The training felt like hell.
Every inch of Maria's body screamed in agony — her limbs heavy, her muscles useless, her breath ragged. She lay flat on the floor, unmoving, like the aftermath of war.
The instructor stood above her, arms folded, eyes calm but cutting.
"You still have a lot to learn before you even scratch the surface of average," he said, voice steady, bored even. "But at least you're keeping up. A common thug or some backstreet gang won't take you down now… but don't let it get to your head. Experience always wins. Don't go playing hero with people who've lived through worse."
He let out a lazy yawn and stretched his back like someone waking from a nap instead of watching a girl drown in pain.
Jake squatted beside Maria, his fingers brushing her wrist as he checked her pulse like a doctor with a dark grin.
"You look like someone ran a marathon on your spine," he muttered.
Then, without asking, he slid his arms under her and hoisted her up like a sack of rice — over his shoulder, no ceremony, no softness.
"Hey—!" Maria tried to groan, but her voice was too wrecked to bite.
Jake just walked out, his steps smooth, casual, as if carrying a body wasn't strange for him.
Behind them, the instructor chuckled under his breath.
"Tsk. Should've known... Anyone that catches his interest is bound to be dangerous too. Look what she did to Star. Ruthless. Crazy."
He sounded more amused than concerned.
The instructor shook his head slowly as he cleaned up the training room.
"They weren't lying when they said crazy knows crazy," he muttered to himself.
Once the floor was spotless, he took a cup, walked to the water dispenser, filled it casually, and took a small sip. Then, with that same unbothered pace, he stepped into the virtual training room where Star still lay unconscious, his pride broken along with his body.
The instructor stood over him, eyes unreadable. Without a word, he dumped the cold water onto Star's face.
"You're not dead yet," he said coolly, like he hadn't just poured water on someone's face.
Star shot up with a jolt, gasping and coughing, his hand instinctively going to his head.
"FUCK! What the hell?! Is that how you wake someone up?" he snapped, his voice hoarse and trembling with rage.
Holding his head, he cursed again. "That bitch— I'm gonna kill her. I swear I'll make her life hell. She thinks this is over? I am her hell—"
CRACK!
A sharp scream tore out of him as something hit his forehead with precision. A bleeding bump began to swell immediately.
He looked down to see the shattered remains of the glass cup—what the instructor had been holding seconds ago—now lying dangerously close to his hand.
The force had been deliberate. Controlled. Meant to hurt, not kill. But just enough to remind him.
The instructor didn't even glance at the damage. He was staring at the painting on the wall like Star's tantrum didn't matter.
"You're screaming instead of reflecting. That's why you lost."
His voice was like steel—calm, but cutting.
"You couldn't beat a girl who hasn't even trained for a month. You cheated, and you still got your ass handed to you. And now you're acting like you're the victim?"
He finally looked at Star, eyes sharp and merciless.
"You should be asking yourself why she beat you. Instead, you're whining. Threatening revenge like a cartoon villain. Grow up."
His gaze hardened.
"If this is how you plan to act in the tournament—running your mouth, losing your head—then just kill yourself now."
He took a step closer, voice low and final.
"Because if you go in like this… I will kill you."
"You think I want to be like this? I just hate her. I want to kill her!" Star snapped, pacing like a caged animal, his voice rising with every word. "You're all supporting her too damn much! A girl like her—barely old enough to buy her own lipstick—suddenly wants to fight?"
He stopped, breathing hard, eyes flashing with something close to fear.
"Did you see how she cracked my skull in the virtual room? I saw it—really saw it. The madness in her eyes... Not like Jake, who plays with emotions and laughs at the chaos. No. She was calm. Cold. Detached. That kind of stillness? It's terrifying."
The instructor, leaning against the wall, suddenly burst into laughter—dry and mocking.
"Innocent?" he said between chuckles. "You think anyone in the inner training room is innocent? Hell, even the ones outside are dirty. Don't tell me you actually think you're a real cop now."
He stood upright, walked toward Star, and his voice dropped into a dangerous whisper.
"If you really want to kill her, go do it. In fact, do it now—before Jake gets more interested."
Star flinched slightly, confused, but didn't speak.
"If you succeed…" The instructor walked over and shoved a knife into his hand. "Good for you."
He stepped away.
"But if you don't…"
He said nothing else.
Didn't need to.
Star stared at the blade in his hand, cold metal pressing against his palm. A chill crawled down his spine. The message was clear.
If he failed, he should kill himself—before she got to him.
Star looked up, but the instructor was already walking away.
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
"Since when did it come to this?" he whispered. "Kill myself if I lose… so I don't have to feel her version of failure?"
He clenched the knife, the weight of it grounding him in the madness swirling in his head.
"Fuck…"
He needed to let off steam—soon. Or he'd snap before she even got the chance.
Jake drove Maria to her house. The ride was quiet, peaceful even, with just the soft hum of the car filling the silence. When they pulled up in front of her place, Maria reached for the door handle.
But Jake, of course, couldn't let her leave so easily.
He started humming a tune—offbeat, familiar—and then said casually, "I'll make Star send you the money. A promise is a promise, right?"
He tilted his head toward her, lips twitching with a smirk.
Maria paused, one foot already out the door. "Hmm. And Jake," she said without turning fully, her voice calm but laced with warning, "this is the last time I'm telling you—don't use me as your source of entertainment. I'm trying to be nice, but if you rush my life—"
She cut herself off and stepped out of the car, letting the unfinished threat hang in the air like a ticking bomb.
Jake grinned as he watched her walk away, heels clicking against the pavement.
"Bye, bestie!" he called out loudly, laughter bursting from his chest as he leaned back in his seat.
He pulled out his vape and took a long drag, blowing the smoke toward the car ceiling, completely unbothered.
Until a knock hit the window.
He didn't flinch. Just glanced sideways, the smoke curling lazily around his face as his Phoenix eyes—sharp, bright, unreadable—met the figure outside with a spark of interest.
Jordan stood there, knocking again.
The smoke inside the car gave everything a surreal haze, but Jake's eyes were clear—amused, curious, almost thrilled. Like he had been expecting them.
Jordan didn't speak. He simply stood tall, calm, raising a hand.
Several bodyguards emerged behind him, weapons drawn and ready.
Still, Jake didn't move. He kept vaping, exhaling a long plume of smoke as he studied Jordan with the relaxed detachment of someone watching a mildly interesting movie.
Their eyes locked.
Jordan's gaze said it all:
Come out alive.
Or don't come out at all.
Either way works for us.
Jake's grin widened.
Then—
Gunfire.
The sharp cracks of bullets echoed through the night.
Inside the building, Maria had just reached the elevator when she froze.
Her head turned instinctively—senses on high alert—but before she could even react, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist from behind.
"Baby, I missed you," Mike whispered into her ear.
The metallic doors slid shut behind them with a soft thud. Mike stood beside Maria, too close for comfort. She turned sharply to face him, her brow furrowed.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
"Why can't I be here?" he replied, pouting dramatically. "Wifey, if I'm not with you, who should I be with, hmm?"
He gently folded her arms across her chest, a teasing light dancing in his gaze as he studied her. But something flickered behind his eyes—brief, unreadable, and strange. He blinked it away and smiled.
"You look tired," he said suddenly, voice dipped in concern. "What did you do?"
Maria didn't respond. Her lips pressed into a line of silence. Mike sighed and reached out, patting her hair with surprising gentleness.
"Take care of yourself. I won't ask where you went or who you met," he said quietly, "so don't be guarded around me, okay?"
Then his gaze dropped. A shift—so slight yet so sharp—the warmth in his eyes disappeared. He noticed it.
Her hand.
The bruised, bleeding knuckles.
His brows furrowed, and the air between them turned cold. Maria instinctively took a step back, her skin prickling with goosebumps. When she followed his line of sight, she saw his eyes fixed on her wounded hand—red, scraped, raw. The aftereffect of her punch, a full swing into Star's face.
She tried to hide it, clenching her fist, but Mike gently caught it.
His cold hand wrapped around hers—ice meeting fire—and she flinched.
He didn't speak, not right away. His head was lowered, his expression unreadable, but there was something about him... like he was looking at something once precious, now burned and broken.
Wordlessly, he pulled out a silk handkerchief and began cleaning the wound. His touch was as delicate as if he were tending to a newborn.
"I want you to be happy," he murmured. "To live without harm. I want to protect you, Maria... to shield you from all the ugliness in this world."
His voice trembled with quiet desperation, though his words came soft and slow.
"You have someone willing to kill for you. Why won't you use me? I'll do your dirty work. You wouldn't need to lift a single finger. If you asked, I'd make the world kneel or set it ablaze—just say the word."
He looked up. His eyes didn't plead; they promised.
"But... I know you don't want that."
He smiled bitterly.
"So just let me stay. Let me be by your side. I'll hand you the knife, or I'll cheer you on from the shadows. I don't care which—just don't ignore me."
Mike's voice was gentle. Soft. But beneath that softness… his possessive nature glinted, sharp and dangerous. And yet, for her, he tried—he was trying—to act like a rabbit.
....
Gunfire rained like hail, then—silence.
Jordan lifted his hand.
The attack stopped as quickly as it began.
His eyes flickered toward the vehicle—completely intact save for a few cosmetic scratches. Bulletproof. High-grade. A thought passed through Jordan's mind, but he kept his expression unreadable.
From inside the untouched car, Jake exhaled a cloud of sweet vapor and set his vape down. He pushed the door open and stepped out with a lazy stretch, as if returning from a nap, not surviving a shooting.
"Please follow me," Jordan said calmly, like he hadn't just ordered an ambush.
Jake tilted his head, smirking. "Nice fireworks display. Very entertaining. But a bit clumsy. Needs more flair next time."
Jordan's expression didn't change. "Noted. I'll make sure the next one is up to your standards, sir."
Jake gave a mock gasp. "Sir? Don't make me sound old. Call me Jake. Or darling. I'm flexible."
Then, just as suddenly, he turned and took a few steps—only to pause mid-stride.
"Why are you still standing there?" he asked over his shoulder, flashing a bright, toothy grin. "Aren't you going to show me around? I'm starving. I hope the place is decent."
Jordan nodded coolly. "It is."
The bodyguards stayed close, on edge. Jake's casual demeanor didn't fool them. He couldn't be more than nineteen, but the fact that he'd sat through a storm of bullets without flinching—and that his car was fortified like a military tank—spoke volumes.
This was not a normal boy.
This was a monster in designer skin.
As they walked, Jake's eyes sparkled with mischief.
"I'm curious," he said. "Why would the Fang family's golden grandson serve the Night family like an obedient assistant? You may not be equals, but surely, your family could land a few bruises in a feud."
Jordan didn't flinch. "Seems you know quite a bit about us. But we know nothing about you."
"That's unfair really," Jake pouted. "We're friends, aren't we?"
Jake gave a faint smile. "Friends who greet each other with bullets."
Jordan gave a nod cooly
Jake laughed. "Exactly. My favorite kind of friends. I can tell already—we're going to have so much fun."
He whistled cheerfully, a tune that didn't match the darkness in his eyes.
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