The door clicked shut behind Jason as he stepped into the living room. He barely glanced around before heading straight for the nearest sofa, letting himself sink between the cushions like he'd just returned from war—which, in a way, he had.
In his hand, he held the black credit card Steven had given him. He turned it slowly, watching how the light caught the glossy surface. His thumb brushed over the embossed numbers like he was trying to confirm it wasn't a hallucination. So much had happened, and somehow that small rectangle of metal felt like the most surreal part.
——— Earlier, in the car ———
Jason's gaze drifted out the passenger window, eyes narrowed as familiar scenes of Kumasi passed them by—the same stores, billboards, taxis parked haphazardly . Nothing had changed. Everything felt the same.
Too much the same.
Then, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
"Does Mummy know what you actually do for work?" he asked. His voice was calm, almost too calm, the kind that made Steven glance up from the road just to be sure.
"No," Steven said simply, both hands still on the wheel. "All she knows is that I work as a personal assistant for someone important."
Jason nodded slowly.
"Okay, next question. Are you even a real person? You weren't cooked up by that bastard god just to babysit me, were you?"
Steven's brow lifted slightly.
"Of course not," he replied. "I, Steven Kwamena Amartey, am 100% real. Flesh, blood, and unfortunately, a bad knee on cold mornings."
Jason cracked a small grin.
"Alright. Last one. How did you meet him—the god?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Steven's face didn't change much, but Jason saw it. That tiny shift—the way the corner of his mouth twitched, the way he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. For most people, it would pass unnoticed. Jason wasn't most people.
Silence.
Jason sighed and leaned his head back.
"If it's too personal, you can just say so. I'm not pressing. Your life, your secret."
Steven let out a slow breath. His shoulders eased just a little.
"Thank you, sir."
Jason's eyes narrowed immediately.
"Steven," he said flatly. "With the power vested in me as CEO, you are hereby banned from calling me 'sir.' I'm fourteen, not forty. I don't want to end up bald and pot-bellied like you."
Steven's eyes narrowed as his grip on the steering wheel tightened again.
"I'll have you know, being bald is a lifestyle choice," he said with calm dignity.
Jason smirked.
"And the pot belly? What, is that part of the package too?"
"Ka to wo bo! Wore sere me sɛ me ho yɛ kɔtɔ, na wo ti ntini no, ɛrenkyɛ na wubɛka me ho!"
Jason burst out laughing. "God forbid! I will never become like you. My hairline still has hope. Yours? Not even transplant can help."
Steven scoffed. "Ɛɛh, abofra ketewa te sɛ wo na wopɛ sɛ woyɛ me saa? Worenni agoru bio sɛ meka akyerɛ wo maame nea esii nnawɔtwe abien a atwam no!"
The laughter died instantly.
"Uncle Steven… aren't we friends?" Jason asked, voice suddenly sweet and innocent. "You don't have to bring that up. I was joking."
Steven didn't respond, but the grin tugging at his lips gave him away. Jason remembered the incident vividly—bringing a stray cat home, only for it to sneak into his mom's room and shred her favorite dress. If not for Steven's quick thinking and last-minute seamstress work, he'd probably still be grounded.
He leaned forward suddenly. "What if I double your salary?"
"Triple," Steven said immediately, eyes still on the road. "And we've got a deal."
Jason laughed again. "Deal."
The rest of the drive passed more lightly, filled with small talk—sports, politics, which jollof reigned supreme (Steven, unfortunately, had traitorous tendencies toward Nigerian jollof), and bits of banter that flowed like old friends rather than a CEO and subordinate.
Eventually, the car slowed as they approached a quiet, upscale neighborhood. The three-story building that came into view wasn't so much a house as it was a compound. A high concrete wall surrounded the property, topped with smooth wire coils, and an electric gate slowly opened ahead of them. Armed security manned the entrance, each giving a firm salute as the car passed.
Jason sat up straighter, watching the guards with interest. Not because he felt unsafe—but because they looked like the kind of people who used to serve under him in battle. That thought alone made his stomach knot a little.
"Nice place," he said casually, eyes on the cameras discreetly placed along the wall. "Company bought this?"
Steven gave a small nod. "Technically you did,Jason. Company funds. It's under your name."
Jason nodded, pocketing the black card as the car rolled into the compound. Soon the car came to a complete stop allow the pair to step out and make their way towards the building.As they approached the double doors, Steven typed a code into a discreet keypad. The lock clicked. The moment they stepped inside, the heat of the outside world vanished. Cool air swept throughout the room. Polished tiles reflected overhead lighting, and the scent of citrus-scented cleaner still lingered in the halls.
It was quite, which was to be expected as it was the weekend.
Jason took a few steps forward examining every inch of the place, the receptionist desk was empty but stacks of paper were filed neatly on the tabletop. Behind the desk, a logo carved into polished metal was embedded into the wall:
ORION SURVEILLANCE.
A World Watched. A Life Protected.
He tilted his head at the name, filing it away.
"This is one of the regional branches," Steven said as he moved ahead, his dress shoes echoing softly against the tile. "The headquarters for the West African sector is in Accra. This one mostly handles administrative logistics, localized intel processing, and client coordination."
Jason followed, still observing. "So what does the company actually do?"
Steven pressed the button for the elevator and turned slightly, one hand tucked into his pocket.
"Primarily? We operate in two spheres—home and institutional security systems, and cyber defense solutions. From biometric locks to counter-surveillance sweeps, if it keeps someone safe, we handle it. Globally."
Jason blinked. That wasn't the kind of thing you heard from your average fourteen-year-old's assistant. Curious, he fished his phone out of his pocket—his worn, chipped Samsung A03—and quickly typed "Orion Surveillance" into the browser.
The search results populated instantly.
[Orion Surveillance finalizes €20B EU-wide defense integration contract]
[Forbes: Top 10 Most Valuable Surveillance Companies in 2024 — Where Does Orion Rank?]
He scrolled down, then further, then further still.
His expression shifted from casual curiosity to something closer to disbelief.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.
Ding.
The elevator chimed softly behind him. He turned and followed Steven in.
The doors slid open to reveal a sleek executive floor—matte wood paneling, minimalist furniture, and full-length windows offering a view of the city skyline. Sunlight poured in, bouncing gently off carefully chosen pieces of art lining the walls. A single large desk sat near the far end, placed before the massive window, facing inward.
Jason didn't say anything as they stepped inside. He walked past the glass display of company awards and industry plaques and found himself stopping in front of the desk.
"Nice office," he said finally, voice quiet.
Steven gave a small smile. "It's yours."
Jason blinked.
"Come again?"
"This floor is reserved for you. Technically, this whole branch answers to you, but I had the office prepared just in case you ever decide to takeover completely."
Jason turned to the window, squinting at the view.
"Damn," he muttered. "So I really own all of this."
Steven didn't answer that one. He didn't need to.
Jason walked around the desk, slowly lowering himself into the chair. It was more comfortable than he expected, the leather molding to his back immediately. He looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or panic.
Steven walked toward the adjacent kitchenette and rolled up his sleeves slightly. "I'll get lunch ready."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "You cook too?"
"I'm a man of many talents," Steven replied dryly as he pushed open the kitchen door. "And unless you want to order overpriced fusion food from a place that can't decide between jollof and sushi, I suggest you let me handle it."
Jason didn't reply at first. He just leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.
This was real. He wasn't floating in space. He wasn't being screamed at by eldritch nightmares. No spells. No swords. Just walls, windows, and the distant aroma of spice mix starting to simmer.
The absurdity of it all finally hit him. And he couldn't help but grin.
Jason's eyes drifted from the ceiling back to the desk in front of him. His fingers tapped lightly against the wood as thoughts raced through his head.
He glanced toward the kitchen door where faint clinks and sizzling could already be heard—Steven didn't waste time.
"Uncle Steven?" he called out, his voice steady but edged with curiosity.
A muffled "Yes?" came back from the kitchen.
Jason leaned back again in the chair, the question already forming on his tongue.
"So I want to ask… if this is just one branch of a larger company… then what about the conglomerate?" He paused. "The god's letter said I own one."
The sizzling in the pan dulled for a moment—Steven must've taken it off the heat. A few seconds later, the man stepped back into the room, wiping his hands on a white hand towel. His face was as unreadable as ever.
He crossed the room and leaned against the wall beside the window, arms folded across his chest.
"Ah. So you read that part."
Jason tilted his head. "Didn't seem like the kind of thing I should ignore."
"No, it isn't." Steven nodded. "But most people wouldn't believe it if they weren't holding the black card themselves."
Jason patted the pocket where the card rested. "I believe it now."
Steven exhaled slowly, his professional air returning in full force. "What you own is not just Orion Surveillance. Orion is just one company under the greater holding group—Umbra Holdings International. The conglomerate is registered under multiple aliases in different jurisdictions. It exists in layers, like an onion. Purposefully hard to trace. Most people only see one or two parts of it—by design."
Jason frowned. "How big are we talking?"
Steven gave a small chuckle. "That depends on how deep you want to go. Technically, Umbra Holdings owns, or holds major shares in, companies across fifteen industries—tech, finance, defense, pharmaceuticals, logistics, even agriculture."
He straightened up, his voice now in briefing mode. "You have operational headquarters in New York, Zurich, Dubai, and Tokyo. You're listed nowhere directly. Most of your stake is held through proxies, shell companies, and silent trusts. Only your system—and myself—know the full map."
Jason stared.
"You're telling me… I own all that?"
"Yes. And before you ask—yes, the other shareholders in some branches include names you've heard before: old families, sovereign wealth funds, discreet royalty." Steven's tone didn't waver. "But you, Jason Adjie Afriyie, are the sole majority shareholder in everything. Eighty percent of the umbrella company's shares. The rest is divided among elites for political balance."
Jason rubbed a hand across his face. "Jesus."
"Not quite," Steven said smoothly, "but he probably works for one of the subsidiaries."
That got a weak laugh out of Jason, who leaned forward again in the chair, mind already racing.
"So how come no one knows who I am?"
"They're not supposed to." Steven walked over to the desk and tapped the small embedded lockpad near the side drawer. It opened with a soft click, revealing a tablet, a leather folder, and a sleek black earpiece. "There are whispers—quiet ones, in the circles where it matters—but nothing concrete. Most think the CEO is a fabricated identity used for control. A ghost figure. And I've made sure it stays that way."
Jason's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because power draws attention. Attention draws danger. You've had enough of that, haven't you?"
Jason didn't answer immediately.
Yeah. He had.
"Besides," Steven added, "if and when you choose to reveal yourself, the world won't be ready. You shouldn't give that kind of leverage to anyone before you're prepared."
Jason nodded slowly. "So what happens next?"
Steven smiled slightly. "That's up to you, Boss."
Jason scoffed. "I told you not to call me that."
"Sorry," Steven said smoothly, "force of habit. Would you prefer 'Supreme Multiversal Executive'?"
Jason threw a pen at him.
The pen bounced harmlessly off Steven's shoulder, but the older man caught it mid-air on the rebound and set it neatly back on the desk.
Jason sighed, sinking back into the chair. His eyes flicked to the gleaming tablet Steven had pulled from the drawer. Then, almost like a delayed spark lighting up a circuit, the memory hit.
The system.
The damn system. He'd been so wrapped up in everything—his mom, the return, the shock of ownership, Steven being real—that he'd forgotten about it entirely.
He blinked.
"System," he muttered under his breath, not quite expecting a response.
[Hello, Jason.]
The familiar deep-blue interface blinked into view at the top corner of his vision. Smooth, clean, perfectly legible. Like someone had taken the best UI from ten different games and merged it into one.
[You currently have one unread system notification.]
Jason groaned. "Of course I do."
He mentally swiped it open.
[Letter from the God - Read or Discard?]
"…Ignore that one," he muttered quickly.
[Understood.]
He glanced up at Steven, who was busy checking something on the tablet. "Did you know I have a system?"
Steven nodded without looking up. "I assumed. Most champions return with one. Either as a gift… or as compensation."
Jason rolled his eyes. "Feels more like a severance package."
[We prefer the term 'Post-Championship Lifecycle Support Interface.']
Jason stared blankly at the hovering screen. "That's not better."
He sighed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "System. Link with the company. You mentioned you serve me as the former champion—does that include helping me manage Umbra Holdings?"
[Yes. Your system is integrated with all digital assets associated with Umbra Holdings International. Real-time data, encrypted communications, identity masking, internal surveillance access, and priority-level decision execution are all within your permissions.]
Jason blinked. "Wait, you're telling me I can manage a global conglomerate… with a thought?"
[Affirmative. With mental or verbal commands, so long as you are authenticated.]
Steven, finally glancing up, raised an eyebrow. "That will be useful. Especially for high-level emergencies where physical presence is impossible. But I'd still advise restraint."
Jason looked at him. "Why?"
"Because power isn't just about what you can do," Steven said, walking toward the kitchen again. "It's about when you shouldn't."
The scent of spices drifted into the office from the open doorway, and Jason's stomach gave an involuntary grumble.
Steven smirked. "Ten minutes. You want jollof or fried rice?"
"Jollof," Jason replied automatically.
"And chicken or—?"
"Chicken," Jason said again, firmer this time. "Uncle Steven, don't act like you didn't already start making that."
A pause.
"…Fair," Steven called back.
Jason leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. The cold air hummed gently through the vents. For the first time since he'd returned, a strange calm settled into his chest.
He was back.
Alive.
In his house.
With family.
And apparently, the owner of a shadowy multinational empire.
"System," he muttered, still staring upward.
[Yes?]
"Show me an overview of Umbra Holdings. Simplified."
A new interface appeared, hovering over the ceiling in holographic detail.
A world map spread out, color-coded. Red for security. Blue for finance. Green for logistics. Yellow for pharmaceuticals. White for defense. Gray for unknown or classified. Orion Surveillance alone took up a noticeable chunk of Africa, Europe, and Southeast Asia.
He watched blinking dots of light move through shipping lines. Stock charts flickered in live motion. A giant tower in New York was marked as "Strategic Operations HQ." A facility in the Swiss Alps was labeled "R&D Black Site 01."
His heart beat faster.
He wasn't just rich.
He was untouchable.
And for the first time in ten years—maybe his whole life—Jason wasn't powerless.
No gods. Just him, and only him.