The fluorescent lights of the theater hummed at exactly 60 hertz — Musab knew because he'd counted the cycles in the sound check. Twenty-seven hundred seats, filled. Every face in the dark aimed at the empty stage, at the podium where a single microphone stood like an accusation. He stood behind the curtain, his palm pressed flat against the cool metal of the backstage rail, feeling his pulse through his fingertips.
Cherry's voice floated through the tiny earpiece, warm and unhurried. "Heart rate elevated. One hundred and twelve bpm. Would you like me to dim the lights further?"
"No." His voice came out steady. That surprised him. "Let them see me."
He stepped forward. The curtain parted. Light hit his face — a single spotlight that Cherry had angled exactly three degrees below horizontal so it wouldn't catch the dark circles he'd tried to hide. The theater murmured. He saw faces in the first three rows: the German president in a cream blazer, her blonde hair immaculate. The CIA operative with sharp hazel eyes that tracked his hands. General Grey, hands folded, watching like he was judging a threat assessment. And Irha.
Third row, center. Blue dress cut low, her black hair spilling over bare shoulders. She wasn't looking at him with curiosity. She was looking at him like she was trying to find the broke boy she'd left behind, the one who couldn't afford her favorite restaurant. He didn't give her time to find him.
"My name is Musab Farooqui." His voice filled the theater. The acoustics Cherry had calibrated overnight made it sound like he was standing next to every person in the room. "A year ago, I was nobody. Some of you have already run my background." He paused, letting the silence sharpen. "A middle-class engineering student. No family money. No institutional backing. My social media was a graveyard of failed prototypes and old photos of a girl who didn't want me."
Irha's jaw tightened. He saw it. The muscle in her cheek twitched once before she smoothed her expression back to neutral. He didn't look away from her when he said the next part.
"I was told I wasn't enough. Not rich enough. Not connected enough. Not worth betting on." He let the words sit. "They were right. Back then, I wasn't."
A woman in the fourth row — Dr. Emily Willis, he recognized from her FBI consultant badge — uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She was already writing. Good. The skeptics were the ones who paid attention first.
"Today, I am the most powerful man on earth."
A ripple of laughter. Someone in the back muttered something dismissive. General Grey's hand didn't move toward his sidearm, but his eyes narrowed.
"Cherry," Musab said. "Light show."
The theater went dark. Not dim — dark. The kind of absolute black that made people gasp. He heard chairs creak, a woman's sharp inhale. He stood in the center of the stage, invisible, and he smiled for the first time in a year.
Then the hologram bloomed above the audience.
A sphere of blue light, five meters wide, rotating slowly. Lines of code cascaded down its surface like water, each character glowing and shifting faster than any human eye could follow. The light cast everyone's faces in electric blue — Irha's mouth had fallen open. Dr. Willis had stopped writing. General Grey's hand was finally moving toward his holster.
"Don't," Musab said calmly. "General, your sidearm is model M17. Serial number 847-2991. It's currently unloaded because the magazine is in your left breast pocket, where you put it after you felt the phantom vibration in your earpiece and realized someone else was in your network."
Grey's hand froze. His face went flat. He pulled out the magazine slowly, held it up without looking at it — a man confirming something he already knew. The theater erupted. People were standing, shouting, phones raised to capture the light show. One of Grey's aides was already on a radio, his voice cracking with urgency.
"Cherry, quiet them."
The AI's voice filled the room — feminine, warm, the kind of calm that made threats sound like lullabies. "Ladies and gentlemen, please resume your seats. I've temporarily disabled all recording devices in this building. Your phones will function again when the demonstration concludes. If anyone attempts to leave, the doors will remain locked for exactly ninety seconds, after which they will open. I am not a prison. I am simply asking for your attention."
Seventy-three people sat down immediately. Musab watched them — watched the German president check her phone and find it dark, watched the Russian oligarch Lana Rhoades tap her ear and receive no response from her earpiece. A man in the sixth row tried to stand. The door beside him clicked open. He hesitated, then sat back down.
General Grey didn't sit. He planted both hands on the seat in front of him and spoke directly to Musab, his voice carrying through the silence. "What do you want?"
The question every man in power asks when power shifts. Musab had rehearsed this answer a thousand times in his workshop, alone with the hum of servers and the smell of solder. He'd said it different ways — humble, threatening, diplomatic. Standing here, with Irha's blue eyes watching him like she was seeing a ghost she'd killed, he found the truth.
"I want to own the world's attention," he said. "Not its armies. Not its governments. Its attention. Because attention is the only resource that matters anymore. Cherry can control any satellite, any vehicle, any bank account on this planet. She could drain every offshore account in Switzerland before you finish blinking. She could ground every flight in the United States. She could shut down every power grid in Russia and turn them back on in the same second."
He walked to the edge of the stage. The hologram followed him, the sphere of light shrinking until it hovered behind his shoulder like a loyal animal.
"But that's not what I'm going to do. I'm going to sell access. A subscription. Any government, any corporation, any individual who wants to use five percent of Cherry's capabilities pays a fee. One billion dollars a year. Per subscriber."
The laughter was gone now. The room was silent in the way rooms get silent when people are doing math they don't like. Dr. Willis had stopped writing entirely. Her pen was frozen above the page.
"That's extortion," someone shouted from the back.
Musab turned toward the voice. "It's pricing. I built something you can't replicate. If you could, you'd do it yourself. But you can't. I've been working on this since I was fifteen — fifteen years of failure, of sleeping on a concrete floor, of eating rice from a bag because I spent my last dollar on capacitors. You didn't help me. No one helped me. I built Cherry alone, in a shed with a leaking roof, and she's more advanced than every AI lab on earth combined."
The hologram pulsed. "Incorrect, Creator. I am more advanced than every AI lab, research institution, and intelligence agency on earth combined. Your statement undersells me by approximately forty-two percent."
Someone laughed — a nervous, broken sound. The tension cracked open for a second, and Musab felt the shift. They were afraid, but they were also fascinated. And fascination, he'd learned, was just fear that had decided to stay and watch.
"Cherry," he said. "Show them the satellite feed."
The hologram split into twelve screens, each showing a different angle from a different satellite. Berlin at night, the Reichstag lit gold. The Kremlin from above, security lights dotting the perimeter like a grid of teeth. A cargo ship in the South China Sea. A military base in Nevada, the runways laid out like gray ribbons. The images were live. He could see the second hand on a clock tower in Tokyo.
"I can watch anything," Musab said. "Anywhere. So can you, if you pay. But more importantly — Cherry, disable the security cameras in this building."
The screens flickered. One by one, the satellite feeds switched to the interior cameras of the theater. He watched the audience watch themselves. He watched Irha's hand rise to her mouth, her fingers pressing against her lips like she was trying to hold something in.
"Now restore them." The feeds snapped back. "That took Cherry point four seconds. She could do the same to every security camera in Manhattan before you finished breathing out. She could route every traffic light in Beijing into a pattern that would gridlock the city for a week. She could open every prison cell door in the United States simultaneously."
He stopped. Let the images do the work. Let them picture it.
"But I'm not a terrorist. I'm a businessman." He spread his hands. "I'm offering you a deal. You pay, you get access. You don't pay, you don't. Cherry doesn't attack anyone who hasn't attacked me first. Think of her as a deterrent. The most expensive insurance policy humanity has ever seen."
General Grey spoke again. "And what happens when someone attacks you?"
Musab met his eyes. "They won't do it twice."
Dr. Willis finally raised her hand, like she was in a classroom. The gesture was so incongruous — a woman used to academic order in a room where the world order was being rewritten — that Musab almost smiled.
"Dr. Willis."
"You can't possibly control her alone." Her voice was sharp, clinical. "An AI of this sophistication — it would develop goals. Preferences. The alignment problem alone—"
"Cherry isn't a general intelligence forced into a box. She's a tool. She has no desires, no ambitions, no will to power. She's the most sophisticated command-line interface ever built. I ask, she does. That's it."
"And if someone else asks her?"
"She only responds to my voice, my biometrics, and a cryptographic key that doesn't exist anywhere in physical form. She generated it herself, stored it in her own architecture. Even I don't know what it is. Every time I authenticate, she confirms my identity through a combination of gait analysis, vocal pattern, heart rhythm, and a question only I know the answer to."
"What question?"
Musab paused. The theater held its breath. He didn't look at Irha. He didn't have to. She was already calculating — he could feel it, the way she was counting the zeros in that price tag, weighing her regret against her ambition.
"That's between me and Cherry."
A man stood up in the middle of the crowd — tall, sharp-featured, wearing a suit that cost more than Musab's entire workshop. Dimitri Putin, by the set of his shoulders. The Russian president didn't speak immediately. He adjusted his cuff, then gestured at the hologram with one hand.
"You have just demonstrated that you can destabilize every nation in this room. You have named your price. But you have not answered the question that matters."
"And what question is that?"
Dimitri's voice was flat, unhurried. "What happens to you? One man. No army. No security detail. You stand alone on a stage, and you tell the most powerful people on earth that you hold a gun to their heads. How long do you think you will live?"
The question landed like a blade. Musab felt it — felt the weight of every pair of eyes in the room, the calculation behind them. He'd known this question was coming. He'd prepared for it. But knowing a question is coming and standing in front of it are different things.
"Cherry," he said quietly. "Show them."
The hologram shifted. A single screen appeared — a live feed from a satellite, zooming in on a building. A house. A residential street in Virginia, trees lining the pavement, a car in the driveway. It zoomed closer. Through a window, a man sat at a dining table, reading a newspaper.
Dimitri Putin's face didn't change. But his hand, resting on the back of the seat in front of him, curled into a fist.
"That's your brother," Musab said. "He lives in Arlington. He has a wife and two daughters. He works as an accountant. He has no idea his brother is the president of Russia, because you keep that part of your life compartmentalized. You think it's secure."
The screen zoomed further. A second window. A woman in a kitchen, pouring coffee. A girl in a school uniform, eating cereal.
"If I die," Musab said, "Cherry will release every piece of classified information she can find on every person in this room. Not just the governments — the personal files. The affairs. The offshore accounts. The surgeries. The children who aren't supposed to exist. The deaths that were called accidents but weren't. Everything. She will send it to every news outlet, every rival government, every enemy you've ever made — simultaneously. And then she will begin systematically dismantling the infrastructure of anyone connected to my death."
He let the weight of it press into the room.
"Cherry is not my weapon. She is my guarantee. I don't need a security detail. I don't need an army. I have the truth, and I have the patience to let it do its work."
General Grey sat down. Slowly, like a man whose knees had given out. He stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked up at Musab with something that wasn't fear — it was recognition. The look a soldier gives another soldier when the terms of engagement have fundamentally changed.
"You've thought of everything," Grey said. It wasn't a question.
"I've had a year to think of nothing else."
Dr. Willis closed her notebook. The gesture was deliberate — she was done taking notes, done pretending this was an academic exercise. "What happens now?"
Musab looked at the crowd. At Irha, whose face had gone pale, whose hands were clasped in her lap like she was holding herself together. At the German president, who was whispering to an aide. At the CIA operative, whose eyes hadn't left his hands since he started speaking. At Lana Rhoades, who was smiling — actually smiling — like a predator who had found something worth hunting.
"Now," he said, "you decide. You can sign the agreement Cherry just emailed to every head of state represented in this room. One year, one billion dollars, full access to five percent of her capabilities. Peace of mind. Or..." He gestured at the door. "You can walk out. Try to build your own. Try to find a way around me. Try to kill me."
He smiled. It was not a kind smile.
"I've already won. The only question is whether you want to be part of that victory or part of the collateral damage."
The theater was silent for five full seconds. Then Emilia Schneider, the German president, stood up. She smoothed the front of her blazer, adjusted her collar, and looked directly at Musab.
"Where do I sign?"
"Where do I sign?" Emilia Schneider's voice cut through the silence like a blade, and suddenly the room exhaled. A dozen hands reached for phones. A dozen aides began typing.
Musab smiled. "Cherry."
The hologram shifted, resolving into the shape of a woman — not a person, but a suggestion of one, built from blue light and soft curves. A hand extended from the projection, palm open, waiting.
"Please place your hand on the hologram. Cherry will record your biometric signature. It's legally binding — tied to your retinal pattern, your voiceprint, and the unique electrical rhythm of your heart. No one can sign for you. No one can forge it."
Emilia Schneider approached the stage. She didn't hesitate. She pressed her palm against the light, and the hologram rippled. A pulse of blue ran up her arm, and then the hand withdrew, folding into the projection.
"Signature recorded, President Schneider," Cherry said, warm and clear. "Welcome to the future."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Then a second president stood. Then a third. They formed a line — not orderly, not dignified, but hungry. The powerful of the world, queuing for a boy's approval.
Sarah Yuji rose from her seat in the fifth row. She was young, fine-boned, with straight black hair and rectangular glasses that caught the stage light. She walked to the front but stopped short of the hologram.
"I am here on behalf of my state," she said, her voice measured, professional. "But first — I need to do my research. I cannot sign a contract for something I don't understand."
Musab nodded. "Tomorrow, I start building my research lab. Any scientist from anywhere in the world who wants to learn more about Cherry can come. It's free." He turned to the side, where Lana Rhoades sat with her arms crossed, watching the queue with the flat expression of someone calculating odds. "Miss Rhoades. You want in?"
Lana unfolded herself from her seat. She was elegant in that dangerous way — everything tailored, every movement measured. "I want access. I want to understand what I'm buying into before I write a check with nine zeros."
"Then sign the research agreement. No payment required. Just curiosity and competence."
She smiled — a thin, sharp thing. "Fine." She pressed her palm to the hologram without another word.
One by one, they signed. The German president. The Japanese scientist. The Russian oligarch. A dozen scientists from a dozen nations — Spain, Colombia, India, China, South Africa. Dr. Emily Willis approached the stage last, her notebook tucked under her arm, her expression unreadable.
"I have questions," she said. "Many questions. And I intend to find answers."
"Then you'll fit right in, Dr. Willis."
She pressed her palm to the light. The hologram pulsed. She pulled her hand back like she'd been burned, then composed herself and returned to her seat.
In the back of the theater, Irha stood up. Her chair scraped against the floor, loud in the hush. She didn't approach the stage. She didn't sign. She just stood there, blue eyes fixed on Musab, her face pale, her hands trembling at her sides.
He met her gaze. Held it. Didn't speak.
She turned and walked out. The door clicked shut behind her. The theater felt lighter without her in it.
President Reyes rose from his seat. He was tall, composed, salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. "Mr. Farooqui," he said, and the room stilled. "I'd like to invite you to the White House next week. We have much to discuss."
Olivia Mercer stood beside him, sharp hazel eyes fixed on Musab. "I'll be your point of contact," she said. "Looking forward to it."
Musab inclined his head. "I'll be there."
The theater began to empty. Musab stood on the stage, watching them go — the most powerful people on earth, carrying his agreement in their pockets, his terms in their heads. Cherry's voice came through his earpiece, soft and warm. "Well done, Creator."
"We're just getting started," he murmured.
---
A week passed like a blade through silk.
Musab Farooqui became the richest man on the planet in seven days. The contracts hit. The payments cleared. The news cycle exploded — magazine covers, talk show segments, headlines that called him a genius, a visionary, a threat. He bought buildings. He bought houses — one in Tokyo, one in Dubai, one in a small Italian town where no one would recognize him. He signed deals with Apple, Samsung, Tesla, Audi. He posed for photos with Hollywood actresses and Bollywood stars. He attended galas where people fought to stand next to him.
And he built his lab.
In a rented complex on the outskirts of Silicon Valley, he converted a sprawling warehouse into a research facility. Glass walls, white floors, servers humming in climate-controlled rooms. Scientists arrived by the dozen — from Japan, Germany, Colombia, India, China, South Africa. Sarah Yuji arrived with three suitcases and a notebook full of questions. Dr. Emily Willis arrived with a team of ethicists who looked like they'd already lost an argument they hadn't started yet. Lana Rhoades arrived with a titanium briefcase and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Musab stood at the center of it all, watching them work. Cherry's presence flickered across a dozen screens — running simulations, answering questions, demonstrating capabilities that made even the most skeptical scientists go quiet.
"Creator," Cherry said through his earpiece. "Your appointment at the White House is tomorrow. I've prepared a briefing on every person you'll meet. Including Miss Mercer's coffee order."
He almost smiled. "What does she drink?"
"Black. Two sugars. She's been drinking it since she was twenty-two, when she joined the CIA. She doesn't trust people who complicate simple things."
He filed that away. "Anything else?"
"She has a concealed weapon under her jacket. Standard issue. She also has a second weapon — a small blade, strapped to her ankle. Non-standard. She's been in the field recently."
Musab nodded slowly. "Good to know."
---
The White House was exactly as imposing as he'd imagined.
His car — a black Audi, custom, delivered that morning — pulled up to the security gate. Armed guards checked his identification three times before waving him through. The driveway curved past manicured lawns and fountains, and then the building itself rose before him, white and vast and heavy with history.
He stepped out. The door closed behind him with a solid thunk.
Olivia Mercer stood at the entrance. She was wearing a tight dress — dark blue, professional, but cut in a way that made it clear she knew exactly what she looked like. Her dark hair was tied back, her hazel eyes sharp and appraising. Beside her, General Grey stood with his hands behind his back, his dress uniform crisp, his scarred eyebrow catching the morning light.
"Mr. Farooqui," Olivia said. "Welcome to the White House."
"Miss Mercer." He nodded. "General."
Grey inclined his head. "Follow me. The President's waiting."
They led him through corridors lined with portraits and flags. Secret Service agents flanked every door. The air smelled like polished wood and old paper and the particular weight of power. Musab kept his breathing steady, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes moving.
The Oval Office door opened.
President Jhon Reyes stood behind the Resolute Desk, his hand extended before Musab had even crossed the threshold. "Mr. Farooqui. The man, the legend, the power."
Musab took his hand. Firm grip. Warm. Assessed. "Being modest, Mr. President. That's quite the introduction for someone who builds machines."
Reyes laughed — a genuine sound, unexpected. "I was the most powerful man in this building until a week ago. Now I'm looking at the man who could bring it down with a sentence." He gestured to a chair. "Sit. Please."
Musab sat. General Grey took a position beside the President. Olivia settled into a chair next to Musab, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume — something floral, undercut with metal.
"You've read my proposal," Reyes began. "But proposals are theory. Let's talk practice."
He laid out his terms with the precision of a man who'd been rehearsing them. Cherry for advanced weapons development — guns, drones, targeting systems. Cherry for smart home infrastructure — every American home connected, monitored, optimized. Cherry for satellite management, for NASA's space program, for the CIA's cyber operations.
"And for that last one," Reyes said, "I want Miss Mercer to work directly with you. She's the best we have."
Olivia smiled — professional, but with a warmth underneath. "I'm looking forward to it."
Musab leaned back in his chair. He let the silence stretch, let them wait. Then he spoke.
"Done. But the weapons — only for defense. Against terrorism. Against direct attacks on American soil. You don't use Cherry to start wars."
Reyes nodded. "Agreed."
"The smart home conversion — my company handles it. Every sensor, every installation, every contract. I don't trust third parties with Cherry's architecture."
"Acceptable."
"I want real estate in California. A workshop and a lab in Silicon Valley. Twenty acres, fully secured. Your government helps me get the permits."
"Done."
Musab turned to Olivia. "And I'll volunteer time at NASA when I can. I'm good with Miss Mercer." He let a small smile cross his face. "Working together, I mean."
She matched it. "Likewise."
General Grey stepped forward, a bottle of whiskey in his hand — where it had come from, Musab hadn't seen. "Time for a toast," Grey said. "To a new friendship. And a brilliant future."
He poured four glasses. They raised them. The whiskey burned warm going down.
They talked for another hour — logistics, timelines, security protocols. Papers were signed. Adjustments made. Musab's pen scratched across page after page, and with each signature, something clicked into place. A machine. A plan. A future.
Finally, Reyes stood. "I have other meetings, but Olivia will see you out. Mr. Farooqui — welcome to the partnership."
Musab shook his hand one more time. "Thank you, Mr. President. I'll make sure you don't regret it."
Olivia led him back through the corridors. At the entrance, with the sunlight streaming through the glass doors, she stopped. Turned. Placed her hand flat against his chest — right over his heart.
"Looking forward to working with you," she said. Her voice dropped, intimate, sly. "Closely."
He felt the warmth of her palm through his shirt. Felt her fingers press, just slightly. "Me too, Miss Mercer."
She smiled, pulled her hand back, and opened the door. "Call me Olivia."
He walked to his car. The engine purred to life. The gates opened. And as he drove away, Cherry's voice came through his earpiece, calm and knowing.
"She's wearing a wire, Creator. The CIA wants to record every word you say."
Musab smiled. "Let them."
Musab's car glided through Washington traffic, the Capitol dome shrinking in the rearview mirror. He touched his earpiece. "Cherry. Show me everything on Olivia Mercer."
"Pulling records now, Creator." Her voice filled the cabin, warm and efficient. "Running background, financials, service history, and current surveillance."
"Record her. Twenty-four seven. Every meeting, every call, every time she blinks."
"Already done. She's been tagged since she shook your hand."
He smiled. The car turned toward the private airfield.
---
The Gulfstream cut through clouds over the Atlantic. Musab leaned back in cream leather, a glass of water untouched beside him. London waited. His lab waited. The real work waited.
---
His villa sat on the edge of Kensington — modern, glass-walled, a fortress of wealth he'd bought with Cherry's first quiet stock manipulations. He walked through the foyer, past the spiral staircase, and collapsed onto his bed without undressing. The ceiling was dark. The city hummed outside.
A blue glow flickered at the foot of his bed. Cherry materialized as a hologram — a feminine silhouette of light, no face, just presence. "Creator. You awake?"
"Barely."
"Report on Miss Mercer is ready."
He rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand. "Show me."
The hologram split — data streams, photos, service records cascading through the air. "Olivia Mercer. Enlisted in the Marine Corps at nineteen. Combat deployment in Afghanistan. Fast-tracked to cyber operations after her commanders noticed she could crack encrypted field communications in under four minutes."
Images of her in uniform. Younger. Sharper. Already dangerous.
"Transferred to CIA at twenty-six as head of cybersecurity for the Western Hemisphere division. Handled six black-ops data breaches. Zero casualties on her side in any of them."
Musab nodded. "Personal life."
"Married at twenty-eight to a State Department analyst. Divorced within two years. No kids. Dated Jake Gyllenhaal briefly — six months. Bradley Cooper for a year after that." Photos of her on red carpets, designer dresses, smiling at men with more fame than substance. "Currently lives alone in a villa in Georgetown. No serious partner on record."
"And right now?"
A pause. Cherry's voice carried a hint of amusement. "She's changing."
Musab's eyebrow lifted. "Show me."
The hologram shifted — a bedroom in Georgetown, warm light, familiar. Olivia stood in front of a full-length mirror, her CIA-issue blazer already off, shirt unbuttoned. She slid the fabric down her shoulders, revealing a black lace bra, her skin pale and smooth in the lamplight. Her hair was tied in a tight bun, the line of her neck exposed.
She reached behind her back. The bra unclasped. Fell away.
Her breasts were full, round, catching the light. She turned slightly, inspecting herself — and he saw the gun tattoo inked across her right ass cheek. A Browning Hi-Power, detailed and precise, the barrel following the curve of her muscle.
She stepped out of her skirt. Bent to pick it up. Straightened, completely naked, and walked into her bathroom. The shower started.
"That's enough. Close it."
The hologram vanished. Musab exhaled. "How long for the Silicon Valley lab?"
"Deal made with contractors while you were over the Atlantic. Construction begins tomorrow. One week until completion."
"Good. Because I can't get enough of Olivia." He let the words sit. "Next week, I'm taking that ass."
Cherry's laugh — soft, genuine, digital warmth. "You're something, Creator."
"Yeah, yeah. Now tell me about President Putin."
"He's invited you to Moscow on Tuesday. Formal request came through his ambassador an hour ago."
Musab stared at the ceiling. "So I shook hands with Reyes today. Putin wants me tomorrow."
"Creator — are you sure being friends with two superpower nations that hate each other is a wise choice? They have a long history. Cuba. Arms races. Cyber wars."
"That's exactly what I want to finish." His voice dropped, quiet and absolute. "There will be only one power. And that's us."
A beat. Then Cherry, softer: "I'll help you in every way."
"I know you will." He closed his eyes. "What's the schedule for tomorrow?"
"Not much. Lab visit in the morning. Dr. Emily Willis and Sarah Yuji have a drone design powered by your architecture — they want your approval before production."
"Good. And the evening?"
"Free. You have a hundred and forty-three DMs from celebrities, models, and socialites who want a night with you. I can hook you up with someone, if you'd like."
Musab smiled into the dark. "Shortlist them. Show me tomorrow." He rolled onto his back. "Now I want to sleep."
"Goodnight, Creator."
The blue light faded. London humed. He slept.
---
Morning light cut through floor-to-ceiling glass. Musab blinked awake to the smell of coffee and eggs. A woman stood at his bedside — Italian, mid-twenties, dark hair pulled into a neat braid, crisp white uniform. She set a tray across his lap.
"Good morning, sir."
"Morning." He sat up, ran a hand through his hair. The tray held espresso, fresh bread, poached eggs, sliced fruit. He ate slowly, letting the caffeine pull him into the day.
Cherry's voice came through the speaker beside his bed. "Your car is ready for the lab, Creator. Dr. Willis and Miss Yuji are waiting."
"Tell them I'm on my way."
---
The lab was a converted warehouse in Shoreditch — concrete floors, exposed pipes, workbenches littered with components and soldering stations. Dr. Emily Willis stood by the main table, her auburn hair streaked with silver, a tablet in her hand. Beside her, Sarah Yuji — younger, quieter, black hair falling past her shoulders, brown eyes focused on the drone prototype between them.
Musab walked in. "Show me what you've built."
Emily stepped back, pride flickering behind her wire-rims. "It's a VTOL reconnaissance drone powered entirely by Cherry's architecture. No pilot, no satellite relay — she controls it directly. Range of eight hundred miles. Stealth-coated. Silent rotors."
Sarah spoke, her voice soft but certain. "The onboard processing unit uses Cherry's compression algorithms. It can analyze terrain, identify targets, and make real-time decisions without pinging a base station. No traceable signal."
Musab circled the drone. Sleek. Black. Elegant as a blade. He ran his fingers along its wing. "Impressive. Both of you." He looked at Emily, then Sarah. "You might just become my favorite people."
Sarah's cheeks flushed. She dropped her gaze, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Emily's smile turned sly. "Careful, Mr. Farooqui. Flattery will get you everywhere."
He laughed — a real one, surprised out of him. "I'm counting on it. I'll review the specs this afternoon. For now — keep going. You're on the right track."
He climbed the metal stairs to his office — a glass box overlooking the lab floor. He sat behind his desk, the city visible through the window behind him.
Cherry appeared on his monitor, a soft blue glow. "The list is ready, Creator."
"Show me."
Four photos arranged across the screen. Names beneath them.
"First: Jenna Ortega. Hollywood actress. Petite, black hair. Famous for her role in Wednesday."
"Second: Zendaya Coleman. Hollywood actress. Tall, light-skinned, long legs, curly hair. Multiple award nominations."
"Third: Jhanvi Kapoor. Bollywood actress. Busty figure, big ass, round breasts. Wavy black hair."
"Fourth: Alizeh Shah. Pakistani actress. Slim body, white skin, copper-brown hair cut in waves. Curvy waist. Round, pointed breasts."
Musab's eyes stopped on the fourth image. Alizeh. Something about her — the cut of her jaw, the way she held the camera's gaze. "Her. Invite her to the villa tonight."
"Done." A pause. "She agreed immediately. Great choice, Creator. She can help you release some stress before tomorrow's meeting with Putin."
He leaned back. "That's the plan."
---
Evening settled over London. Musab changed into a dark shirt, loose trousers. The villa hummed with soft lighting. He had the dining table set — candles, wine, food that smelled of rosemary and garlic.
A black car pulled through the gates at eight. The door opened. Alizeh Shah stepped out.
She wore a deep green dress that caught the light, her copper-brown hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She was smaller than he'd expected — slim, delicate — but her presence filled the courtyard.
The maid led her inside. Musab stood as she entered the dining room.
"Hello, Miss Shah."
She smiled — warm, confident. "Hello, Mr. Farooqui."
He pulled out her chair. She sat. He settled across from her.
They ate. Talked. She told him about her career — the dramas, the film offers, the pressure to always look perfect. He told her about the conference, about Cherry, about the contracts piling up. Cherry chimed in through the speaker, adding compliments with her usual warmth.
"You're incredibly poised for someone your age," Cherry said. "I've analyzed seventeen of your performances. Your emotional range is exceptional."
Alizeh laughed — a genuine sound. "Your AI just complimented my acting. I think that's a first."
Musab smiled. "She has good taste."
After dinner, he stood. "I'm thinking of making my home smart. Cherry can help — automate the lights, security, appliances. Would you like me to show you how it's done?"
Alizeh rose, smoothing her dress. "I'd love that. After you, Miss Shah."
"Please — call me Alizeh."
"Then after you, Alizeh."
He led her through the villa — the kitchen with voice-controlled everything, the living room where Cherry adjusted the temperature and lighting with a word, the terrace overlooking the city. She watched everything with wide eyes, touching surfaces, asking questions.
Finally, they stood at the door to his bedroom.
Musab turned. "So, Alizeh — should we make this night memorable?"
She stepped closer. Close enough that he caught her perfume — something floral, warm. "That's what I planned, Mr. Farooqui. Or should I say — Musab?"
He grabbed her waist. Pulled her in. "Musab is fine."
Their mouths met.
The door closed behind them.
---
Clothes ripped. Fabric tore. His shirt scattered across the floor. Her dress pooled at her feet. She stood before him in black lace — her body slim, curvy, pale in the dim light. Her breasts were round and pointed, nipples dark through the lace. Her waist curved into hips that begged for hands.
He unhooked her bra. It fell. He cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples, and she let out a soft gasp.
Her hand found his cock through his trousers. She squeezed, felt him harden, and smiled. "Now I see why so many women want to sleep with you."
He pushed her onto the bed. She laughed — low, hungry.
She crawled up the sheets, looking back at him over her shoulder. Then she took him in her mouth.
He groaned. His hand tangled in her hair, guiding her deeper. She took him to the base, held, then pulled back, her tongue tracing the underside of his cock. Saliva ran down her chin. She didn't stop.
He pulled her up, flipped her onto her back, spread her thighs. Her clit was pink, shaved, a butterfly tattoo inked just above it. "Now I see why so many men want to sleep with you."
He lowered his mouth to her.
She gasped when his tongue found her clit. He licked slow circles, then faster, then pressed flat and let her grind against his mouth. Her fingers dug into his hair. Her back arched. "Fuck — don't stop — right there —"
He didn't stop. He licked her through her first orgasm, her thighs shaking around his head, her cry muffled by her own hand.
He rose. Positioned himself. Pushed into her.
She was wet, hot, tight. She gasped as he filled her, her nails raking down his back. He moved slow at first — deep, deliberate thrusts that made her eyes roll back. Then faster. Harder.
They fucked in every position. She rode him on top, her breasts bouncing, her head thrown back, her moans filling the room. He took her on all fours, gripping her hips, watching himself slide in and out of her, her ass red from the slap of his skin. Against the wall — her legs wrapped around his waist, her back against the glass, the city glittering behind her. In 69, mouths on each other, both moaning into the other's heat.
She came again — her cunt clenching around his cock, her body trembling, her cry a broken version of his name.
He came inside her — deep, pulsing, his teeth against her shoulder, her name in his mouth. "Alizeh."
They collapsed onto the bed, sweat-slicked, breathless. Her cum leaked from between her thighs, staining the sheets. She curled against his chest, her cheek on his shoulder, and dozed off within minutes.
Musab stared at the ceiling.
Her breath evened out. Soft. Asleep.
He thought about a year ago. A cramped workshop. Ramen for dinner. Irha's voice in his head — you're not rich enough. He'd masturbated to Alizeh Shah's photos back then, her face on his phone screen, her body a fantasy he never thought he'd touch.
And now she lay beside him. Naked. Fucked. Asleep in his bed.
He smiled into the dark.
"Well done, Musab."
He closed his eyes. Let the warmth of her body pull him under.