CHAPTER 182: SO THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

September 3, 2029

Subic Bay Freeport Zone – West Marina

9:40 AM

The vessel looked different when it was his.

Same hull. Same lines. Same color. But standing on the pier with the paperwork done, crew hired, flag registered, it felt more solid. Less like an item on a list, more like a tool he now had to justify owning.

Hana stood beside him, oversized sunglasses on, hair tied up, sneakers and a loose blouse. No corporate ID, no tablet, no stack of folders. Just a small sling bag and her phone.

"So this is it?" she asked. "Your rich-man crisis?"

Timothy snorted. "You make it sound like I bought a sports car."

"You bought a yacht," she said. "That’s worse."

"It’s not a yacht," he corrected. "It’s an expedition vessel."

She stared at the matte graphite hull, the raised bridge, the plain railings. No polished chrome, no name painted in cursive, no fake teak decks.

"Yeah," she said. "This doesn’t scream ’billionaire.’ This screams ’Navy but with a higher budget.’"

"That’s the point."

The crew waited near the gangway. Captain Ortega, mid-forties, ex-merchant marine, gave a small nod.

"Good morning, sir," he said. "Fuel topped off. Systems checked. Weather’s good for a run."

"Good," Timothy said. "We’ll stay near the bay. No heroics."

"Yes, sir."

They crossed the gangway. Hana walked slower, looking at the deck, the fittings, the tie-down points.

"No lounge chairs," she said. "I’m disappointed already."

"Complain to procurement," Timothy said.

She laughed and followed him aft, then up toward the superstructure. The deck under their feet felt solid. No hollow echo, no cheap overlay panels. Just steel and grip plates.

"So," she said, falling into step beside him, "question."

"Ask."

"Why did you buy this?"

"Because I’m rich," Timothy said, straight-faced.

Hana clicked her tongue. "Wow. Amazing answer. So deep. So insightful."

"It’s honest."

"Yeah, but if you’re so rich, why this?" She gestured around. "You know there are yachts out there that cost, like, over a hundred million dollars, right? With helipads, theaters, swimming pools, elevators, submarines, probably a built-in mall."

"I know."

"And you picked... this. A floating power plant."

He shrugged. "I’m not trying to one-up Russian oligarchs."

"Then what are you trying to do?"

They reached the side passage that led up to the bridge. Timothy paused before stepping in.

"Honestly?" he said. "I wanted to understand why people even buy these things."

Hana raised an eyebrow. "You bought a ship to research rich people psychology?"

"Something like that."

They stepped into the bridge. The temperature dropped slightly. Aircon ran quiet. Screens were on standby. The bay spread out beyond the glass—water, cranes, distant hills.

Ortega and the watch officer took their positions.

"Cast off in five," the captain called.

Timothy moved to stand behind the helm chair. Hana stood near the side console, looking at the radar.

"So?" she pressed. "What did you figure out so far?"

"That rich people don’t buy yachts because they like boats," Timothy said. "They buy floating territory."

"Territory?"

"Space that belongs to them," he said. "Their rules. Their schedule. No hotel staff, no restaurant closing time, no random people listening in. If you want to host a meeting and make it clear who’s in control, you don’t invite them to a conference room. You invite them to your ship."

Hana nodded slowly. "So, dominance."

"Partly," he said. "Status, too. ’Look at my toy, it costs more than your company.’ But beyond the ego part, it’s also logistics. Security. Privacy. Controlled environment. A place to hold talks where you can’t be easily interrupted."

She looked around the bridge again. The equipment, the layout, the utilitarian chairs.

"And this one?" she asked. "Could it do that?"

"Not on that level," Timothy said. "This one doesn’t impress anyone. It doesn’t scream ’money.’ It just says ’I’m serious about going somewhere.’"

"So why start with this?"

He watched as the mooring lines were released. The vessel eased away from the dock. The low hum of the engines came alive, steady and contained.

"Because I don’t know yet if I even like this life," he said. "Owning a ship. Maintaining it. Staffing it. If I started with a hundred-million-dollar toy and then realized I hate it, that’s stupid. This is me testing the waters."

Hana grinned. "Test run for being obnoxiously rich."

"Something like that."

The vessel moved forward, clearing the marina. The bay opened wider in front of them, cranes and warehouses shrinking behind.

Ortega spoke without turning around. "We’ll head toward the mouth of the bay, sir. Calm seas today. We can keep it easy."

"That’s fine," Timothy said. "No rush."

Hana moved closer to the forward glass, looking down at the water cutting under the bow.

"It doesn’t feel like a yacht," she said. "Feels like we’re on some research mission."

"Could be," he said. "With the right equipment, you could map seafloors, launch survey drones, do coastal scans."

"Or host board meetings with senators in life vests," she said.

"I’m saving that for later."

She laughed quietly.

They stayed on the bridge as Subic’s shoreline slid by. Old US-era structures. New commercial buildings. Shipyards. The contrast between aging infrastructure and fresh paint never looked as clear as it did from the water.

They left the closer harbor waters. Swell increased a bit, but the vessel barely rolled. Stabilizers did their job. The captain checked instruments, adjusted heading, then relaxed slightly.

"This is nice," Hana admitted. "Not boring-nice. Just... calm."

"You can admit you like it," Timothy said. "No one will arrest you."

"I like the part where I didn’t pay for it," she said. "That’s my favorite feature."

They left the bridge for a while and stepped out onto the side deck. Wind hit them—not strong, but steady. Salt smell. Open air. The hull sliced through mild waves.

From here, the boat really did feel like what Alvarez had called it: an expedition hull, not a party platform. Railings waist-high. Deck fittings straightforward. No lounging pads, no bright cushions.

Hana rested her arms on the railing, looking out.

"So," she said, "do you think you’ll end up like those guys? You know, the ones with stupidly big toys parked in Monaco?"

"No," he said. "I still have too much work to do."

"That’s not an answer."

He thought about it.

"I think the difference is intent," he said. "If someone buys a yacht so they can post it, then yeah, that’s just flexing. But if you buy it because you need a mobile base? Different story."

"And you?"

"Right now?" he said. "I’m somewhere in between. I don’t ’need’ this. But I’m not buying it to park off some resort and throw parties either."

"So what, then?" Hana asked. "Honest version."

He watched a faint outline of a small fishing boat in the distance, bobbing on the water.

"I want to see what it’s like to have something that moves with me," he said. "Not another tower, not another factory. A platform I can bring to places with no airports, no ports, no roads. If that turns out useful, then maybe I’ll scale. If not, I stop here."

Hana nodded slowly.

"So this isn’t the final form," she said. "This is... prototype lifestyle."

"Exactly."