MICHAEL SULLIVAN: NEW DYNASTY

— 6 —

The newspaper distribution center reeked of ink and stale cigarettes. Under the faint fluorescent lights, Michael sorted his bundles as fast as he could.

“Sullivan!” barked his supervisor. “You missed the Westridge apartments yesterday. Three complaints.”

“Sorry, Tom. Won’t happen again,” Michael muttered with a sigh.

“It better not. One more screwup and someone else gets your job.”

Michael gave a tight nod, biting back the response lodged in his throat. The job barely paid his rent but it was all he had left.

Two hours later, he'd finished his deliveries so he ducked into the coffee shop. It wasn't his shift yet but he just needed a place to hide for a while. The bell above the door jingled, and the familiar scent of roasted beans hit him like a balm.

“The usual?” Mara called from behind the counter. Her graying ponytail and friendly eyes hadn’t changed since he last saw her. She'd been on leave for a few months. Seeing her again made Michael's heart warm.

“Please,” he said. “Make it a double.”

“Rough morning?” she asked as the espresso machine hissed to life.

“Rough everything.”

On the wall-mounted television, a local business anchor filled the screen. Michael’s gaze drifted toward it as he waited for his coffee.

“Medici Industries made headlines today as Phillip Medici announced the acquisition of three project startups under his newly acquired Sterling Tech division. The aggressive expansion comes just days after Frank Medici reportedly handed control of the subsidiary to his eldest son…”

Michael’s jaw clenched. Ofcourse Phillip was already making moves. He probably had deals in place the night the contest was announced.

“Here you go, sweetheart.” Mara slid the coffee across. “On the house. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks, Mara, but I—”

“Don’t argue with me,” she said, smiling. “Besides, you help me with the Wi-Fi all the time. Consider us even.”

He offered a grateful smile and retreated to his usual corner table. As he sipped the coffee, he pulled out his phone and began scrolling job listings. His freelance skills were solid, but without a degree, most doors stayed firmly closed.

The bell jingled again.

He looked up....and froze.

Hillary Park.

Perfect coat, flawless hair. Magazine-cover beautiful. She hadn’t noticed him yet. Maybe he could escape without her seeing him.

“Michael?”

Too late.

She crossed the café, coffee in hand. Was that pity in her expression?

“Hi, Hillary.” He fought to keep his voice neutral.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” She hovered, unsure.

“I work here. Have for years.”

“Oh. Right.” She bit her lip. “Mind if I sit? Just for a minute.”

He should have said no. But he gestured to the empty chair. “Free country.”

She sat, setting her cup down carefully. “About the other night—”

“Don’t,” he cut in. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I just wanted to say I didn’t know you’d be there. Phillip only told me when we were on the way.”

Michael shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

The silence between them grew heavy. Several months ago, they’d been everything. He’d even started saving for an engagement ring. Then Phillip Medici happened.

“How have you been?” she asked.

“Living the dream,” he said with a bitter smile. “You?”

“Good. Busy with work and…” She twisted the diamond on her finger. “Other things.”

“Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”

“July 21st.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Listen, about the box your father gave you—”

“He’s not my father.” The words came out sharper than he intended. “And whatever game he’s playing, I’m not interested.”

She leaned forward. “It might not be a game. Phillip’s taking this seriously. They all are.”

“Well, they got companies. I got a broken...you know what, just forget it.”

“A broken what?” Her curiosity seemed genuine.

But Michael just shook his head and didn't answer. Hilary bit her lip as she continued, “Phillip’s trying to figure out what you got. He’s... concerned.”

“Worried I might actually have something valuable?” Michael laughed dryly. “Tell him not to lose sleep. The whole thing’s rigged.”

Her phone buzzed. She stood quickly. “I have to go. But Michael...” She hesitated. “Be careful. The Medicis don’t give anything without a reason.”

She patted his arm and rose to leave. Michael cursed himself but couldn't help how fixated he was on the sway of her hips as she walked out.

Then his phone vibrated. It was a text from an unknown number. It read:

‘The bastard should know his place. Stay out of the contest or regret it.’

Michael stared at the message, and his blood boiled. The contest had barely begun and they were already drawing blood.

When he returned to his building, his landlady was waiting.

“Rent’s going up,” she said flatly. “Two hundred more, starting next month.”

“What? You can’t—”

“Our agreement was month to month,” she interrupted. “New owners. They want market rate.”

“I can barely pay as it is.”

Her tone softened. “I know, Michael. I’m sorry. But I have no choice. Raise rent, or they evict.”

He trudged upstairs, each step heavier than the last. Inside, past-due bills littered his desk, and his bank balance was scraping zero. Now rent was increasing by about two hundred dollars.

His eyes drifted to the closet. Maybe Alexis was right.

He opened the door and dragged the box into the center of the room. The android lay inside, unmoved. He ran a hand over its frame, searching for anything that might indicate a power switch.

Near the base of its spine, he found a small blue halo.

“How do I turn you on?” he murmured.

His finger brushed across the halo.

Nothing. Of course.

He stood and prepared to shove the box back into the closet. Then he heard a soft whir.

Michael paused.

A low mechanical hum rose from the box.

He turned.

The android’s fingers twitched. Then its chest started moving up and down like it was breathing. Suddenly, its eyes opened and locked on him.

“Identity scan initiated,” it said in a melodic voice. “Subject identified: Michael Sullivan. Son of Michelle Sullivan and Frank Medici. Designated primary user.”

With inhuman grace, it sat upright and tilted its head at him.

“Hello, Mr. Sullivan,” it said. “My name is Ava. I am now yours.”