Alex's existence in the Brooklyn apartment with John, the definitely-immortal-but-won't-admit-it mastermind who ran Aegis Q, drank with Lucifer, and treated Excalibur like a paperweight, was a daily descent into absurdity punctuated by culinary bribery.

  By now, Alex had accepted—no, he was certain—that John was some kind of eternal being who'd lived through centuries, maybe millennia. The evidence was suffocating: Victorian crowns, military papers from three wars, tea with the literal Grim Reaper, whiskey with the Devil, and yesterday's bombshell that John casually ran a trillion-dollar conglomerate as a "side hustle."

  But here's what made Alex want to throw his laptop out the window: John still wouldn't say it out loud.

  Every confrontation ended the same way—John would deflect with tacos, pivot to Netflix, or make a joke so disarming that Alex forgot he'd asked a question. It was psychological warfare disguised as roommate chitchat, and Alex was losing.

  His Excel spreadsheet now had 47 entries under "Evidence of Immortality," 31 under "Deflections/Excuses," and a new tab labeled "Billionaire Nonsense" with exactly one entry: CEO of Aegis Q, net worth 2.3 trillion, owns Mars drones.

  Alex was building an airtight case. He just needed someone—anyone—to confirm it.

  Then a quintessentially English butler showed up to complain about John's excessive wealth and deliver a ruby the size of a Fabergé egg, and Alex's brain didn't just break—it filed for bankruptcy and fled to the Cayman Islands.

  The Super-Dapper Butler

  It was a drizzly Sunday morning, and Alex was nursing a coffee, still reeling from yesterday's Aegis Q revelation. John was in the kitchen, flipping pancakes while wearing his "prop" Russian crown (because of course he was), humming what Alex now recognized as a Renaissance-era drinking song.

  A knock at the door shattered the morning calm. Not a casual knock, but a precise, dignified tap-tap-tap that screamed, I iron my socks and my ancestors served royalty.

  Alex shuffled over, expecting a delivery or maybe Sarah finally showing up to stage an intervention. Instead, he faced a man who could've stepped out of a Downton Abbey episode.

  Tall, silver-haired, and ramrod straight, the man wore a black tailcoat that looked like it cost more than the building's deed. His white gloves were pristine, his bow tie was a geometric marvel, and his posture suggested he'd been trained by ballet instructors and drill sergeants in equal measure. A monogrammed leather satchel hung from his shoulder, embossed with a subtle "J.H."

  Alex's stomach dropped. Another mythological figure? A time-traveling aristocrat? The ghost of Alfred Pennyworth?

  "Good morning, sir," the man said, his English accent so polished it could've buffed the crown jewels. "I am Percival Gladstone, Mr. Harrow's personal steward. Might I speak with him?"

  Personal steward? Alex's brain did a backflip. John had a butler? Of course he did. Why wouldn't the immortal CEO of a trillion-dollar empire have a butler?

  "Uh, yeah, he's... making pancakes," Alex managed, his voice cracking. "Come in?"

  Percival glided inside like a swan navigating a landfill, his eyes briefly scanning the peeling wallpaper, the thrift-store couch, and Excalibur leaning against a pizza box. His expression remained diplomatically neutral, but Alex swore he saw the faintest twitch of disapproval.

  John looked up from the stove, crown slightly askew, spatula in hand. "Percy! Good to see you, mate. Pancake?"

  Percival declined with a slight bow. "No, thank you, sir. I'm here regarding your... acquisitions."

  Alex hovered by the counter, pretending to wipe a nonexistent spill, his ears perked like a detective at a wire tap.

  The Too-Much-Money Problem

  Percival set his satchel on the table with the reverence of someone handling a holy relic, then opened it to reveal a stack of documents and a velvet box that made Alex's net worth feel like pocket change.

  "Sir," Percival began, his tone a perfect blend of deference and exasperation, "your latest purchases are causing... logistical issues."

  John flipped a pancake with a casual flick. "Issues? What kind of issues?"

  Percival pulled out a leather-bound ledger, adjusting his reading glasses with the precision of a surgeon. "The vaults in Geneva are at capacity—again. The yacht in Monaco requires a second crew due to its size, and the staffing costs are becoming prohibitive. The new estate in New Zealand, complete with private vineyard and heliport, is straining our personnel resources. We simply don't have enough staff to maintain all of your properties."

  Alex's coffee mug slipped, splashing his shirt. Vaults? Plural? Yacht? New Zealand estate with a heliport?

  John shrugged, plating pancakes like Percival was complaining about a messy closet. "Just sell one of the islands, Percy. The Maldives one—barely use it. Or donate a vault to a museum. Keeps things tidy."

  Percival sighed—a sound so refined it could've been bottled as an ASMR track. "With respect, sir, your wealth is... unwieldy. The gold reserves alone could destabilize markets if mismanaged. And the art collection—Picasso, da Vinci, that troublesome Van Gogh you acquired last week—requires a new climate-controlled wing. We're running out of space."

  Stolen story; please report.

  Alex's jaw hit the floor. Da Vinci? John, who once burned toast and blamed the toaster, owned a da Vinci? And was Percival complaining about too much money?

  "Tell you what," John said, sliding a pancake onto a plate and offering it to Percival, who politely declined again. "Move the Van Gogh to the Maldives villa. Merlin likes it there. And bump the Geneva staff—hire a few more vault managers. Problem solved."

  Percival made a note in his ledger, his pen strokes as precise as a calligrapher's. "Very well, sir. But the board also requests your input on the lunar mining project. The prototype is ready for your review."

  Lunar mining? Alex wanted to scream. He settled for crushing his coffee mug slightly, foam dribbling onto the counter.

  John waved a hand. "Tell them I'll swing by next week. Or send Merlin. She's better with the tech stuff anyway."

  Percival nodded, then opened the velvet box with a flourish. Inside was a ruby the size of a Fabergé egg, blood-red and glinting like it had a heartbeat. The light from the window hit it, casting prismatic beams across the room that made the already-glowing Heart of Karnataka on the coffee table look jealous.

  "Your latest purchase, sir," Percival said, presenting it like a sommelier offering a rare wine. "The Heart of Karnataka, acquired at auction for $250 million. Shall I add it to the Singapore vault or the private display?"

  John picked up the ruby, tossing it in his hand like it was a stress ball. "Eh, leave it here for now. Looks cool on the coffee table."

  He set it next to the stack of pizza menus, where it pulsed with an ominous glow. Alex choked on his coffee.

  "Two hundred and fifty million?" he spluttered, pointing at the ruby like it might explode.

  Percival glanced at him, mildly surprised, as if just noticing the mortal in the room. "A modest sum for Mr. Harrow," he said, then turned back to John. "Sir, the board also requests your input on the Mars rover situation. NASA's cooperation has been... lacking."

  John snorted. "NASA's always behind schedule. Tell the team to just do it ourselves. We've got the budget."

  "Of course, sir." Percival packed his satchel, adjusted his gloves, and bowed slightly. "I'll resolve the yacht issue and coordinate the vault expansion. Shall I return next month for a full estate review?"

  "Sounds good, Percy. Thanks for stopping by."

  Percival left with a promise to "address the staffing concerns," gliding out the door like he'd just concluded a meeting with the Queen.

  The door clicked shut, and Alex stood frozen in the kitchen, his coffee forgotten, his brain attempting to process that John's butler had just delivered a $250 million ruby while complaining about overflowing vaults and understaffed yachts.

  Alex's Wealth-Induced Breakdown

  Alex didn't wait. He rounded on John, waving his arms like an air traffic controller having a breakdown.

  "OKAY. NO. STOP." His voice hit a pitch that could've summoned dolphins. "Your butler—your ACTUAL BUTLER—just complained that you're TOO RICH. You have vaults—PLURAL—in Geneva that are OVERFLOWING. You own a yacht so big it needs TWO CREWS. You bought a $250 MILLION RUBY and you're using it as a PAPERWEIGHT next to PIZZA MENUS!"

  John, flipping the last pancake onto a plate, didn't even look up. "Percy's a bit dramatic. The vaults aren't overflowing—they're just... full. And the ruby was on sale."

  "ON SALE?!" Alex's voice cracked. "It's a QUARTER OF A BILLION DOLLARS!"

  John shrugged, sliding the pancake plate toward Alex. "Auctions are competitive. I bid, I won. It's a nice rock. Want syrup?"

  Alex wanted to flip the table. He wanted to grab John by his flannel collar and shake him until the truth fell out like loose change. But instead, he did what he always did: he grabbed his phone and texted Sarah.

  "JOHN'S BUTLER COMPLAINED ABOUT TOO MUCH MONEY. $250M RUBY AS PAPERWEIGHT. OWNS DA VINCI. STILL WON'T ADMIT IMMORTALITY."

  Sarah's reply was a video of her smashing a coffee mug, captioned: "STEAL THE RUBY. WE'RE GOING TO SOTHEBY'S."

  Alex pocketed his phone and collapsed onto the couch, staring at the Heart of Karnataka, which now sat next to a half-empty Red Bull can, mocking his entire existence.

  "John," he said, his voice flat with exhaustion. "You own islands. Plural. You have a butler who manages your overflowing vaults. You just casually bought a ruby worth more than some countries' GDPs. When—WHEN—are you going to admit you're not just some guy who likes history?"

  John sat across from him, pouring coffee with the ease of a man who'd probably advised emperors on tax policy. "I mean, I do like history. That part's true."

  "THAT'S NOT THE POINT!"

  John's smile was infuriatingly calm. "Look, Alex, money's just a tool. I've been around long enough to accumulate some. Percy handles the boring logistics—vaults, yachts, all that. I just live my life. Keeps things simple."

  "SIMPLE?!" Alex gestured wildly at the ruby. "You're using a RUBY THE SIZE OF AN EGG as a COASTER!"

  "I mean, I thought I add a little decorum to the place, don't you think ?" John said, taking a sip of coffee.

  Alex screamed into a couch cushion.

  The Immortal Tycoon's Nonchalance

  The next morning, John acted like nothing had happened. He made coffee—some artisanal Colombian blend that probably cost more per ounce than Alex's car payment—and hummed what Alex now recognized as a medieval tavern song.

  The ruby still sat on the coffee table, glowing faintly next to a stack of unpaid utility bills. Alex stared at it, wondering if it was judging him for his student loans.

  "So," Alex ventured, clutching his coffee mug like a life preserver, "Percival. Your butler. How long has he worked for you?"

  John flipped a waffle with the precision of a man who'd probably cooked for Macedonian armies. "Oh, Percy? Well he wasn’t working for me personally, but about 40 years, give or take. Great guy. Very organized."

  Alex blinked. "Forty years?"

  "Yeah, his grandfather worked for mine before that. The Gladstone family's been with my family for a few generations. Super loyal."

  "Generations," Alex repeated, his voice hollow. He opened his laptop, pulling up his spreadsheet.

  Sheet: "Evidence of Immortality"

  New entry: Butler's family has served his ‘family’ for generations. Owns vaults (plural), yachts, islands, da Vinci. Bought $250M ruby casually.

  Sheet: "Deflections/Excuses"

  New entry: "Money's just a tool." "Percy handles the boring logistics." "Want syrup?"

  Sheet: "Food Bribes"

  New entry: Pancakes, waffles (pending).

  John slid a waffle onto a plate, perfectly golden, and handed it to Alex. "You're updating the spreadsheet again, aren't you?"

  Alex looked up, fork frozen mid-air. "How do you know about the spreadsheet?"

  John grinned, pouring syrup over his own waffle. "You mutter about it in your sleep. 'Evidence tab... deflections tab...' It's endearing."

  Alex wanted to cry. Or laugh. Or both. He settled for eating the waffle, which was—of course—perfect.

  The rent was still cheap. Merlin's cookies were still in the fridge. And John was still the most infuriating, enigmatic, deflection-champion billionaire immortal roommate in the history of Brooklyn.

  Alex wasn't moving out. Not yet. But if the next visitor was the ghost of Andrew Carnegie asking John for investment tips, he was grabbing the ruby, Excalibur, and maybe Percival's phone number—because clearly, the butler knew more than he was letting on.