The first fracture was comparable to a hairline crack in porcelain: thin and easily missed. Once it spreads and begins to chip and break away at the surface, it becomes unavoidable. Its reality forever changed.

  Foster was a collector of items, favours, patents and people. If ownership was control, then it was the closest thing to certainty he had. He didn't know it yet, but this was the last day he would ever feel in control.

  His penthouse, located high above a city he was not particularly attached to, served more as a display and storage for his acquisitions than a home. Rare artifacts, trinkets, and various collectibles sat in secured cases and drawers and were showcased within temperature controlled displays throughout. Despite the organization and museum-like quality of the apartment, it felt impermanent.

  His assistant—an acquisition herself, stolen from a competitor who had dead-ended her in a position with no chance for growth—was waiting at the edge of his kitchen island as he emerged from his bedroom. Tablet in hand, she kept her gaze directly on the screen.

  "Morning. Your legal team needs you for final approval on a settlement offer regarding a technology patent that you filed in '78. I've sent the details to you."

  Foster waved a dismissive hand as he approached the breakfast spread laid out on the marble island. “If they’re offering a settlement, then we can get more.”

  Her expression didn’t change, but she adjusted something on her tablet.

  "Your presence has been requested at a gala next week. Prestigious, they claim. An ‘exclusive invitation for leading visionaries.'”

  Foster smirked as he reached for his coffee, “You’d think they’d recognize a collection when they see one.”

  “Also, an investigative journalist is requesting an interview. He’s writing about the ‘hidden empire of intellectual property,’ his words. Wants a comment.”

  Foster let out a gentle snort. “Flattering.”

  “Shall I decline?”

  He sat in silent consideration for a moment, but clearly trailed off. His mornings would usually start with him checking his portfolio, skimming through the latest legal entanglements of his intellectual property holdings and browsing a few auction listings. He woke up when he felt like it, not because anyone dictated his schedule but because the world operated at his leisure. At precisely the moment he would have thought to call for his coffee, he saw that it had already been placed in front of him. He didn't thank her but took a long sip.

  His wealth was not built on effort, but on foresight. Knowing when to take, when to hold, and when to let desperation do the heavy lifting for him. Patent litigation had been his battlefield, and he had won by ensuring no one else could even enter the fight. He owned ideas and the right to profit from them, and that was enough. Some were acquired legally, some were not. If you were to inquire you would learn that he found the distinction meaningless.

  A small but insistent notification on his tablet, the patent dispute. One of thousands, but the name attached to it was new. Unfamiliar. He dismissed it with a flick but frowned slightly as he took another sip. The sheer volume of disputes, legal challenges, and settlements he engaged with daily had long since rendered any single one irrelevant. That was what his legal team was for, but this one had slipped through and landed directly in his feed instead of being caught and handled.

  An anomaly. A crack in the system.

  Curated news scrolled across his muted television mounted against the far wall: another auction, an estate sale in Geneva, a small gallery in Tokyo unveiling a newly discovered piece from an obscure, long-dead artist.

  The assistant remained hovering at the edge of his vision, waiting.

  Foster finally glanced up. “Hmm?”

  Her tone was carefully neutral. “The journalist who’s been trying to reach your office.”

  Foster blinked once, slow. “Yes.”

  He had no interest in talking to journalists, and he had less interest in discussing patents with journalists.

  “Decline. Block.”

  She paused. “They will write about you regardless.”

  That was the thing about notoriety, it bred curiosity and scrutiny. A constant, buzzing noise of people trying to understand. But to Foster, people didn’t actually want to understand him, they just wanted to know where they stood in relation to his success. Why him?

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Of course they will.” Foster was visibly irritated. “Fine. Have them meet me in The Vault.”

  The assistant hesitated for half a second before nodding and leaving the room.

  He finished off his coffee and stood up. The penthouse was vast, yet meticulously arranged, every item positioned with intent. The rooms were silent but alive: automated systems adjusted the lighting as he moved, floor-to-ceiling windows tinting in response to the angle of the morning sun. He crossed the open space of his living area, barefoot on imported stone tile, and entered what most would assume was a private study. In reality, it was 'The Vault'.

  No steel door, no tumblers or combination locks. Just a temperature-controlled room filled with precisely arranged items that mattered the most to him. Items so rare or so obscure that their value was dictated solely by his ownership of them: A pen once used to sign away a fortune; a non-descript prototype, the only one of its kind; a manuscript never published, its contents erased from history except for this single surviving copy.

  Foster would wait here, if the journalist was serious his assistant will arrange a car. It wouldn't be long.

  ***

  The handshake lasted just a little too long. Foster’s grip firm, his smile still somehow welcoming, but controlled. Intentional.

  The journalist rolled their wrist once one their hand was free. “I appreciate you making the time. It’s not every day I get a personal invitation.”

  “I like to know the shape of a conversation before I have it.” Foster motioned toward a seat with the effortless authority of a man who was used to deciding how conversations went. “And I’m always happy to discuss innovation.”

  The investigator sat, adjusting their coat. “When your assistant said The Vault, I expected something...different.”

  Foster smirked. “What were you picturing? Lasers?” His hand gestured his assistant to come in. "Can I get you a drink?"

  “I don’t know what I was expecting, just not this. I suppose that's intentional.” They turned their head slightly to the assistant entering the room. “No drink for me, thanks.”

  "Two drinks." Foster insisted. “Security isn’t always the priority, the best kind of vault is the one no one realizes they’re locked out of.”

  “And you decide what’s worth locking away.”

  “Curation is an art.”

  “And ownership?”

  They smiled slightly as they said it and began flipping through their notes. “This is an important point to touch on later, but what I wanted to speak on is not about what you collect, but how you collect.”

  “You will have to be a little more specific.”

  The journalist pulled a folder from their bag and slid it onto the table. They didn’t open it, they just let it sit there.

  “I’ve been looking at some filings,” they said casually. “Licensing cases. Contested patents. Public records." They leaning in and tapped at the folder, "When you pull at the right threads, all seem to trace back to this you. Curious.”

  Foster glanced at it but made no move to pick it up.

  “Patent law is complicated,” he said evenly.

  “Oh, absolutely, and you’re very good at it. Seven hundred and thirty-two active patents.” They flicked through their notes further. “Not all for products, of course. Some of them are just concepts.”

  Foster affirmed. “Ideas have value.”

  “They do,” they nodded. “Especially when the world moves forward and suddenly the right idea becomes indispensable. Then everyone else is left paying for something they didn’t even realize was yours.”

  Foster deflected. “It’s an investment, like any other.”

  “A lucrative one I'm sure” they said while their eyes gestured around the room.

  There was a small but noticeable pause as Foster leaned back, “If you’re looking for something specific, I’d rather we stop dancing around it.”

  The journalist studied him for a moment, then sat forward slightly.

  “You’re good at acquiring things,” they said. “What happens when something gets taken from you?”

  Foster’s expression didn’t shift, but his fingers stopped moving.

  A beat. Two.

  Then, slowly, he smiled.

  “That depends.” His voice was smooth again, the moment folded away. “Are you here to rob me?”

  The journalist laughed, shaking their head. “No, I think someone already has.”

  Foster’s expression changed, but his tone was light. “That's interesting. I’d love to hear more about this right now, but unfortunately, I have a prior engagement." He stood. "You can leave any information with my assistant and I will have my people look into this internally. If something had gone missing, I'm quite sure I wouldn't hear it from you first.”

  They stood as well. “Ah. Of course.”

  Foster gestured toward the door. “I’ll have my driver take you wherever you need to go. Feel free to leave your availability on your way out and we can discuss another meeting in the near future.”

  They didn’t move just yet. Instead, they picked up the folder, flipping it open at last. A single page sat inside.

  “Before I go,” they said, almost as an afterthought. “Would you happen to know anything about this patent dispute filing?”

  Foster’s gaze changed, just for a fraction of a second.

  “I'm sure you do.” The journalist smiled, closing the folder. "I look forward to discussing these matters further at your earliest convenience. I'll leave my number."

  Foster watched them leave, the click of the door shutting behind them left the room impossibly quiet.

  After guiding the investigator out, his assistant walked in the doorway. “Would you like me to—”

  “No.” Foster waved a hand, cutting them off. “Not yet.”

  He turned back toward the collection, his fingers ran along the edge of a display case as he passed. He barely looked at what was inside. He didn’t need to. He knew everything that was here.

  Then, as he moved to the next case, something shifted, not in the air, but in his periphery. A flicker, like a frame missing from a reel of film.

  He turned sharply.

  A display shelf, it had held something. He knew the shape of it, the weight of its presence, but now there was only empty space.

  Foster stood still. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, as if proximity might force reality to correct itself.

  Nothing.

  His expression didn’t change.

  His assistant cleared their throat. “Sir?”

  Foster didn’t look away. He was still staring at the absence in his display.

  “Pull the security logs.”