Chapter 3 A final proposal

The dust motes whirling in the musty air were illuminated by the early light that cut harshly through John's apartment's tiny blinds. John woke awake, his thoughts still ringing from yesterday's treachery, his body aching. With every step he took toward the shower, he pushed himself out of bed, reminded that life continued on, whether he wanted it to or not.

Hot, persistent water poured from the showerhead. John closed his eyes, allowing the searing heat to clear the mist of anger and heartache. He relieved every second: Black's affirming nods, Mark's assured presentation, and the two colleagues chatting in the hallway. It had been like a kick to the belly every second.

His hands were clenched under the water. No. He was not going to let this get to him. He scrubbed till his scalp ached after pouring shampoo into his fingers and working it into a deep lather. The water become murky with dirt and soapy. He turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel, and gazed at his image in the misty mirror. Hollow cheekbones, a determined jaw, and red-rimmed eyes.

He would present his own campaign to Harris Black in person today, unvarnished by Mark's fabrications.

---

When John strode into the lobby of BlackStar Industries, Paula, the tired receptionist, hardly glanced up. He donned his luckiest tie, a navy blue one with small white diamonds, a quiet talisman he had not dared to wear since the tragedy, along with his sole clean shirt. The weight of his anger and his aspirations made his briefcase seem abnormally heavy.

Paula replied, "Mr. Turner," in a bland voice. "You are not scheduled."

John touched her desk with his hand. "I am here to make my campaign pitch. Black needed all of the ideas on his desk by noon today, I was informed yesterday.

Paula gave her screen a tap. "No documentation about it. I apologize.

John leaned forward and spoke calmly but firmly. It is crucial. Please.

She let out a sigh, as if she had been listening to cries all morning. He has consecutive meetings. Friday is the next opening.

John's heart fell. Friday. A week from now. It is too late. He imagined Black's desk still holding Mark's immaculate portfolio.

John said, "I do not think you understand." "This is an urgent matter. Tomorrow is the investors' meeting. My pitch, Mark's, has been stolen.

Paula's eyebrow went up. "I am unable to assist you. HR must make a timetable.

After swallowing, he let out a slow breath. "All right. Then at least let him know that Turner has arrived. I will not go until he is aware of my presence.

Paula touched a key and scowled. "I will send you a note,"

John sat, hardly paying attention to the chair's unpleasant fabric. The minutes passed. He saw workers passing by, most in mute resignation, others with a purpose. In his personal life, he felt alienated.

The note was never returned.

John stated, "I will just wait outside his office," as he rose up and walked around the desk at 1:00 p.m.

Paula's gaze expanded. "You can't-"

John, however, had already crept into the corridor. As he walked up to the big frosted glass door marked **H. Black, CEO , his pulse raced. His fists echoed as he banged once and again.

"What is it this time?" a rusty voice from inside said.

John took a gulp. "John Turner-Mr. Black. You must see what I have for you.

A sliver of the door opened. Black looked out with icy blue eyes. "You again? I believed you were let go.

John felt sick to his stomach. dismissed. Had his walking papers been handed to him already? "Not quite yet, sir. But because I allowed someone to steal my work, I ought to be. I can not let that be the end, however. Just five minutes, please.

Black's gaze became strained. "I have a lot going on."

John let out a breath. "I understand. I will thus be short. He took a little tablet out of his suitcase, the prototype mockup he had constructed in his own time. "Observe."

Angrily, Black pulled at the sleeve of his suit but moved aside. "Come in."

---

The office inside was just as John had remembered: a huge mahogany desk, high-backed leather chairs, and walls covered with fading press clippings and framed patents from better times. Black reached for a chair belonging to a guest.

John turned the tablet on, sat down, and tapped the screen. His "Reality Layers" interface appeared as a translucent grid rippling into view.

John said steadily, "I pitched you an idea yesterday." However, the incorrect person delivered it, and its full potential was never realized. "This is the core of the campaign," he tapped once again.

After he swiped, the tablet showed a user pressing a QR code on a coffee cup before launching into an augmented reality montage that showcased BlackStar's new smart-glass technology and turned a dirty café into an interactive product demonstration. John told the story:

Imagine if a potential investor lived our product rather than simply seeing it. They experience the environment, engage with its elements in real time, and recognize its worth. Every activity is monitored, and every response is recorded. It is not simply a message; it is marketing as experience.

Black's arms were folded. "I have already heard something similar."

John bent over. "Not the same. The version from yesterday was skeleton. Cross-platform, smooth transition between digital overlays and real-world occurrences is completely accomplished. "Look here," he said, zooming in, "these are the triggers for micro-interactions." A geo-located augmented reality filter at a landmark, an influencer shot, or even a tactile demonstration in-store with haptic feedback attachments.

Black let out a breath, showing a glimmer of curiosity. What are haptic attachments?

John gave a nod. Indeed. Before making a purchase, picture yourself experiencing the smoothness of our smart-glass covering. A preview that is haptic. It is science fiction turned into reality.

Black gave his chin a massage. "And you constructed this..."

"A prototype. Last night, I programmed the essential features. Next, I want to include our items. However, the idea has been shown to work. It functions.

Black tapped the iPad thoughtfully as he sank into his chair. "Turner, this is really amazing."

John felt a wave of victory warm his chest. He dared to think that things may change now.

At that moment, the door behind him snapped open.

Mark entered with his portfolio in hand, neatly prepared as if it were on exhibit. With a casual tone, he said, "I see you found the prototype." Fantastic job. John did a fantastic job assembling this.

John felt sick to his stomach. The knife was twisted again by that voice, too casual, too familiar.

Black's eyes darted up and down between them. "So, Turner, this is all by you?"

Mark opened his hands. "Everything you saw was created by John. I just made the presentation seem nice and orderly.

John turned his head and looked accusingly at Mark. "He is telling lies."

Although his tone remained amicable, Mark's grin darkened. "I just assisted in polishing it. Is not presentation half the fight? And I am excellent at it, you know.

John sprang to his feet, becoming irate. "My work was stolen by you. You claimed ownership of it.

Black extended his hand. Gentlemen. Enough. His eyes returned to the iPad. "What counts is the idea. This is necessary for tomorrow's investor pitch. It does not matter whose name is on it as long as it is completed.

John's jaw tightened as he struggled with anger and hopelessness. He felt Mark's falsehood smothering the prototype as he took one more glance at it, years of hopes condensed in bright pixels.

Black passed the iPad to Mark after closing it. "All right. You will be in charge of the integration team, Mark. Put this into action. Get here at precisely nine in the morning.

Mark gave a triumphant nod. With a phony, accommodative grin, he turned to face John. "Good job, dude."

John remained silent. He looked away, sprinted out of the office, and did not stop until he exploded out the front doors and into the brilliant sunshine of the street. His chest tightened, the air thin. He took a long breath and let it out in a shudder.

He lost his job. Or it would be shortly. Someone else had come up with his concept. He lost his opportunity.

His hands shaking around his briefcase, he slid to a seat outside the building. Reaching inside, he took out his own phone, unlocked the screen, and briefly considered removing the app. eliminating any evidence of the "Billionaire's Club."

Then he noticed the interface: his popularity and his money were both at zero.

Once again, he moved his thumb over the "Install" symbol. A glimmer of optimism appeared. He would find respect elsewhere if he could not get it here. He would make a new beginning. They would be outplayed by him.

Install, he tapped.

The old pinwheel turned. In his ear, the menacing, sardonic voice crackled: *"Welcome back, User. Are you prepared to get wealthy? *

John slumped back, exhausted, and gazed at the loading screen of the program. Behind him, BlackStar's doors loomed, a sign of corporate treachery. But if he could find the will to seize it, the broad street beyond them was a world full of possibilities.

He clenched his jaw. "Let's go," he said in a quiet voice. "This time, just me, one last pitch."

John Turner then started the next phase of his life.