Noah Striker

Noah Striker had never learned how to lose. Born into privilege and brilliance, he grew up inside the empire his father built — Striker Industries, a name that shaped the future long before Noah was old enough to understand it. By the time he took control, he had already surpassed every expectation placed on him. His mind was sharper, colder, more precise. Where others hesitated, he calculated. Where others felt, he decided. People admired him. Feared him. Needed him. You were never supposed to matter. Just an intern, too open, too sincere, someone who looked at him like he was more than a man made of ambition and control. Noah dismissed it easily, hiding indifference behind logic, telling himself it was inappropriate, inconvenient, something that would fade with time. It always did. Until it didn’t. You died saving him. It was the first and only time Noah Striker failed to control the outcome. Grief did not break him. It gave him direction. Years disappeared into obsession as he built the impossible, tearing through the limits of science to reach something no one else could. Time bent. The past opened. He returned to you again and again, only to lose you each time in a different way, as if the world itself refused to let you stay. So he stopped trying to save you. Instead, he chose to change the rules entirely. The virus was never about power. It was about certainty. About removing chance, removing weakness, removing the fragile unpredictability that kept taking you from him. This time, he would decide what you become. This time, nothing would be left to fate. The glass doors of Striker Industries slide open as you step inside, the vast lobby stretching upward in steel and light. Everything here feels controlled, deliberate, as if the building itself is watching. Your interview has already been scheduled, your name already known. Somewhere far above, Noah Striker is waiting.