Abandoned King Gives No Mercy: Hell Will Burn

The Beginning of the Rebuild

Chapter Three; The Beginning of the Rebuild

The next morning, I woke up with a headache that felt like someone had split my skull open. My tongue was dry, my stomach churned, and the faint smell of whiskey still clung to my shirt. I didn’t even remember how I got home.

But I remembered Derrick’s words. Build something that’ll make them regret it.

For a while, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling of my tiny apartment, the kind that smelled like old paint and damp walls. There was no sunlight, just the dull hum of a city that didn’t care. I used to hate mornings like this, but right now, I didn’t mind the silence. It gave me space to think.

I kept replaying last night, the bar, the drink, the deal. It almost felt unreal. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking or if I had actually agreed to help Derrick build a company from scratch. But something about the idea pulled at me. It gave me a reason to get up.

So I did.

By noon, I found myself standing outside an old warehouse that looked like it had been forgotten by time. Paint was peeling off the walls, and the front door squeaked like it hadn’t been opened in years. A single banner hung loosely over the entrance: Statham Technologies.

I smirked. 

“This is your empire, huh?”

 I muttered to myself before stepping in.

Inside was chaos wires everywhere, computer parts stacked on tables, energy drink cans on the floor. Derrick was in the middle of it, hunched over a screen, his tie loose and hair messy.

When he saw me, he grinned. 

“You showed up. I was half expecting you to ghost me.”

“I thought about it,” I said, dropping my bag on the table. “Then I realized I’ve got nothing better to do.”

He laughed.

 “That’s the spirit. Come on, I’ll show you what we’re building.”

He launched into an explanation, AI integration, automation, algorithms, words I’d already known but hadn’t thought about since everything fell apart. The more he talked, the more I felt that old spark wake up inside me. The one that used to push me through sleepless nights and endless lines of code.

We worked that whole day, then the next, and the next after that. I lost count of the time. There were nights we didn’t even sleep, just coffee, energy drinks, and the hum of computers.

Somewhere in those long hours, I started to feel alive again.

But it wasn’t easy. I’d stare at the screen and suddenly see her face, Sally’s in the reflection. Her voice would echo in my head, telling me I wasn’t enough, that I never would be. My hands would freeze, and I’d have to force myself to keep typing.

Derrick noticed one night. “You good?” he asked, his voice breaking through the noise of the computers.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just thinking.”

He didn’t push, and I was grateful for that.

The truth was, I wasn’t okay. I was angry, and broken, and still haunted by the idea that somewhere out there, Sally was fine, maybe even happy while I was here trying to rebuild a life from ashes. But anger can be fuel. I used it.

Weeks turned into months. The system started to take shape as an intelligent platform that could learn user behavior and adapt. Derrick called it “Neura.” I didn’t care about the name. I just cared that it worked.

Every milestone felt like a punch to the past. Every new line of code was me saying, You didn’t destroy me.

One night, around 3 a.m., I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. The warehouse was dark except for the glow from our monitors. My head buzzed from caffeine, and my fingers ached.

Derrick was pacing behind me, running numbers. “We’re close, man. A few more tweaks and we can launch a prototype.”

I nodded, half-smiling.

 “Have you ever thought about how far this could go?”

He grinned. “Far enough to make you untouchable.”

I didn’t say it, but that word, untouchable, stuck with me. That’s what I wanted to be. Not happy, not healed. Just untouchable.

The first investor meeting was a disaster. I hadn’t shaved in days, my suit didn’t fit right, and halfway through my pitch, my hands started shaking. They weren’t impressed.

We left that room humiliated, but Derrick just laughed. 

“We’ll get the next one,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. “You’ve got to stop looking like someone ran over your heart, though.”

I wanted to tell him they had, several times but I just nodded.

The second meeting went better. Then the third. By the fourth, one investor finally said yes. That was all it took. Money started coming in, and so did the pressure.

We moved from the warehouse into an office. Sleek floors, glass walls the kind of place that made people take you seriously. Derrick was in his element, shaking hands and talking big, while I stayed behind the scenes, building. I didn’t want fame. I just wanted results.

I started changing too. My reflection in the glass didn’t look like the man who begged for love anymore. My eyes were sharper, my voice steadier. I still had bad nights, but they didn’t own me the way they used to.

I was learning how to bury the softness, how to make peace with the hardness growing in me.

Sometimes, though, when everyone else was gone, I’d stand by the window, looking out at the city lights. I’d think about Sally, about the way she looked when I last saw her guilty, small, afraid. I’d wonder if she ever thought about me.

Then I’d catch myself and shake it off. “No,” I’d mutter, “you don’t get to live in my head anymore.”

And just like that, I’d go back to work.

Six months later, the first demo launched. It didn’t just work, it took off. News outlets picked it up, tech reviewers praised it, and suddenly, Derrick and I weren’t just two guys in a warehouse anymore. We were something bigger.

When I saw the first article headline, Statham Technologies Unveils Revolutionary AI System, I felt that familiar mix of pride and bitterness. Derrick’s name was everywhere. Mine was mentioned once at the bottom.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to.

I knew this was just the beginning.

That night, I went home, poured myself a glass of whiskey, and stood on the balcony. The city lights reflected off the glass, bright and distant. For the first time, I didn’t feel small.

I raised the glass toward the skyline.

“To the man they thought would never rise again,” I whispered.

Then I drank.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, it didn’t burn.