Two days later. Dallas, Texas.

The boardroom on the 23rd floor of Fluor's global headquarters felt heavier than usual. Not because of the lights, or the polished wood table, or the financial reports stacked at every seat.

It was the silence.

A kind of silence that only came before a once-in-a-generation corporate decision.

At the head of the table, Executive Vice President Daniel Offerman reviewed the documents in front of him—again. His jaw was tense, eyes moving quickly through numbers he had already memorized.

A $1.1 billion valuation.

Cash.

Clean exit.

Retention of engineering teams.

No layoffs.

Guaranteed protection of NuScale's legacy.

It was, by all objective metrics, the best offer Fluor had received in years—and the only serious one involving NuScale.

To his right, CFO Victoria Nash tapped her pen anxiously. To his left, Senior VP Harold Strickland leaned back, arms crossed, brows furrowed.

"This shouldn't be possible," Nash muttered. "A private firm offering a premium for a nuclear technology asset? Cash? It doesn't add up."

"It adds up," Strickland said. "It's just insane."

Offerman sighed quietly. "And yet… it's real. Proof of funds landed yesterday. J.P. Morgan confirmed."

The three exchanged glances.

Finally, Offerman pressed a button on the table.

"Bring him in."

A moment later, Timothy Guerrero appeared on the large monitor—calm, composed, wearing the same crisp confidence that had rattled them days earlier. Hana stood slightly behind him, tablet in hand, expression neutral but sharp.

"Good evening, Mr. Guerrero," Offerman said. "It's morning here."

"Good evening," Timothy replied. "I understand you've reviewed the LOI."

Nash cleared her throat. "We did. And frankly, we're surprised."

Timothy smiled faintly. "Good. I like being surprising."

Strickland interjected, "Mr. Guerrero, this is a billion-dollar nuclear acquisition. It is not typical. Nor simple."

"I'm not interested in simple," Timothy said. "I'm interested in solutions."

He leaned slightly forward.

"And I believe Fluor wants one too."

Offerman inhaled slowly, then spoke.

"You've given us a premium, a clean structure, a compliant U.S. entity, and a fallback for regulatory pushback. Your proposal seems… airtight."

"It is," Timothy replied.

"But," Nash cut in, "Helios is still a new firm. Its U.S. footprint is barely a week old. We want reassurance."

"You already have reassurance," Timothy said, voice steady. "Helios exists. Its bank account holds more cash today than NuScale has raised in the last fourteen months. And by next quarter, that number will double."

Hana adjusted something on her tablet, triggering a new document on the screen—Helios's three-year capital roadmap.

Offerman's eyes flickered with something he hadn't shown yet. Respect.

"This is… substantial," he murmured.

"And real," Hana added quietly.

Timothy continued. "I don't play pretend, Mr. Offerman. If I wanted to impress you, I'd send slide decks. I sent cash."

This time, Nash let out an involuntary breath and nodded.

They all knew it: liquidity spoke louder than presentations.

Offerman closed the folder slowly. "Mr. Guerrero, the board has deliberated for the past two days. We've weighed NuScale's financial state, shareholder sentiment, future liabilities, and the conditions of your offer."

He paused.

Timothy waited.

Hana didn't blink.

"We are prepared," Offerman said, "to accept the buyout—pending final negotiations and regulatory review."

Timothy didn't smile. Didn't lean back. Didn't show triumph.

He simply nodded once, controlled and unwavering.

"Good."

A beat.

"Then let's begin."

Later that night — Manila.

Hana walked into Timothy's private office, holding her tablet like it was a verdict.

"They accepted," she repeated for the tenth time, still stunned. "Fluor actually accepted."

Timothy was reviewing infrastructure plans on his second screen, but he paused long enough to meet her eyes.

"They would be fools not to," he said calmly.

"But sir… this was the hardest part. Fluor is the majority owner. If they're onboard, NuScale is effectively yours."

Timothy shook his head gently. "Not yet. Never assume victory until the ink is dry."

He gestured. "Tell me the details."

Hana scrolled. "Fluor wants a 72-hour window to negotiate final wording. They want reassurance on three things:

The continuity of NuScale's engineering team.

No immediate asset restructuring that affects U.S. operations.

Initial filings with CFIUS framed as Helios-driven, with no foreign mention in the first stage."

Timothy nodded. "Grant all three."

Hana blinked. "All? Even the third? That places more pressure on Helios's front."

"That's why Helios exists," Timothy replied. "Pressure is their camouflage. We stay underground until approval."

She typed quickly. "Understood."

"Next?" Timothy asked.

"They requested a joint announcement within fourteen days."

"No," Timothy said instantly. "We announce after CFIUS accepts the filing. Not sooner. Too much noise invites political games."

"I'll relay that," Hana said.

She hesitated.

"Sir… I think this is it. This is the moment. We crossed the hardest line."

Timothy stood, stretching his shoulders slightly. The skyline outside glowed with Manila's restless energy.

"No, Hana. The hardest line," he said, "is getting Reyes."

Corvallis, Oregon — the next morning.

Dr. José Reyes stood in his laboratory office, holding the printed LOI between his fingers.

His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something he hadn't felt in years.

Hope.

His lead engineer, Matthew Corbett, asked quietly, "Sir… are we really doing this?"

Reyes exhaled.

"For the first time in a long time," he said softly, "someone believes in this technology more than the market does."

He looked down at the letter again.

Guerrero's name at the bottom.

A man who built EVs at record speed. A man who launched Philippines manufacturing into global relevance. A man crazy enough to attempt what megacorps were too afraid to try.

"We're doing this," Reyes whispered. "We're finally doing this."

He placed the signed acknowledgment on his desk, exhaled, and whispered what he never dared to believe again:

"NuScale is going to live."

Back in Manila

Hana stepped into Timothy's office one last time that evening.

"Sir," she said, "Reyes sent his personal confirmation. He's fully onboard."

Timothy finally leaned back in his chair.

Not triumphant.

Not smug.

Just satisfied.

"Good," he said quietly. "Now we make history."

He gestured for Hana to close the blinds.

Tonight wasn't celebration.

Tonight was planning.

Because tomorrow, Helios would move—and by the end of the year, the world would learn that the future of nuclear was no longer American, nor corporate.

It was Timothy's.

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