The bar was called 'Paradise,' and as I stood outside with Tiffany, the name felt like a cruel joke. The real paradise, for me, was the quiet hum of my empire beginning to turn, the feeling of my plans clicking into place. This… this was just another battlefield.
"Nari is intelligent," I said, my voice a low murmur as we watched the city's elite drift in and out of the bar's opulent entrance.
"Yes, she is," Tiffany replied, her tone as cool and analytical as ever. "She even managed to make her offer to meet at the council meeting sound casual. She's cooperating, but she's also testing us."
"We'll help her, but for now, let's focus on the mission," I said. "We're looking for the best angle to approach the bar. And remember, don't stare at me and Melissa. Just get the pictures. Secretly. Hidden cameras only."
"I know," she said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. "This isn't my first intelligence operation, Adam."
We split up at the entrance. The moment I stepped inside, I understood the name. 'Paradise' wasn't just a bar; it was a different world. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey. Soft, ambient music pulsed from hidden speakers, and the lighting was a dim, golden glow that made everyone look like a movie star. I scanned the room, my eyes adjusting to the dark.
And then I found her.
She was a single, fiery rose in a garden of pale lilies. Melissa Richard. She sat alone at the bar counter, a martini glass held delicately in her hand. Her allure was so intensely feminine it was almost a physical force. She wore a rose-gold sequined bodycon mini dress that clung to her voluptuous curves like a second skin, the shimmering fabric catching the light with every subtle movement. I was enchanted.
Control yourself, Adam.
The moment I entered, I felt the familiar hum of my skills activating, a silent symphony of power under my skin. [Incubus], [Charmer], [Casanova], [Napoleon], and [Chanakya]. I was no longer just Adam Wilson; I was an arsenal of influence.
I walked to the bar, my movements casual, and sat down a few seats away from her, acting as if I hadn't even noticed her. "An Old Fashioned," I said to the bartender, my voice calm.
I took a slow sip of my drink, enjoying the burn of the whiskey, letting the silence stretch. Then, a voice, smooth as silk but with a hint of steel, cut through the noise.
"It looks like the younger generation still prefers the classics."
I turned, feigning surprise, and met her sharp brown eyes. "I believe good things don't get old," I said, letting a small, appreciative smile touch my lips. "Like a charming woman and an Old Fashioned. What do you think… Mrs. Richard?"
She looked amazed, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes. "Oh! You remember me."
"You helped me," I said simply. "It's hard to forget someone like you."
She smiled then, a real, unguarded expression that transformed her face. "Oh, sorry. Let's introduce ourselves properly. I am Melissa Richard. The current Commanding Head of Police in Grand Metropolis. And you are?"
"Adam Wilson," I replied, my own smile genuine now. "A second-year student at Northwood High, and the recently established co-chairperson of my own investment firm."
She looked surprised, and then intrigued. "I'm impressed. Establishing your own company at your age. You must be very capable."
"You could say that," I said. I let my gaze drift over her, a look of polite concern on my face. "But I have to admit, I'm confused. Why is such a beautiful woman drinking alone, looking so melancholy? A smile would look far more charming on you."
A faint blush colored her cheeks, and she let out a soft laugh. "You're quite interesting, Adam. And daring. Are you flirting with a police officer?"
I grinned. "Who would dare to flirt with such a glamorous and powerful woman? I'm just stating the facts."
She laughed again, a genuine, musical sound that turned heads at the bar. "You know," she said, her eyes sparkling, "it's been days since I've smiled like this."
"Now you're looking even more beautiful," I said, my voice a low, sincere murmur.
She looked at me, a new, intense curiosity in her eyes. "You've made my day, Adam. Today's drinks are on me. Order whatever you want."
I leaned in just a fraction, my tone gentle but teasing. "I'll have whatever you're having, Mrs. Richard."
She looked a little shy, a vulnerability that was a stark contrast to her powerful persona. "Two martinis," she said to the bartender, before turning back to me. "You can just call me Melissa."
"Okay, Melissa," I replied. As she spoke, my [Advanced Appraisal] skill was already at work, the familiar white panel shimmering in my vision.
Status:
Name: Melissa Richard
Strength: 450
Agility: 475
Endurance: 522
Mentality: 290 (-50%)
Intelligence: 425
Mana: 0
Potential: A
Skills: [Expert in CQC (Close Quarters Combat)], [Mastery in Marksmanship], [Criminal Profiling], [Interrogation Expert], [Tactical Command], [Forensic Acumen], [Ballistics Expert], [Hazard Control]
Passive Skills: [Commander's Presence], [Unyielding Justice], [Human Lie Detector], [Themis], [Investigator's Intuition], [Nerves of Steel]
Superpower: [None]
Soul Ledger: [Intrigued by the Anomaly] & [A Person of Interest]
I was amazed. Her stats were incredible, a testament to a life of discipline and danger. But her Mentality… it was slashed in half. The rumors about her husband were clearly taking a heavy toll.
She waved a hand in front of my face, pulling me from my thoughts. "What happened, Adam? You zoned out."
"Nothing," I said, shaking my head slightly. "Just staring at you and thinking. Don't you think wearing something this… provocative… might attract the wrong kind of attention?"
She gave me a sultry, challenging gaze. "Someone is hitting on me right now."
"I'm just admiring your beauty," I replied smoothly.
She looked impressed. "Okay, enough with the flattery, young man. Tell me. How can a schoolboy, who can't be more than twenty at most, be so ruthless, so strategic, and so good in a fight?" She was probing, her [Interrogation Expert] skill probably at work. But I was prepared.
"I'm just protecting my family, Melissa," I said, my voice full of a simple, unwavering sincerity.
She looked satisfied with my answer. I decided to press my own advantage. "I can feel that there's something eating you up from the inside," I said, my voice gentle. "Why don't you try sharing it with me? I might not be able to help, but I'm sure you'll feel better."
She looked genuinely happy, a look of profound relief washing over her face. "I'm sad because I'm hearing rumors that my husband is a corrupt officer and is also cheating on me," she confessed, the words tumbling out. "I don't want to believe them, but I can't ignore them. I heard from a source that he was trying to harass a new intern…"
I thought for a moment. Then I said, "I think, Melissa, you should find the answer yourself. If I give my reasoning, it might be disastrous for your investigation."
She looked at me, a new, deep respect in her eyes. "You're amazing. You really know that this isn't an easy problem, and that someone else's suggestion could completely change the direction of a case."
I held out my hand. She looked at it, a little amazed. "What happened, Adam?"
"I can't help you with your investigation," I said, my voice a low, comforting hum. "But I can make you happy. Let's dance."
"But… I don't know how," she admitted, a rare vulnerability in her voice.
"Let me help you," I said, pulling her gently to her feet. I led her towards the small, intimate dance floor, my hand warm and steady on the small of her back. The smooth, sequined fabric of her dress felt electric under my palm. The slow, jazzy tune that had been playing faded out, replaced by something new. A tango. The music was a low, seductive pulse, a rhythm of coiled tension and passionate release. Perfect.
She tensed up, her body rigid. "Adam, I really can't do this. This is…"
"This is just a dance, Melissa," I whispered, my voice a low murmur meant only for her. I pulled her closer, my left hand finding hers, our fingers lacing together. "You're the Commanding Head of Police. You face down criminals and killers. Are you telling me you're scared of a little music?"
My words hit their mark. I saw a flicker of her usual fire return to her eyes, a spark of defiance against her own vulnerability.
Melissa's internal thought: Scared? I'm not scared. But this is… different. I command rooms. I control situations. Here… I have to follow. I have to trust him. Why does that feel so terrifying, and so… thrilling?
I began to lead, my body moving with a fluid grace that felt both foreign and completely natural. My skills weren't just for fighting or seduction; they were a library of movement, of understanding. I could feel every subtle shift in her weight, every moment of hesitation. She was stiff at first, her steps mechanical, the trained, disciplined movements of a commander trying to force a new protocol.
"Don't think, Melissa," I murmured, my lips close to her ear. "Just feel. Let go of the Commander for a minute. Let me see the woman who smiles when she thinks no one is watching."
And then, something shifted. She took a small, shuddering breath and let it out, and with it, a layer of her armor seemed to melt away. Her body relaxed into mine, her movements becoming less rigid, more fluid. We moved across the floor, a single, unified entity. It was no longer a lesson; it was a conversation. A push and a pull. A dip, a turn, a sharp, staccato step. It was a dance of control and surrender, and for the first time, she wasn't the one in command. She was following my lead, and she was loving it.
The world outside our small circle of movement ceased to exist. There was only the music, the feel of her body against mine, and the look in her eyes—a look of surprise, of wonder, of a woman rediscovering a part of herself she had long since buried.
As the final, dramatic chord of the music hung in the air, I pulled her into a final, close embrace, our bodies pressed together, our breathing a little ragged. She looked up at me, her face flushed, her eyes shining with a light I had never seen before.
After a long, breathless moment, we returned to our seats and ordered a few shots of scotch. "You are a perfect man, Adam," she said, her eyes still shining. "You really know how to make a woman's day. Thank you."
"Anytime," I replied with a grin. "Giving a smile to a beautiful woman is the job of every gentleman."
We were laughing together, the tension between us completely gone, replaced by a new, easy camaraderie.
And then, Paradise became Hell.
The plate-glass doors at the entrance didn't just open; they exploded inward in a shower of glittering shards. The concussive blast of the shotgun that blew the locks was a physical blow, a thunderclap that silenced the music and the laughter in an instant. Five men in black tactical gear stormed in, moving with a brutal, practiced efficiency.
"NOBODY MOVE! ON THE GROUND, NOW!" one of them roared, his voice a distorted snarl through his ski mask.
The air filled with the deafening roar of automatic rifle fire as another sprayed the ceiling. Plaster, dust, and shattered light fixtures rained down on us. The screams started then—high, panicked shrieks of pure terror. The room dissolved into a blur of motion as the city's elite, stripped of their power and prestige, became a scrambling, terrified herd.
My blood ran cold. My eyes darted across the room and landed on Tiffany. She was a frozen island of calm in the chaos, her face a mask of cold, analytical fury. But that calm made her a target. A big, brutish terrorist was already moving towards her, his eyes landing on the expensive watch on her wrist, a predator spotting the weakest in the herd.
"Anyone tries to be a hero, the pretty girl gets it first!" he snarled, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her from her chair.
Melissa was already moving, her body dropping into a low crouch, her hand a blur as it went for the revolver holstered at the small of her back. "Adam, get behind me," she hissed, her voice the clipped, authoritative tone of a commander. "I'll handle this."
But I wasn't listening. The terrorist was dragging Tiffany, using her as a human shield. The others were fanning out, their movements a textbook tactical sweep. One of them turned to clear a back room, leaving the one holding Tiffany exposed for a fraction of a second.
My mind went silent. The world went cold.
System, activate [Adaptive Overdrive].
A surge of pure, white-hot energy flooded my system. The panicked screams, the roar of the guns, the frantic, terrified motion—it all slowed to a crawl, the sounds fading into a distant, distorted hum. I saw everything. The trajectory of the falling plaster dust. The tremor in the terrorist's hand. The flicker of fear in Tiffany's eyes.
I grabbed the heavy, thick-bottomed Old Fashioned glass from the bar. It felt impossibly light in my hand. With a flick of my wrist, I hurled it. It wasn't a throw; it was a launch.
The glass spun through the air like a rifle bullet and shattered against the side of the terrorist's head with a sickening, wet crunch. He grunted, his head snapping to the side, his grip on Tiffany loosening for a split second.
It was more than enough.
I was a blur of motion, a phantom. I vaulted over the bar, my feet landing silently on the polished floor. The terrorist was still dazed, his head ringing. I snatched the rifle from his hands, the cold metal a familiar weight. I spun, grabbed Tiffany, and pulled her behind the solid oak of the bar in a single, fluid movement.
"Listen to me," I said, my voice a cold, calculating whisper against her ear. "First, hide. I don't care who else dies, you can't. Second, we don't know each other. The act continues. Am I clear?"
She just nodded, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a dawning, terrifying respect.
I slid back over the bar, landing beside a stunned Melissa. "You're… you're fast," she breathed, her eyes wide with a new kind of awe.
"We need to take out the others," I said, my voice all business. I handed her the automatic rifle. She took it, her hands moving over the weapon with a familiar, practiced ease.
"I have my revolver," she said. "But this… this is much better." She then handed me her small, snub-nosed revolver. "Do you know how to use this?"
"I'll manage," I said. "Just show me once."
She looked at me, a curious glint in her eyes. "Okay, listen. Aim for the legs to disable, the head to terminate. Citizen safety is the priority. No risks."
I understood. System, activate [Sovereign's Arsenal]. Load Nari Han's [Precision Marksmanship (Sniping)] skill. And activate [Omnifex].
As Melissa quickly demonstrated the proper two-handed grip and sight alignment, I didn't just watch; I absorbed. The knowledge flooded my mind, settling into my muscle memory as if I had been training with firearms my entire life.
"First, we secure the civilians," she commanded, her voice the calm, authoritative tone of a commander in the field.
We moved in perfect sync, a deadly, coordinated dance. We herded the terrified patrons into the kitchen and the back rooms, our movements silent and efficient. Then, it was time for the hunt.
We moved back into the main room, two ghosts in the shadows. "What can you see, Adam?" she whispered into my ears.
"Two eyes, Melissa," I replied, my own voice a low, steady hum.
The symphony began.
It was a whirlwind of controlled violence. Melissa, with the automatic rifle, was the hammer. She laid down short, precise bursts of suppressing fire, the roar of the weapon echoing in the enclosed space, forcing the terrorists to take cover. I, with her small revolver, was the scalpel.
I saw one of them peeking out from behind an overturned marble table. Melissa's rifle roared, and the marble exploded in a shower of white dust, forcing him to duck back down. In that split second, I moved, a shadow flitting to a new angle. He popped up again, and the revolver in my hand bucked once. A single, perfect shot. Headshot. He dropped like a stone.
"Target down," I whispered into the comm.
"Two more moving on your left flank," Melissa's voice replied, calm and steady in my ear.
Her rifle roared again, pinning them behind a plush sofa. I moved, vaulting over a barstool, landing in a low crouch. I saw a leg, a combat boot. I fired. A scream of agony. The second one stood up to return fire, and Melissa's rifle stitched a neat line of holes across his chest.
We were a perfect duo. She was the commander, seeing the whole battlefield, directing the fire. I was the executioner, moving with a speed and precision that was not entirely human. We took down ten of them in less than five minutes, leaving two alive for interrogation, their legs shattered by Melissa's mercilessly accurate shots.
When it was over, the silence in the bar was deafening, broken only by the whimpers of the wounded terrorists and the distant wail of approaching sirens.
Melissa looked at me, her chest rising and falling, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride and utter disbelief. "You did amazing," she said, her voice a little breathless. "I never knew you were such a marksman. I have so many questions, but… we can talk about that another time. You've earned my respect."
"I only shot four," I said, deflecting the praise. "You were the commander."
She looked at me, a genuine, heartfelt smile on her face. "You've earned my respect, Adam. And… we're a better duo than I am with my husband."
The police stormed in then, a wave of blue uniforms and shouting officers. Melissa immediately took charge, her commander persona snapping back into place. She came over to me one last time. "Can we exchange contacts?"
"Whenever you want to meet," I said, my own voice full of a new, easy confidence, "you can just call me."
She looked happy, truly happy, before turning to deal with the aftermath.
I was standing outside in a lone corner, the cool night air a welcome relief, when Tiffany walked up to me. She just stood there for a moment, her usual cold composure gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable silence.
"Thank you," she finally said, her voice barely a whisper.
"For what?" I asked.
"For saving me," she said, her gaze fixed on the ground.
I stepped closer and gently grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face me. I looked straight into her eyes. "Listen to me," I said, my voice filled with a fierce, protective energy I didn't know I possessed. "All of you… you are my responsibility. And I am just fulfilling my responsibilities. There is no need to say thank you. You are mine. And you are my responsibility."
I said it all in the heat of the moment, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. She looked up at me, her face flushing a brilliant, beautiful crimson.
"Okay… Adam," she said, her voice a little shaky. "I'm… I'm leaving. I'll meet you tomorrow."
And with that, she turned and left, leaving me alone in the flashing blue and red lights of the police cars, the weight of my own words, of my own new, terrifying responsibilities, settling on my shoulders.
(Tiffany's Perspective)
The car ride home was a silent, humming void. I stared out the window at the blurred city lights, but I didn't see them. My mind was a chaotic replay of data points, a frantic attempt to process the events of the last hour.
Variable 1: The Hostage Situation. I have been trained in military bootcamps. I have run simulations for scenarios exactly like this. I am not a victim. I am an asset. And yet, for a full 3.7 seconds, I was a liability. The cold metal of the gun against my temple, the rough grip on my arm—it was a tactile input my simulations had never accounted for. The feeling of being powerless… it was illogical. Unacceptable.
Variable 2: Melissa Richard. Her performance was, from a tactical standpoint, flawless. She assessed the threat, took command, and coordinated a counter-attack with brutal efficiency. Her status as Commanding Head of Police is not just a title; it is a quantifiable fact. She is a powerful piece on the board.
Variable 3: Adam Wilson. He is the anomaly. The variable that breaks every known model. His initial reaction was not fear, but a cold, predatory focus. The speed, the precision of the thrown glass—it defied the laws of physics as I understood them. His movements were not those of a high school student; they were the economical, lethal motions of a trained operative. And his marksmanship… it was not just proficient; it was perfect. The data doesn't align. He is an impossibility.
And then… his words.
"You are mine. And you are my responsibility."
The sentence echoed in the silent space of my mind, a piece of code that my brain kept running on a loop. It was a statement of pure, unadulterated possession. It was arrogant. It was dominating. It was the most infuriatingly illogical thing I had ever heard.
And my heart had responded to it.
A physiological reaction. Increased heart rate. A rush of heat to the facial capillaries, resulting in a blush. A strange, fluttering sensation in my chest. I had cataloged the symptoms, but I couldn't understand the cause. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was… something else. Something my analytical mind had no framework for.
I have always seen the world as a chessboard. People are pieces, their motivations are moves, and every interaction is a part of the game. I am a player. I am never a piece. But today, for the first time in my life, I was a pawn in someone else's game. And then, in a single, decisive move, he had not just saved me; he had claimed me. He had declared me a part of his territory, a piece on his side of the board.
And the most illogical, most infuriating part of it all?
I didn't mind.
(End of Tiffany's Perspective)