(Third-Person Omniscient POV)
The boardroom of Ais_$ Co. was a pantheon of power. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the serious faces of men and women who controlled capital flows that could alter the destiny of nations. At the head of the table, Dr. Aisha Sani presided with the calm authority of a queen who needed no crown.
The quarterly review was a ritual of numbers and projections, but today, the atmosphere was charged with a subtle, new current. The Eagle acquisition was on the agenda, and the usual dry financials were preceded by a strategic briefing. Not from the PR Director, Bernard, but from the new hire. The one with the scandalous past.
Adams Dared stood at the podium, his posture erect but not rigid. The slight looseness of his suit was the only visible hint of his recent trials. His voice, however, was a instrument of calm precision, each word chosen, each sentence landing with the weight of unassailable logic.
He didn't present the "Controlled Detonation" strategy with theatrical flair. He presented it as a geometric proof. He mapped the trajectory of the potential media firestorm, the points of intervention, the conversion of negative energy into marketable momentum. He spoke of "narrative thermodynamics" and "perception arbitrage," terms that made the older, more traditional board members lean forward slightly, their expressions unreadable.
Bernard sat to the side, his smile strained. He had argued against this. He had called the plan "reckless." Now, watching Adams command the room, he felt the ground shifting beneath his polished leather shoes.
One of the board members, an older gentleman with a formidable reputation for risk-aversion, cleared his throat. "Mr. Dared, this is… inventive. But it sounds like playing with fire. What is your contingency if this 'controlled detonation,' as you call it, becomes an uncontrolled inferno?"
Adams met the man's gaze without flinching. "The contingency, sir, is built into the premise. An inferno requires hidden fuel. Our strategy is to burn the available fuel in a managed way, in full view of the public. There will be no hidden reserves for a larger catastrophe. The worst-case scenario is the one we orchestrate and therefore control. The alternative—the silent, pressurized containment you currently practice—is what creates true infernos."
A murmur rippled through the room. It was a stark, brutal assessment of their current strategy. It was the kind of truth that usually went unsaid in these hallowed halls.
Dr. Aisha did not speak. She simply watched, her fingers steepled under her chin. Her silence was more powerful than any endorsement. It was a space she had created for him to either soar or plummet.
Another board member, a sharp-eyed woman who had made her fortune in media, spoke next. "You're betting everything on the charisma of this founder, Okon. What if his charisma is just… insanity?"
"A valid question," Adams nodded. "But the market has already voted. They've invested in his insanity because it produces genius. Our job isn't to diagnose him; it's to monetize the phenomenon. We're not buying a company; we're acquiring a lightning rod. And we're building the grid to harness the electricity."
The metaphor landed. You could see the shift in the room, the moment the board moved from seeing a liability to seeing an asset. Adams had reframed the entire problem. He wasn't there to solve a crisis; he was there to explain an investment in a new form of energy.
The briefing ended. There was no applause, but the quality of the silence was different. Respectful. Calculating.
As the board members filed out, a few paused to shake Dr. Aisha's hand. The risk-averse gentleman stopped. "Aisha, your new man is… interesting. Unconventional."
Dr. Aisha offered a rare, slight smile. "The conventional has its limits, Alhaji."
He nodded thoughtfully, casting a last glance at Adams, who was calmly gathering his papers. The glance was no longer one of suspicion, but of appraisal.
Later, as Adams walked back to his office, the air in the open-plan workspace felt different. The sidelong glances from colleagues were no longer tinged with pity or curiosity. They were now laced with a new emotion: wariness. He had not just presented a strategy; he had demonstrated a formidable intellect in the company's inner sanctum. The news would ripple through the grapevine before he even reached his desk.
Bernard intercepted him at the coffee machine, his face a mask of forced camaraderie. "A bold presentation, Adams. Very bold. Let's hope the board has the stomach for it."
The words were supportive, but the tone was a warning shot. Adams simply nodded. "The strategy is sound. The stomach will follow the results."
He returned to his office and closed the door. For a moment, he leaned against it, the adrenaline finally receding, leaving a profound exhaustion in its wake. He had done it. He had stood before the gods of commerce and not been struck down.
His phone buzzed. A text from Mina.
Thinking of you today. Hope it's going well. Chosen did a new sound, like a little coo! Can't wait for you to hear.
The message was a lifeline, pulling him back from the stratosphere of high-stakes strategy to the grounding reality of his life. The board's notice was a professional victory, a necessary step. But Mina's text, the image of his son, was the why.
He looked out his window at the sprawling Abuja landscape. The board had taken notice. He was no longer a reclamation project; he was a player on the board. But with that notice came a new set of dangers. He had made an ally in a queen, but he had also made enemies of the courtiers who felt threatened. The game was no longer just about proving himself to Dr. Aisha. It was about navigating the treacherous currents of envy and ambition he had just stirred up. The climb was getting steeper, and the stakes, he realized with a cold clarity, were now much, much higher.