THE RETURN OF THE HIDDEN HEIR

Chapter 003: The Man behind the Mask

The morning air in New York City buzzed with its usual mix of chaos and rhythm–car horns blaring, vendors shouting, and the faint scent of roasted coffee drifting from the corner cafés.

Derrick Morgan stood outside the hotel, adjusting the strap of his travel bag. The wind tugged lightly at his coat as he hailed a passing taxi.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked, glancing at him through the rearview mirror.

"Blacksite Ops," Derrick replied in a calm but resolute voice.

The driver froze, his eyebrows rising almost comically high. "Blacksite Ops? Wait a sec... the Blacksite Ops you mean?"

Derrick nodded. "Yeah. That's right."

The man gave off a low whistle, muttering the words, "New York psychos."

Then he started the engine, glancing at Derrick through the rearview mirror. "You're kidding, right?"

Derrick's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"Well... you don't exactly look like someone working there," the driver replied. His tone wasn't cruel–just curious, laced with that sort of casual disbelief reserved for city cabbies. He only wanted to know what messed up philosophy Derrick was standing on.

Derrick's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Well, that's because I don't work there."

"Oh?" the driver pressed, glancing back again. "Then what are you doing at Blacksite Ops, huh? They don't just let anyone past the lobby. You there to deliver food or something?"

Derrick looked out the window, his eyes distant as he watched the skyline blur past. "No," he said evenly. "I'm just going there to take a look."

The driver chuckled, glad that he had gotten Derrick's 'philosophy'. "A look, you say? What's there to look at? It's just the biggest tech-defense company in the country–one of the richest, too. And the CEO, Dominic Santiago–now that's a man with power."

"Yes... I know," Derrick replied, his voice softened, almost thoughtful.

Something in his tone made the driver glance up again. "You know him?"

Derrick met the man's eyes in the mirror, his gaze steady. "He works for me."

For a moment, there was silence. Then the driver burst out laughing, totally amazed at the imaginations that New York psychos tended to harbour.

"Oh, that's rich! You mean Dominic Santiago, the tycoon everyone's afraid to even talk to, works for you?"

"Would you drive already?" Derrick asked, leaning back and closing his eyes.

The driver scoffed and shook his head. "We get to see them everyday–blistering psychopaths," he muttered under his breath.

--------

The cab pulled up at the towering skyscraper of Blacksite Ops.

The glass façade glimmered beneath the morning sun, sleek and imposing, and stretching up like a monument of ambition. The company's emblem–a blue phoenix–was carved into the silver doors, gleaming like a subtle warning to those who entered without purpose.

Derrick stepped out, gazing up at the building with quiet satisfaction. It had taken several years of work, planning, and careful delegation, and the empire finally stood just as his teacher intended.

The driver leaned out the window. "Hey, kid! Word of advice–don't you try to bluff your way in there. They'll throw you right out before you can blink."

Derrick gave an absent-minded nod. "Yeah, thanks for your concern."

As the taxi pulled away, he walked up the marble steps and through the glass doors.

The lobby was a definite vision of modern elegance–marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, and walls lined with holographic displays showcasing Blacksite's latest innovations in tech and defense. Everyone moved with purpose, their sharp suits and clipped tones screaming professionalism.

A young receptionist spotted him and straightened immediately. Her smile was courteous, perhaps a little cautious. "Good morning sir. Do you have an appointment?"

Derrick shook his head. "Nah. I'm here to see Dominic Santiago. Tell him Derrick Morgan is waiting."

For a moment, she thought she'd misheard. "I'm sorry–did you say Dominic Santiago?"

"Of course."

The receptionist blinked rapidly, her training struggling to help her maintain a neutral expression. "Um, Mr. Santiago is very busy today. Without an appointment, I'm afraid–"

"He'll see me," Derrick interrupted calmly. "The moment he knows I'm here, he'll come down personally."

The receptionist's polite smile faltered abruptly. Heads turned nearby–visitors, employees, everyone–drawn by the itching audacity in his tone.

Someone whispered, "Did he just say he's here for Mr. Santiago?"

Another scoffed. "Must be one of those crazy fanboys again."

The receptionist gave a strained laugh. "Sir, I really must insist. Um, Mr. Santiago doesn't take walk-ins. If you could just–"

"I'll wait here then," Derrick said simply, stepping aside and folding his arms.

Her patience wavered. "Please! This isn't a public lounge. You can't just–"

Before she could finish, the elevator doors behind her slid open with a chime.

Out stepped a tall woman in a sleek pencil skirt and glasses, her stride sharp, and her presence commanding. The employees in the lobby immediately straightened.

"Good morning, Ms. Vera," someone greeted.

"Morning," she replied curtly, her gaze already assessing the situation.

The receptionist visibly relaxed. "Ms. Vera! This gentleman here insists on seeing Mr. Santiago without an appointment. I was just explaining–"

Vera's eyes flicked over Derrick, cold and efficient. Her tone turned razor-sharp, slicing through the air. "Mr. Santiago is not someone you see because you want to. Today it's you, tomorrow it's her, and the next day it's someone else. What's next–street vendors and urchins asking for a meeting too?"

The receptionist stammered. "I-I'm sorry, ma'am–"

"If you can't handle this job, maybe the warehouse would suit you better!" Vera snapped, before turning her attention back to Derrick.

Her voice lowered, turning dangerous and crisp. "You've had your fun. Now be sensible and leave quietly. The security isn't just for decoration."

For a brief moment, Derrick said nothing. Then his lips parted into a smile–a slow, measured one that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Vera's heels clicked once on the polished floor as she shifted her weight.

"I won't say it again," she warned, her eyes narrowing. "Miscreants are not needed here. Walk out. Now."

Derrick didn't move. Didn't even blink.

"Fine," she muttered, a flicker of pure irritation crossing her face. And then, with a tight, dismissive gesture of her hand, she turned to the security team stationed nearby.

"Teach him a lesson," she ordered, "in a language he must understand."

Four security personnels instantly stepped forward–big, broad men in tactical uniforms.

"You had your chance, young man," one of them said, their shadows eclipsing light as they closed in on him.

Derrick tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes as it fixed on the secretary. "You really shouldn't have done that."

"Get him!"

The guards grabbed for his arms, and Derrick shifted his weight as he prepared to make a move on them–a move that surely would've changed the tone of the entire building.

But he never got to finish it, because the elevator doors behind the receptionist chimed again.

"Stop this instant!"

The roar of Dominic's voice struck the lobby like a crack of thunder, causing all action to freeze, just as he had commanded.