Chapitre 10: A Lifeline in Dolce and Gabbana Shoes

I was on my way to what I believed was QuantumLyfe's headquarters, or at least some makeshift version of it.

Rumor had it, they'd set up shop in a run-down warehouse, desperately clinging to the scraps of their promising future.

No security, no flashy signs — just the quiet hum of a company on the brink of collapse.

They were circling the drain of bankruptcy, and I knew that whatever offer I put on the table, they'd have no choice but to grab it with both hands.

After all, I wasn't just offering money — I was offering them a lifeline.

Though QuantumLyfe would skyrocket six months from now, thanks to a lucky investor who stumbled upon their breakthrough, today was a different story. Right now, they were desperate, teetering on the edge of collapse. And I intended to take full advantage of it.

I parked my McLaren outside the nondescript warehouse. No flashy signs, no security — just the shell of a company barely holding on. The front door wasn't even locked. Inside, a ragtag group of engineers and scientists were working non-stop on second-hand machines, trying to perfect their nanobot tech.

Despite the outdated equipment and shoestring budget, they'd made progress. Early-stage nanobots, crude but functional. I couldn't help but feel a flicker of admiration — resourceful, even in the face of failure.

"Can I help you?" A staff member stepped into my path, her posture stiff and defensive.

I smiled, taking off my sunglasses. "Yes, you can. I need to speak to who's ever in charge here."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You want to see our leader?"

I nodded confidently. "That's right. Mr. . . ." I paused, realizing I had no idea who ran this place.

The woman squinted. "Mr. Blair?"

"Sure, Mr. Blair," I said smoothly. "I need to see him."

Her suspicion was obvious, and she adjusted her glasses as if that would help her size me up. I didn't exactly look like a typical investor — I was dressed casually, in a plain white shirt and jeans in my favorite Dolce and Gabbana sandals.

"Are you here for a job?" she asked. "We're hiring, but only for cleaning staff. Although . . ." Her gaze trailed over me before she added, "You're a bit too pretty to be a cleaning lady."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "No, nothing like that. I'm here to invest in your project."

Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in disbelief. "An investor? But you're . . . young."

"I've got the money," I replied smoothly. "Isn't that all that matters?"

She blinked, clearly thrown off by the audacity of someone my age claiming to be an investor. I couldn't blame her for being suspicious — people my age didn't usually roll up to a dying company in a McLaren and start throwing money around. Still, this was the opportunity I had been waiting for.

She was still processing when I added, "Look, I know this seems hard to believe, but I'm serious. QuantumLyfe is sitting on the edge of something great. With the right funding, you could be unstoppable — and I'm offering that. Now, where's Blair?"

"Uhm . . . r-right this way." Emily, the staff member who had confronted me, now led me to the upper floors.

As we made our way through the corridors, I couldn't help but glance around, taking a mental inventory of the lab's state. It was understaffed — obviously so. Only a handful of people were working, each of them absorbed in their tasks, some hunched over outdated equipment, others tinkering with half-functional machinery.

Everything looked like it was being held together by sheer willpower rather than proper funding.

The machines were clearly past their prime, and it was starting to show. Their screens flickered, and some emitted faint buzzing sounds that probably weren't supposed to be there. Worse, the place was a mess. Papers, tools, and discarded parts were strewn across tables. The floors were dusty, the windows grimy, and there was a faint chemical smell lingering in the air.

It was a far cry from the pristine, sterile labs I had imagined.

I raised an eyebrow as we passed a particularly chaotic workbench. Is this really alright for a lab? I thought. Then again, desperation often led to cutting corners, and this place was clearly fighting to stay afloat.

"Right this way," Emily said, gesturing toward a narrow staircase. Her demeanor was still reserved, but she had dropped the initial suspicion, now leading me with a bit more purpose.

We reached the upper floor, and Emily led me to a door at the end of the hallway. She knocked once, then opened it, revealing an office cluttered with stacks of papers and folders.

Amid the chaos sat a man in a white lab coat, his appearance as disheveled as his surroundings. His black hair was long and messy, hastily pulled back into a simple ponytail, and a thick beard shadowed his hardened face. His eyes were sharp and focused, squinting behind a pair of glasses as he studied a mountain of papers in his hands.

"Mr. Blair," Emily announced, stepping aside to let me in.

The man — Blair, I presumed — didn't look up immediately, engrossed in whatever data he was poring over. His fingers tapped the papers rhythmically as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he finally glanced up, his eyes gleamed with curiosity and exhaustion, as though he had seen one too many sleepless nights.

"Excuse me, Mr. Blair, an investor is here to see you," Emily said, her voice a bit strained, as if she hadn't slept in days. It was only then that she hesitated, realizing she hadn't asked for my name. She looked slightly flustered, rubbing her temple like the exhaustion was catching up.

"Uh, sorry, miss. What was your name again?" she asked, giving me a sheepish look.

I smiled slightly, more amused than annoyed. "Eve Rosette," I said, watching her eyes widen at the mention of my last name. "From the main Rosette family."

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