Part XXV - The Humiliation of Necessity
The decision was made, but the risk remained palpable. Maria didn't arrange for a person; she executed the most vital move of their new strategy with a phone call. She didn't initiate a casual phone call; she enacted a tactical engagement.
She held the worn plastic receiver tight, her thumb tracing the groove of the cord. The person on the other end, Elena, Rico's mother, represented a complex web of vulnerability. Maria was not asking for a favor; she was enacting a strategy built on necessity.
"Elena, you know I respect how hard you work," Maria began, her voice low, professional, and strategic. "But the project is growing significantly, and we need to formalize and escalate Rico's role."
A long silence stretched across the line, punctuated by the muffled sound of a television. "Escalate, Maria? Victor is already difficult. He barely tolerates the boy being out of the apartment." Elena's voice was strained, tight with the constant effort of balancing her grueling work against her husband's instability.
"It means his work is becoming essential. The pay will reflect that," Maria said, letting the numbers work their silent magic. "It will be a stable, weekly stipend. More than before, Elena. A reliable figure."
"Reliable. How reliable?" Elena's voice, though still weary, betrayed a sharp flicker of hope.
Maria confirmed the figure. "It's contingent on one thing: Rico's absolute, focused discipline. The stipend is for two hours of dedicated, supervised production labor, five days a week, adhering completely to the Iron Law of quality. He works, he stays safe, and he helps his family. If he fails to follow the rules, the money stops. Can I rely on you to enforce the discipline at home that we enforce here?"
A heavy silence followed. "He starts tomorrow, Maria," Elena finally said, the fatigue in her voice an echo of her surrender. "Just... keep him safe."
Maria hung up. The sound of the receiver clicking settled the grim reality: she and Marcus were trading a known enemy for efficiency, leveraging Elena's desperation to secure the empire's survival.
The next afternoon, the reality of that necessary risk walked into the garage.
The tense calm that followed the phone call was broken by the sound of the garage door sliding open. Rico appeared at the door, his chin set in a stubborn pout that made his five years look like fifty. He was lanky and restless, his worn clothes clean but faded. He walked with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, refusing to look directly at the scene.
Across the room, the contrast was absolute. Isaiah, the genius who dictated the entire scene, sat cross-legged on the floor. He was only three, his frame compact and solid, his movements minimal. He was surrounded by pristine paper.
Marcus gently directed Rico to his new, permanent workstation—a small, brightly lit table set up to handle the tedious production work.
"Rico," Marcus said, his voice flat. "Your station. Your job has changed dramatically, and your mother has agreed to the new terms."
It was as Rico took his seat that the true conflict began. He looked up, and his eyes met Isaiah's. It was a silent collision across the concrete floor: the sullen envy of the five-year-old rival locking eyes with the cold, assessing intelligence of the three-year-old Titan.
Maria, having observed the silent collision, moved in to formalize the terms of surrender. She approached, carrying a stack of penciled-in comic pages. These were the raw outlines of Chapter 4—the first pages drawn under the strict two-hour window. "The quality must be absolute. The demand for this work is huge, and the schedule is non-negotiable."
She placed the pages before him. "You are the Assistant Drawer."
Rico finally spoke, his resentment boiling over. "Why Assistant Drawer?" he mumbled, his voice thick with five-year-old pride. "I'm already working here. Why can't I draw the lines?"
Maria's eyes were steady, cold with strategic conviction. "You are here because you are good enough to be here." She paused, letting the weight of the compliment settle before imposing the rules. "Your mother accepted the new stipend because she knows this job gives your family stability. You are the only one who can do the work well enough to guarantee that stability."
She enforced the new terms: "This is your chance to be part of something that lasts. Your work is essential. You do the necessary labor—no changes, no interpretations. This is your responsibility."
Rico glanced sideways at Isaiah, whose ancient eyes didn't even flicker in his direction. The shame of being formally assigned as the labor for a younger child was complete. "I understand," he mumbled.
Maria stepped back. "Then start. The clock is running."
Rico picked up a pen, his eyes scanning the pages of Chapter 4. He worked with a sullen, silent intensity, forcing his pen to follow the tight, demanding pencil work. The realization of the required, tedious, disciplined effort broke his silence. He paused his pen.
"It would go faster if I cross-hatched," Rico muttered, angling the question toward the room. "Faster and deeper shadow. We need to go faster to hit the end of the month!"
Marcus glanced nervously at Maria, but before either could intervene, the true authority intervened. Isaiah's tiny hand paused. His ancient eyes finally lifted, holding Rico's gaze across the ink pots and paper stacks. The stillness was electric.
Isaiah's voice, small and clear, cut through the quiet. "Cross-hatch is cheap. We do not sell cheap."
Rico recoiled as if struck. The finality and the adult vocabulary proved the true authority.
"Speed is the illusion of control. Uniformity is the definition of quality," Isaiah added, returning to his drawing. "Clean lines, consistent depth. Now."
Rico bit his lip, his five-year-old pride losing the battle to the overwhelming force of genius and financial necessity. He resumed his work, his pen moving with renewed, sullen fury, adhering strictly to the clean, slow, consistent shading.
The labor bottleneck was solved. The Iron Law held, but its cost was now measured in the bitter submission of a five-year-old boy. The grueling two-week grind had officially begun.