Noah Crimson Demands

"Why is this even a thing?" Mr. Gray asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

Mr. Maxwell met his gaze calmly, as though he had been expecting this reaction all along.

"Mr. Gray, look closely at the document. Neither we nor our candidate are violating any rights," he said innocently, as if he were making a simple request rather than a bold proposition.

Mr. Gray threw a wary glance at Derek before reluctantly following the advice. He picked up the document again it read:

> "Our client, Derek Carter, wishes to be referred to as Noah Crimson if he wins any prize at all.

Secondly, our candidate must not be informed of his score, regardless of whether scores are generally disclosed.

Finally, in the event that our candidate wins, he has chosen to remain anonymous under the name Noah Crimson and will not make any public appearances."

Mr. Gray's eyes narrowed in disbelief. He slowly lifted his head and looked at Maxwell.

"And why exactly should I agree to these… strange demands? Or should I say, bold?" Mr. Gray asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

"But they're not bold or suspicious, really," Maxwell replied, still calm. "We're not breaking any laws—these are just personal preferences, that's all we're asking."

"Personal preferences?" Mr. Gray snapped, eyes flaring with anger. "Did I just hear you say personal preferences?"

"But—" Maxwell stammered, sensing Mr. Gray's rising temper. He leaned forward, speaking quickly, trying to defuse the situation.

"Oh, spare me that nonsense," Mr. Gray interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "You and I both know—"

"He's Derek Carter," Maxwell cut in sharply, raising his voice. "The actual Derek Carter. CEO of the Carter family's SkyHigh Technologies."

Mr. Gray suddenly fell quiet. His energy drained, and he sat back in his chair as if the very name had punched the wind out of him.

That name. That family.

He looked at Maxwell again, this time with a blank expression. It was clear he knew better than to challenge the Carter family—or anyone connected to them.

A long silence followed.

Then finally, Mr. Gray spoke again, slower this time.

"Very well. I'll honor your candidate's requests… only because no laws are being broken. But make no mistake—if I hear anything different from his family…"

He let the sentence hang in the air like a warning shot, eyes locked on Maxwell's.

Mr. Maxwell stood up, meeting his gaze firmly.

"Thank you, Gray. You won't regret this," he said, extending a hand.

Mr. Gray shook it cautiously, still eyeing him with lingering suspicion.

Maxwell adjusted his glasses and turned to leave. As he walked out, he felt a quiet confidence settle in his chest. He had played his trump card—Steve—and he knew no one would dare cross that line.

---

Derek zipped up his bag and glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past 5 a.m.

He didn't have much time left.

Today was the big day, the competition was soon to start. He was to travel alongside Miss Alison, Lucy, and Mr. Austin. The school had arranged a private jet for all four of them.

He walked over to the corner of his room, grabbed his box, and began to head out. But as he reached the door, his thoughts drifted to the conversation he had with his best friend, John, the day before.

Derek had confessed how nervous he was—how unsure he felt about the whole thing. He didn't think he'd perform well. But he also knew he had to try… because one person believed in him. Just one. And somehow, that was enough.

He glanced at his watch. Time had flown—it was already 7:05.

Giving his mother a lingering look from the hallway, he debated whether to say goodbye or just leave. She was in the living room, watching one of her favorite Sunday morning movies, unaware—or perhaps uninterested—in what today meant for him.

He stood silently for a while.

Should he say something? Announce he was leaving?

After a moment, he decided against it. Where had she been all this time? She didn't know about the competition, and honestly, she probably didn't care either.

He had already informed his father through chat. He hadn't replied. Instead, Derek received a transfer—enough money to show he noticed, but not enough to feel like he was there.

His dad didn't hate him. He was just always busy. And Derek had made peace with that, even though he sometimes wished things were different.

He stepped outside, walked to the teleportation pod, and punched in the location code.

In a flash, the machine powered up, lights flickering, and then—whoosh.

He reappeared in a station not far from the designated meeting point.

To his relief, the others were still close by.

He started walking toward them. At first, they didn't recognize him.

It wasn't until he came closer that their expressions shifted from confusion to surprise.

He was wearing a sleek, custom-made Italian suit, complete with matching shoes, designer sunglasses, and a stunning Rolex on his wrist. His posture was confident. Effortlessly elegant.

Miss Alison just stared.

The crew exchanged surprised glances as he approached, and soon, everyone was exchanging greetings. With no time to waste, they boarded the private plane.

The flight from New York to Florida would take around three hours. Teleportation between states—or countries—still wasn't approved due to safety concerns, so this was the only option.

Thirty minutes into the flight, most passengers were already asleep.

Everyone except Derek and Lucy.

Their nerves wouldn't let them rest. With over 20,000 candidates competing tomorrow and only 70 making it through to the next round, the pressure was overwhelming.

Derek sat rigidly in his seat, the memory of his last IQ test gnawing at his confidence. He was sure he hadn't scored that high.

Beside him, Lucy fidgeted, her mind racing. She needed something—anything—to take her mind off the tension.

Then she remembered.

She reached into her small handbag, rummaged through it, and pulled something out.

"The box," she whispered, glancing sideways at Derek.