The Raptors came in low and fast, twin streaks of gray slicing through the atmosphere. At fifteen miles out, their HUDs began feeding high-resolution images back to Cheyenne Mountain.

"Visual contact," Morales radioed. "Confirming—holy hell."

The black A380 filled his canopy view like a continent suspended in the sky. Its obsidian body glinted platinum as sunlight struck it. No airline livery. No markings.

Green's voice cracked. "That's real? That's not CGI? Damn!"

Morales keyed his mic. "Command, this is Lead. Visual confirms Airbus A380, all-black. No visible weapons or anomalies. It's… gorgeous."

"Copy, Lead," NORAD replied. "Maintain escort at two o'clock low. Photograph everything."

The Raptors eased closer, forming a wide V-shape on either side of the black titan. Cameras embedded in their fuselages captured every detail: the massive Rolls-Royce engines, the subtle platinum streaks, the way the wings dwarfed even the Raptors themselves.

Inside the A380, Liam looked through the window and saw the gray fighters slotting neatly alongside him.

He sipped his water, amused. To the men in those cockpits, he was probably an urban legend made flesh.

The fighters held position for another minute, cameras clicking invisibly. Then Morales keyed his radio, "Lead to Command. Subject appears unbothered. Proceeding with escort until U.S. ADIZ handoff."

"Copy, Lead. Maintain visual until LAX approach control assumes."

***

Washington, D.C. – Homeland Operations Center

The secure briefing room looked like the inside of a warship: wall-to-wall monitors glowing with satellite feeds, registry logs, and real-time ATC radar. The image of the black A380 filled the central screen — its tail number, N914LX, circled in red.

The Homeland chair slammed his palm against the table.

"Alright, everyone, this is no longer observation. I want full mobilization. FBI, Treasury, CIA, DHS — this is priority one."

The room erupted into motion.

***

FBI – Counterintelligence Division

A senior agent barked orders to his team:

"Every financial trail, every document. If this Liam Scott sneezed in kindergarten, I want the tissue analyzed. Pull every surveillance camera around Holmby Hills, LAX, the hangar — cross-match facial rec. Put his friends, neighbors, associates under quiet watch. This kid is a ghost, and I want him pinned to the map. We will find his leverage point and we will squeeze."

Dozens of analysts began hammering keyboards. Bank ledgers, social media posts, and satellite imagery cascaded across their screens.

***

Treasury – Financial Crimes Enforcement Network (FinCEN)

"Trace the holding companies again," snapped the Treasury lead. "Caymans, Luxembourg, Singapore — I don't care how many shells he has stacked. If he's hiding sovereign money, we'll find the choke point. Pull in the IRS, have them comb his filings line by line."

A junior analyst muttered nervously, "Sir, what if it's clean?"

The lead gave him a cold look and replied, "Then that's the most terrifying part."

***

CIA – Directorate of Operations

In Langley, phones were already ringing. A handler leaned over a comms console.

"Activate sleepers in LA. Anyone with eyes near Holmby Hills, Bel-Air, and LAX — I want visual confirmation of every asset this kid has on the ground. We need HUMINT. His neighbors, his pilots, his drivers — all of them."

Across the world, CIA stations received encrypted pings. Liaison officers in London, Riyadh, and Tokyo were ordered to quietly feed back whatever chatter their local partners were hearing.

***

NSA – Fort Meade

At Fort Meade, an entire bank of analysts hunched over glowing screens as lines of code scrolled by.

"Packet sweep on all his known IPs," the division chief ordered. "Flag encrypted traffic. Anything routed through JP Morgan servers, mirror it. Don't trip alarms — I want passive collection only. If his systems are real, we won't even scratch the surface, but we'll try."

Within minutes, servers began hoovering up terabytes of data. The name "Liam Scott" became a keyword burned into every active filter.

***

Homeland Chair – Command Directive

The Homeland chair leaned forward, and spoke with a low yet firm voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, I don't care how impossible it looks — the fact is, an eighteen-year-old American citizen just rolled out the largest private aircraft in history, bought cash, and flew it out of LAX under a black paint job. This isn't a toy. This is projection of power. Whether it's his, or someone's behind him, we will find out."

He looked directly into the camera feed connected to NORAD's Cheyenne Mountain.

"Keep him on escort until he lands at LAX. Once he's on the ground, I want federal assets waiting. If necessary, we'll pull him into questioning under the guise of aviation compliance. FBI will take lead, supported by DHS. Until then — eyes on everything."

The room moved with the tension of a nation at DEFCON 21. Every agent, every analyst, every operative knew: this wasn't just about a plane. It was about what it meant.

***

On the 44th floor of 270 Park Avenue, the usually serene hush of the Private Banking division had dissolved into a low-grade panic.

Glass walls vibrated with raised voices, assistants darted back and forth carrying printouts, and the smell of burnt espresso hung in the air like static.

On the main conference table, a muted CNBC segment replayed the viral footage of the black Airbus A380 lifting off from LAX. The anchor's voice rolled beneath the images: "…no airline markings, registered as N914LX… the first private A380 ever to fly…"

Every time the camera cut to the jet's gleaming wings, someone in the room shifted uncomfortably.

A managing director for ultra-high-net-worth clients pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is this a joke?" he muttered. "That at least is a half-billion-dollar plane. In his own name. And it's trending worldwide."

Beside him, a compliance officer tapped through a frozen copy of the FAA registry on her iPad. "It's not a joke. Registry is real. Owner of record: Liam Scott. Date of birth: 2007. All filings signed off last week. An unknown holding company in Delaware filed the structure."

"Who the hell buys something like that with their actual name? What's wrong with buying under a company name?" Another senior banker asked, but no one had any answer.

Finally, Marianne stepped into the glass-walled room, with a tight expression on their face. Liam was once their client and will always be, even though he now manage his own things.

And as JP Morgan, they must protect their clients.

She set her tablet down and spoke flatly, "Stop speculating. Yes, it's our client. Yes, it's his aircraft. No, we are not authorized to disclose anything about him, not even to government agencies without proper legal process. Do you all understand?"

Murmurs rippled around the table and someone whispered, "Homeland's going to subpoena us…"

Marianne's eyes flicked up sharply. "They can try. Every document is clean. Every wire was legal. Every trust is sealed under international confidentiality statutes. We structured it to withstand sovereign audits for a reason. If regulators call, we refer them to Legal. If journalists call, we give a no-comment. Nothing more."

A younger analyst raised a hand hesitantly. "Ma'am… why didn't he at least let us drip this out? Stage a media rollout? The secrecy is—"

"—exactly what he wanted," Marianne cut him off. "You don't understand. This client doesn't think like a hedge-fund billionaire. He doesn't think like any of you."

On the muted TV, the anchor asked: "Who owns the Black Titan?" and the chyron scrolled #BlackTitan – Ownership Unknown.

Marianne's gaze lingered on the footage for a moment, before giving more instructions, speaking loudly this time, "Double the compartmentalization. Rotate logins. Lock down all internal memos about the Family Office. If someone leaks even a detail, we'll lose him, and this bank will lose the largest client of the decade."

A senior VP frowned. "You're saying he's that big?"

Marianne met his eyes. "Bigger."

Silence spread through the room. Outside the glass, the skyline of Midtown Manhattan glowed under the afternoon sun.

Explanation in author's note

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