Chapter 160 Two Gifts

San Francisco.

Inside a private restaurant spanning several dozen square meters, a soft, ethereal blue light spilled over the space.

From the four walls all the way behind the ceiling, the entire room was surrounded by seawater.

Seaweed swayed gently, while cutlassfish and tuna darted gracefully and freely through the water. Various small marine creatures drifted past, separated from the diners by only a transparent layer of glass.

Among the swimming fish, a massive whale maneuvered with surprising agility, its plump body looking both lazy and completely at ease.

Navali sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the swimming fish, the swaying seaweed, and the giant whale.

Seeing his expression, Salman, who sat opposite him, smiled.

"What's wrong? Is the atmosphere of this restaurant too quiet? Would you like me to book another place? I know another great spot in San Francisco."

Navali shook his head.

"No... It's nothing. It's just that I've never been to a place like this before. It must be very expensive, right?"

"Don't worry about it. A meal here averages around tens of thousands of dollars. With your annual salary, you could easily afford to eat three meals a day here. Besides, I hold shares in this restaurant—you can consider it part of my personal assets, so there's even less need to worry."

Salman smiled, glancing at the surging seawater along the walls and ceiling, the vibrant fish swimming about, and the drifting seaweed, a nostalgic expression crossing his face.

"I once traveled to Abu Dhabi. But there, neither the Emirates Palace nor the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque held much interest for me—only the underwater restaurant beneath the Burj Al Arab made me feel truly at peace.

"Outside, it was a scorching sun and a bustling, noisy world. But once inside, it felt as though one were completely enveloped by the ocean. Incomparably tranquil and serene—that contrast greatly soothed my nerves, and it made me understand why Gates built such a massive aquarium. After I returned to San Francisco, I decided to open a private restaurant. It has fewer than ten rooms in total: three hundred square meters dedicated to dining, one hundred square meters for the back kitchen preparations, and several thousand square meters entirely devoted to enclosing this 'ocean world'—though, to maintain the stability and natural state of this ecosystem, I pay tens of millions of dollars in maintenance fees every year. Still, it's worth it."

Salman's voice was lingering and calm, but Navali only offered a faint, bitter smile and lowered his head.

A sudden thought crossed his mind: the construction and maintenance costs of this 'ocean world' far exceeded the total operating funds of the 'Solidarity Neighborhood' that Teacher Masip had cared about so deeply...

Just then, Salman's tone shifted abruptly. The next moment, Navali heard him utter a sentence that felt like a thunderclap shaking the earth:

"Navali, are you thinking—if the funds used to build this restaurant had been poured into the 'Solidarity Neighborhood,' would things have turned out a little differently?"

These words caused Navali to snap his head up.

For the first time, the look he gave Salman carried a trace of genuine astonishment.

Meeting Navali's startled gaze, Salman smiled faintly, winked at him, picked up the wine glass on the table, and gently swirled the red wine inside.

"Although I earned my Ph.D. from MIT's AI lab and later founded Close AI, my undergraduate major was applied psychology—I truly love the knowledge I gained from that field, and I haven't stopped studying it even after graduation."

As he spoke, his voice took on a sentimental note, while Navali remained silent.

Salman continued:

"Navali, regarding the transaction you and Sanders made on the dark web—you must know about it. Regarding our official announcement that the footage of the 'Masip incident' was AI-generated, we were forced to take it down. Headquarters at the FBI and the Office of the President both contacted us, and that pressure made things very difficult for us."

He looked at Navali, as if trying to probe something from the depths of his eyes.

Navali nodded, his voice hoarse:

"I know about this. I understand the pressure the company is facing, and I have no objections... Besides, at this point, letting the public know that the footage was AI-generated doesn't change anything anymore."

Salman nodded.

"I'm glad you can understand, Navali."

His gaze suddenly softened.

"However... what I need isn't just for you to understand; I need you to feel at ease—that is the respect owed to a genius."

With those words, he clapped his hands, and the attendant behind him spoke quietly into an earpiece.

The next moment, the door behind Salman swung open, and a man walked in holding a bottle of red wine.

The man was not wearing a waiter's uniform.

His demeanor stood out sharply from the rest of the service staff. His clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot. Clearly lacking sleep and suffering from a poor routine for quite some time, he had reduced a once-handsome face to a sorry state. The moment he laid eyes on him, Navali's pupils dilated.

Not because of the man's sudden appearance.

But because of his face.

—He was none other than Travis, the man who had once been with Julia and later became the president of the entire "Solidarity Neighborhood."

Travis walked up to their table, forced a smile onto his face, and respectfully placed the bottle of red wine on the tabletop.

"Mr. Salman, and Mr. Navali... Is there anything else you need me to do?"

As he spoke, his eyes darted shiftily, as if he were desperately trying to avoid meeting Navali's gaze. He pulled his body in tight, maintaining a respectful yet forced smile that made him look utterly pathetic.

Navali averted his eyes.

Right then, Salman's voice sounded.

"Travis Aquimen, born in the United States to undocumented Latino immigrants who only secured legal status after Travis turned ten. Afterward, Travis studied exceptionally hard in school. Though he wasn't particularly gifted in STEM subjects, he possessed a distinct talent for language and grammar.

"After entering college, Travis became part of the FBI's secret 'Social Driving Bureau.'

"This agency is not disclosed to the public, and its members officially have no connection to the FBI, nor are they listed on its payroll. Most of these members graduated from elite institutions, possessing superior intelligence and fierce ambition. While serving as part of the FBI, they leverage FBI resources to climb the social ladder, covertly securing resources for the bureau—and infiltrating, under legitimate identities, social activist organizations that the FBI perceives as potential threats to national security but lacks the pretext to destroy, thereby facilitating their neutralization or 'pacification.'

"As for the 'Masip Sanelez Incident,' it was, in essence, a 'Solidarity Neighborhood Collapse Plan' meticulously designed and executed by Travis Aquimen, who had been dispatched to the community by this very bureau."

His gentle voice echoed softly in the room, neither too loud nor too soft, yet it caused Travis's complexion to turn increasingly pale, his body beginning to tremble uncontrollably.

Salman ignored him, keeping his gentle gaze fixed on Navali:

"Although he is part of the FBI, to a certain extent, members of the 'Social Driving Bureau' who are deeply entangled in politics and public affairs—with very few exceptions—are just like other politicians: expendable pawns who can be traded away or discarded. Travis Aquimen is not one of those exceptions—so I paid a certain price to secure the current outcome.

"Everything that happens in this room today, regardless of what kind of end you desire for Mr. Travis, will become a forgotten illusion the moment you walk out those doors. You can choose to take matters into your own hands, but I recommend giving me a plan and letting others handle it; your physical health is not suited for undue exertion. Furthermore, outside this room, there are already more than five backup candidates—punks, thieves, drug dealers, or armed robbers—ready to take the fall for any charge you choose. You don't need to have any concerns."

Listening to Salman's voice, Navali shifted his gaze toward Travis.

The latter finally trembled all over, turned his body around, and looked at Navali with pleading eyes.

Navali silently stared at Travis. Echoing in his ears were the words Salman had spoken, yet in his heart there was neither joy nor hatred—only a vast, hollow emptiness.

The world was exceptionally cruel to people.

If Navali had been an insignificant nobody devoid of talent and assets, Travis might have become the lifelong target of his vengeance, compelling him to live out his days consumed by hatred, willing even to perish together.

Yet the world was also remarkably tender.

Once Navali demonstrated his talent and his future, he didn't even need to voice a request; Salman proactively captured the target of his revenge for him. Without the need for hundreds of thousands of words of pursuit or decades of floating through the currents of life, within a mere month, he had brought the man right to Navali's feet.

All of this was real, yet absurdly, ridiculously comical.

Navali let out a sudden sigh.

Then he shook his head:

"Let him go."

He met Salman's eyes, his gaze entirely detached and devoid of emotion.

"...I no longer have any need for revenge."

Salman smiled slightly.

He nodded to the side, and an attendant gestured for Travis to leave with him.

As if miraculously escaping death, Travis was drenched in sweat. Not daring to utter a single word, he cast a look of profound gratitude toward Navali before obediently following the attendant out.

Only then did the room finally begin serving the courses.

Then, Navali spoke thoughtfully:

"What do you think of cars?"

"Oh?"

Salman raised an eyebrow, looking at Navali as if he hadn't quite understood his meaning at first.

Navali shrugged.

"The driver provided by the company drives me to and from work in a Mercedes every day, but I feel a bit uneasy. So I suddenly thought of Citroën just now; their crash test scores seem exceptionally high in its class."

Ah, I see.

Salman wore a knowing smile and nodded at Navali.

"I understand. That car will be delivered to the villa tonight."

...

Halfway through the drinks and midway through the meal.

Salman suddenly put down his cutlery, looked at Navali, who was clearly somewhat distracted, and smiled:

"Actually, besides the matter just now, I have another gift I'd like to give you.

"I thought about what this gift should be for a long time. At first, I considered this restaurant—though I love it far too much, having personally overseen every single detail here, and I simply couldn't bear to hand it over to someone else.

"Therefore, I can only part with a portion of my secondary love to give to you."

With that, he pushed a document across the table toward Navali.

"A stock option incentive contract, starting at 0.5 percent equity in Close AI, with a maximum cap of two percent over a three-year period."

He winked at Navali. Though delivered in a joking tone, the weight of the gesture was profound.

Close AI was not publicly traded, but its current market valuation had already surpassed two hundred billion dollars.

By that standard, the contract before him represented a baseline of one billion dollars, with a maximum potential value of up to four billion dollars.

Salman's determination to bind Navali to his chariot was so intense that Navali could feel it palpably.

He stared at the document.

For a long time.

Navali reached out his hand.

His gaze finally showed a hint of wavering.

Looking at Salman, he said earnestly:

"I won't let you down."

"Then let's raise a glass to celebrate."

Salman lifted his wine glass toward him and smiled faintly.

(End of this chapter)