The gates of the compound slid open slowly, humming with the faintest charge of alien circuitry hidden in their reinforced frames. Brendon King stood at the threshold, Alicia by his side, watching as the first small wave of invitees filtered in.
The site wasn't flashy. Not yet. That was the point.
The Compound
On the outskirts of New York, beyond the suburban sprawl and close enough to highways for supply trucks, Nirvana's physical heart stretched across a wide plot of reclaimed land.
It wasn't a gleaming city of the future. It was scaffolding, fresh concrete, and modular buildings rising like the first notes of a symphony.
The Central Hall: A clean-lined, three-story structure that would serve as meeting space, cafeteria, and event hub. Glass walls let in the sunlight, and the open floor plan made it feel less like an institution and more like a gathering place.
The Innovation Wing: Still half-covered in tarps, filled with empty workbenches and crates waiting to be unpacked. Nothing state-of-the-art here yet—just sturdy tables, salvaged parts, and the promise that the members would fill it with life.
The Living Quarters: Rows of modest, dorm-style rooms. Beds, desks, shared kitchens. Humble but functional. Painted in fresh white and pale green, with space for murals that Brendon insisted would be made by the residents themselves.
The Gardens: Alicia's insistence. Raised beds, soil being turned, irrigation pipes not yet laid down. Volunteers were already poking at it with curiosity, some sketching how to expand the plots.
Medical Cabin: The most finished of the lot, tucked quietly near the entrance. Plain on the outside, but carefully insulated inside. That was where today's conversation would matter most.
Faces in the Crowd
Brendon's eyes tracked two figures in particular.
Marcus Hale: Early thirties, ex-Army logistics officer, broad shoulders and a calm efficiency. He had the look of someone who could juggle five crises before lunch. When Alicia asked how fast he could set up a supply chain for three hundred residents, he'd replied without blinking: "Two weeks."
Priya Malhotra: Late twenties, MBA dropout, razor-sharp at budgeting and operations. She'd survived two failed startups and walked away with an instinct for what made organizations collapse. She had a dry wit and already treated Brendon like an over-ambitious client. He liked that.
These two would form the backbone of Nirvana's admin and logistics. He didn't need sycophants; he needed adults who could tell him no.
The Conversation with Aunt May
Later, Brendon guided Aunt May across the compound grounds. She had come tentatively, curious but skeptical, her FEAST work clothes still on. She'd expected another slick tech billionaire's playhouse. Instead, she saw kids painting walls, students unpacking toolkits, volunteers laughing as they hammered together bunk beds.
"This isn't what I expected," she admitted, voice soft.
"It's not supposed to be," Brendon said.
They stopped near the Medical Cabin. Brendon turned toward her, hands folded loosely in front of him. Alicia lingered a few steps away, arms crossed, listening.
"May… I didn't build this because I thought I could save everyone. I built it because I needed a home. I don't have parents. I don't have… a family the way most people mean it. Alicia's been my anchor, but she can't do it all. None of us can."
His voice hitched just slightly, the mask slipping. "These kids — they're dreamers, misfits, orphans in their own way. Someone has to look after them, not just their work. Them. Their health, their hearts. I need someone who understands that."
Aunt May blinked at him, taken aback.
Brendon pressed on. "You've done it already, at FEAST. You know what it takes. What's missing here isn't tech, or funding, or even vision. It's warmth. Safety. A hand on the shoulder when the world feels too heavy. You could give that."
Silence hung in the cabin for a beat.
Alicia stepped forward, voice gentler than usual. "He's right, May. You'd be the rock for all of them. You already are, for so many. Why not here too?"
May swallowed, eyes flicking between the two. "And you're offering… what? A paycheck?"
Brendon shook his head. "Not just a paycheck. A chance to shape this place into something real. Medical lead, caretaker, counselor, whatever title you want. We'll handle the paperwork, the insurance, the budget. You'll never want for resources."
He leaned in, steady now. "I'm offering you a chance to build a future for these kids that no one can take away. A foundation that lasts."
Closing Scene
May stood still, hands clasped together, her thoughts racing. She'd seen promises before — half-truths from politicians, handouts from billionaires. This felt… different.
The boy in front of her wasn't a politician. He wasn't a billionaire playboy. He was a kid who carried himself like an old soul, eyes haunted but burning with something she hadn't seen in a long time.
Conviction.
Finally, she let out a breath. "Brendon King… that's the best offer anyone's ever made me."
Alicia smiled softly.
Brendon's lips curved, but his eyes stayed serious.
And for the first time, Aunt May wondered if she'd just stepped into the beginning of something far bigger than she could imagine.