. Licensing contracts, royalties, exclusive rights, everything was flawless. Just how I liked it. I held the little yellow notepad in my hand and thought: this is it. This is the thing that will change the market.

"We launch," I said. And that was where James Corrigan entered the game. Our Irishman with a salesman's smile and a talent for persuasion turned out to be not merely good, but brilliant. Two weeks before the product was ready, Corrigan started preparing the ground. Methodically, professionally, without rushing. He visited acquaintances. People he had kept in contact with: colleagues, clients, partners. Complained about life, bought beer, told jokes.

And casually asked, by the way, do you know anyone in the paper industry? Heard those people are doing well… They introduced him to small manufacturers, representatives of mid-sized mills, and one major player. Corrigan met with them, drank coffee, discussed various things, including the market. And casually mentioned:"You know, I heard about an interesting thing. New technology. Rumor is, it's going to blow up the stationery market soon. But it's still a secret…" Naturally, they started digging. What technology?

Where did the information come from? Could they learn more?

"I can't talk about it yet," Corrigan would answer with regret.

"Signed a nondisclosure agreement. But you'll know soon enough." He created hunger and hype before he even had the product in hand. By the time the product was ready, rumors and guesses were already circulating among paper manufacturers. What could it be? A new type of coating? Revolutionary printing technology? A couple of times, they even tried to steal information from us. Sent people posing as job applicants for laboratory positions. Tried to bribe couriers.

One especially brazen manufacturer even offered Corrigan a bribe for a "consultation." We leaked exactly what we wanted to leak: hints, half-truths. Details that intrigued but explained nothing.

"Something related to adhesion."

"Reusable technology."

"A revolution in office work." Their thirst only grew. And when he finally arrived with finished samples…

"They almost tore my arms off, boss," he said, shining.

"Literally. Every representative was very happy that he was the one getting the opportunity." Corrigan wasn't stupid. He knew what he had in his hands.

"I made it look like I had pulled this product out specially for them. Like I already had three other interested factories, but I came to them first because we were old acquaintances." Seeing that kind of response, he decided to raise the stakes on the spot.

"We managed to raise the license price to seventy-five. Royalties too. It was five percent, now it's seven. They didn't even blink, boss. Signed the same day." We settled on three manufacturers. Different geographic coverage, so they wouldn't compete directly. Northeastern Paper, Massachusetts. A mid-sized factory serving New England. Seventy-five thousand upfront, seven percent royalties, exclusive rights across six states. Midwest Stationery, Illinois. Larger, working with wholesalers across the Midwest.

There we managed to push it to a hundred thousand upfront and eight percent royalties. They negotiated harder, but agreed in the end. Pacific Office Supplies, California. The largest of the three, distribution across the entire West Coast. Only ninety thousand upfront, but the royalties went up to nine, plus a mandatory advertising commitment. Two hundred sixty thousand dollars upfront. And that was before the first notepad reached a store shelf. But that was only the beginning.

Afterward we all invested in advertising, and by "we" I mean us plus the manufacturers, each on our own side. Newspapers. Full-page ads in the Times, the Tribune, local papers.

"A revolution in office work! Stick-It: the most convenient way to remember everything!" Retail stores. Corrigan personally visited the largest stationery chains. Showed the product, explained the advantages, negotiated prominent placement. Free samples. We decided to give away thousands of notepads. To secretaries in major corporations, accountants, lawyers, university professors, and students. People drowning in paperwork who would appreciate our solution. And all of it worked.

Two weeks after sales launched, I received Chen's report.

"The first batch sold out in four days," she said in an even voice, but I could see the shine in her eyes behind her glasses.

"The second batch in three. Orders are growing exponentially."

"Numbers?" She pushed a table toward me.

"Northeastern sold forty thousand packs in the first month. Royalties: fourteen thousand dollars. Midwest: sixty thousand packs, twenty-one thousand in royalties. Pacific: eighty thousand packs, thirty-two thousand." I counted quickly in my head.

"Sixty-seven thousand in a month. From royalties alone." I leaned back in my chair and just… exhaled. I had to admit, even I hadn't expected that kind of success. Of course, I knew that in my world Post-it had turned into a corporate giant. But knowing that theoretically was one thing. Seeing your own venture take off was something else entirely. And this was just the beginning. Give it ten years, and it would bring in millions. Even if we did nothing else at all. Just sit and clip royalty coupons.

The passive income of every capitalist's dreams.

"Plus two hundred sixty thousand upfront," Chen continued evenly.

"Total: three hundred twenty-seven thousand for the first month." Three hundred twenty-seven thousand…

"And this is only the beginning," Chen continued.

"The manufacturers are increasing volume. Demand exceeds supply. In addition, other factories have started contacting us to request licenses."

"How many?"

"Seven requests. From different regions." Corrigan grinned.

"Now we can raise prices, boss. Exclusives cost more, competition for territory is higher. I'd say a hundred fifty thousand minimum for a new license. And ten percent royalties." Jennings nodded.

"Legally, everything is clean. The first three contracts give us the right to set prices for subsequent licenses at our discretion." He allowed himself a satisfied smirk.

"As for the current contracts… one particularly energetic gentleman tried to challenge the terms. Wanted to sue, claiming monopolistic practices and anticompetitive conditions." He paused, savoring the moment.

"But when he saw Hoffman, Reynolds & Partners listed among the defendants, he backed down. Quickly. Withdrew the claim the same day and sent a letter of apology." Salazar added:"The patent fence is holding too. There have already been two attempts to challenge it, both easily dismissed." I looked at all of them, and my nose unconsciously started rising toward the ceiling.

Under limited conditions, with almost no resources, with a team of outcasts and rejects, I had managed to create a company that turned an idea into a product, and a product into money. It's fair to say that in their heads I had finally cemented myself as the boss worth following. Not just an employer who paid salaries, but a leader. People always try to find an explanation for success. And they found one. For them, I became a business genius with my own system for selecting innovations.

A man who could see farther than they could, and therefore could lead them. Of course, if they knew the truth, they might simply have called me a thief. But they didn't know.

"Reflectors," I said.

"It's time to launch SafeGlow."