-Treasure.
We didn't expect it to be that small.
The office was tucked behind a car rental place, no sign on the door, just a buzzer that clicked after two long seconds and led us up a flight of narrow stairs. The walls smelled like dried coffee and dusted carpet. It wasn't much to look at. I think Devon and I just stood there for a beat, waiting for the catch. But it wasn't a scam. It was just humble. And oddly real.
There were others like us—more than I imagined. All of us in our twenties or early thirties, carrying that same look in our eyes. The one that says we've worked too many jobs for too little and we're just hoping, quietly, that this one sticks. Some were ex-military. Some had gym-built bodies and nothing else to show for it. Some were just tired-looking kids with paper certifications, like us.
We started small.
Security detail for mall events. Some celebrity would show up to sign lipsticks or soft drinks or whatever they were selling, and we'd stand with our arms crossed, scanning crowds, trying to look more competent than we felt. But even then, we weren't working for the celebrity. We were working for the mall. For the space. For the idea of order.
Next came stage control. Set boundaries. Guard stairs. Make sure some rabid fan didn't crawl onto the platform mid-performance. Again, not for the person. For the venue. Always at arm's length from the actual spotlight.
But that was how it went.
Over time, gigs stacked. We got sent more. Learned to read tension in crowds before it even crackled. Learned how to step forward just enough to be noticed and never enough to provoke. And all the while, the agency started changing around us. It stopped being just a thing Trevor co-founded with his friend. It turned into something people started investing in. Talking about. Buying into.
Years passed like someone hit fast-forward.
I'm twenty-seven now.
And somehow, without realizing it, we became the people who had been there since the start. We didn't just work for the agency—we were the agency.
Sure, we quit the double shifts. No more café at noon and bar at night. We left that stank-ass apartment with its cracked bathroom tiles and moldy corners. Now we live in a better one. Two bedrooms. Real walls. The kind of place that doesn't echo everything you say like it's mocking you. Our landlord's a prick. The kind who sighs when you ask for something to be fixed and mutters like you don't belong there. But when he found out what we did for work, I swear to God, he flinched. Ever since then, he's been... polite. Hesitant. Maybe even scared. And yeah, I'm not gonna lie—that felt good. Watching that smug look drain from his face was one of life's quieter blessings.
Dev and I—we got closer.
And I didn't think that was even possible. I thought we'd already been through the fire. But no. Turns out closeness isn't a finish line. It's something that can stretch. Grow. Change with you. We're two different people now. Two different versions of ourselves. And the way those versions still keep finding their way to each other... it's beautiful. Not in the poetic, rose-colored way. In a real way. In the way that makes you turn over in bed and wonder what would've happened if you never said yes to that one thing, years ago.
We sleep in separate rooms now. Two proper beds. A wall in between. And honestly? I like that. I like this life. It's not glamorous. It's not what I dreamed of when I thought about "bodyguard work" and what it might mean. But it's good. It's steady. And for someone like me, who's spent most of life being passed over, that kind of stability is more precious than gold.
We've bounced from gig to gig, contract to contract. And then—two years ago—everything changed.
It happened in a mall. A real mess. Some guy lost control, pulled something sharp, and there was a whole scene unfolding in under ten seconds. But we handled it. We stopped it before it turned into a tragedy. No one got hurt. Someone filmed us from the second floor, posted it online. A magazine picked it up, ran a piece. And from that moment on, everything exploded.
Now the calls don't stop.
Still, most of the people I get assigned to aren't exactly A-list saints. They're barely tolerable.
There was this influencer—don't even remember her name, just remember her voice. Like a plastic bag being crumpled over and over again. She had me assigned for a three-day run of events in Valmont. She kept snapping selfies in the middle of moving crowds, ignoring every briefing we gave her. Her friends were worse. One of them—I swear—if I weren't being paid to protect him, I would've driven his face into a wall with a smile on mine. But alas. Morals and paychecks.
And then there was this food blogger. She'd stop every five steps to take a photo with fans, even in areas we told her were high risk. We warned her repeatedly—do not linger here. This is not a safe part of town. There's a difference between kindness and carelessness. But she'd wave us off, say, "The people's love is my greatest protection."
Yeah? Well, good luck throwing love at a stray knife.
I kept thinking, Let the people's love carry your bleeding ass to a hospital when someone decides they've had enough of your slow-motion parade through a sketchy alleyway.
I didn't say it out loud, but it was right there, resting behind my teeth.
We were just hanging around the agency, killing time the way we always did between assignments—leaning on desks, sipping half-cold coffee, scrolling through our phones, half-listening to whatever stupid debate Sandro and Michael were having about sports again. The mood was quiet, familiar. The kind of stillness that lives in places like this, right before everything shifts.
Then Trevor walked in.
He didn't knock. Just swung the door open and said, "Okay, boys. I need Treasure. I need Devon. Michael. Sandro. Let's go. Office. Now."
That got everyone's attention.
The four of us looked at each other briefly, the kind of glance that carries equal parts curiosity and low-stakes dread. We followed him through the hallway and into the back office—Trevor's domain. The door shut behind us with a weight to it.
Trevor didn't sit. He leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded, expression somewhere between proud dad and exasperated team captain.
"I handpicked the four of you," he began. "Not randomly. Not because no one else was available. But because over the years, I've watched the way you work. Quiet dedication. The kind of loyalty that doesn't need to shout. You didn't just take the job—you made it mean something. When we started this agency, it was small. A whisper. A gamble. Now look at us. We're still here. Stronger. Bigger. Better. And most of that is because of people like you."
He paused, eyes scanning the room slowly. "All that testosterone, all that angry energy—it paid off. You make shit happen."
I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Devon gave the smallest nod, like he was accepting a medal he didn't ask for.
Trevor continued. "So. You know how we've been getting more high-profile names lately. Clients with real power. Well—this one came out of nowhere. Not even sure how it landed in our inbox, but it did. Four of you are being assigned to a client team. Not just a one-day contract. This is a full assignment."
He paused.
"You'll be protecting Elias Maxwell."
That name dropped like a pin in a silent room.
Devon, from beside me, raised his head. "Elias Maxwell? The tech guy?"
"Yeah," Trevor nodded. "That's the one. AI, money, controversy. Do you know him?"
Devon scoffed. "Of course I know him. He's that overexposed, ultra-rich guy who keeps trying to design the future in his image. I saw a conference clip last week—he was talking about building virtual interfaces that could 'eliminate human error' in decision-making. Basically trying to replace people like us with robots. Good luck with that."
Sandro muttered something under his breath about being replaced by a toaster. Michael chuckled.
Trevor smiled thinly, like he wasn't quite sure how serious Devon was. "Yeah, well—he's here. In Valmont. Was supposed to be a short stay, but plans changed. His regular crew didn't come with him. No time to bring in anyone from out of city. So they reached out to us. To me. And I offered up our best."
He looked at each of us. "You."
I crossed my arms. "So this Maxwell guy. You're saying he's staying here for what—business? Pleasure? Ego trip?"
"Don't know," Trevor said. "Probably all three."
Devon glanced at me, then at Trevor again. "Well. If we're going to be protecting one of the wealthiest men in tech, I'm guessing the pay will reflect that, right?"
Trevor smirked, already knowing where this was going.
I stepped in before Devon could phrase it all too politely. "Yeah, because no offense, but we're not talking about babysitting some YouTuber's red carpet tantrum. This is Elias fucking Maxwell. That man wipes his mouth with bills we've never seen. If we're about to risk our necks to protect him, I want a taste of that money. Gold-tier hazard pay. Does he pay in Bitcoin? What's the deal?"
Trevor shook his head. "Treasure, you negotiate like I'm running a loan shark ring out of the basement of a bar."
"Hey, I'm just saying it like it is. We're not part of the clearance section anymore."
Devon nudged me with his elbow, rolling his eyes. "Ignore him. What's the rate?"
Trevor finally exhaled. "You'll get your regular. Plus high bonuses. Real ones. The contract's set. Your performance will determine how generous those bonuses get. You know how we do things here. Deliver, and you'll get paid like you did."
I leaned back slightly, letting that settle. The room went quiet for a second.
Then I smiled.
"Alright," I said. "Let's meet the robot overlord."
We each returned to the office, and it was time for homework, basically. A background study. I wasn't exactly excited about it, but Devon took to it like it was sacred ritual. We were supposed to know what the fuck was going on, what kind of mess we were walking into, and if there were any ticking bombs already hidden beneath Elias Maxwell's lifestyle. Was he poking the wrong people? Getting too close to the sun? And if so, what did we need to shield him from when the sky fell?
I slumped into the chair beside Devon and watched him work. He didn't ask for help, didn't say a word about it. He just pulled up his laptop, already logged into a secured network, fingers moving fast, like they'd been waiting for this.
He started narrating everything he found out loud, but not for my benefit. It was more like he was translating the world as he absorbed it. Each word dropped like a weight onto the desk between us.
"Public image is clean," he muttered. "Charitable ventures—education, climate, urban development. All very curated."
"Curated how?" I asked, out of obligation more than interest.
"It's all PR. Photos of him planting trees, speaking at youth conferences, holding crying mothers in war zones. That kind of curated."
Devon had a spreadsheet open already, columns labeled: Affiliations, Controversies, Recent Travel, Known Associates, Security Incidents. He scrolled with precision, clicking through sources faster than I could track.
"He's been on the cover of TechMind, Forbes Future, and Men's Style Monthly all in the same quarter."
"Bit of a narcissist?"
"Bit of a calculated brand."
He didn't smile. Just kept working, sharp and focused, back straight, eyes unreadable. There was something about watching him like this—coldly efficient, dressed in black, sleeves rolled neatly—that made it easy to forget we used to eat instant noodles on the floor, that there were nights I'd lay on the couch while he paced the living room in his boxers, ranting about the electric bill.
Now he looked like someone who hadn't missed a deadline in years. Like someone who'd grown into his edges.
He kept speaking.
"People are pissed at him. Mostly tech watchdogs, developers from open-source communities. Think he's privatizing things that should remain public. There's a podcast that called him the corporate reaper of human intuition."
"That's dramatic."
"Not inaccurate."
Devon clicked again. Another folder opened—images of Elias at some tropical island. Tan skin, shirt half-unbuttoned, drink in hand. Always smiling. Always surrounded by people.
"He travels too much," Devon said.
"That's a problem?"
"It's suspicious. No rhythm, no predictability. Always in motion, never still."
He leaned in, brow furrowed slightly as he watched a clip—Elias stepping off a private jet, waving at no one in particular. Cameras caught him anyway.
"He's not dangerous," Devon said slowly, like he was still making up his mind. "But something's off. It's like he's... too relaxed."
I stretched my legs out, yawning.
"Maybe he's just rich," I said. "Like disgustingly rich. I'd be relaxed too if I had ten houses and a yacht with a helipad."
Devon didn't laugh. He clicked into another article—something about Elias's funding being pulled from a joint AI ethics council due to ideological misalignment.
He murmured it aloud. "Misalignment."
His fingers stopped typing.
The room fell quiet, except for the hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional buzz from the agency's internal chat. The light from the screen carved his face into sharper lines, and for a second I just watched him. Not for any reason. Just to see if I could read him. But he was locked in—mind elsewhere, eyes still, the kind of stillness that comes when you're trying to pull apart something delicate without tearing it.
"We'll need a detail rotation," he said finally. "He doesn't keep the same assistant for more than a few months. Doesn't trust long-term staff. That's not normal."
I blinked. "What, so he gets bored of people?"
"Or paranoid."
"Or maybe he just doesn't like commitment."
"Or maybe," Devon said, without looking at me, "he's hiding something he doesn't want anyone around long enough to notice."
It didn't sound like a theory. It sounded like a fact he'd already accepted.
I sat back, fiddling with a pen I'd found on the desk. I didn't want to say it, but I felt it too—some thread pulling tight beneath the surface of Elias Maxwell's smile. Something that didn't match. He was too shiny, too polished, like a mirror that didn't reflect back quite right.
Devon went back to typing.
I didn't ask what he was thinking. Not this time.
We stayed at the office too long. Far too long. Devon was hell-bent on scrubbing Elias Maxwell's life clean like he'd been hired to ghostwrite the man's biography. I had long since slouched into my chair, aimlessly spinning a pen between my fingers, occasionally glancing at the wall clock that hadn't ticked fast enough all evening.
At one point, I groaned, loud and deliberate. "Can we just go home and keep working there?"
Devon didn't even look up. "No. I'm not. The internet at the apartment really sucks, and this fucking landlord won't do shit."
I leaned closer, low enough that only he could hear me, breath brushing just under his ear. "If we go home right now, I'll let you fuck me all night long. Can we just leave?"
His fingers froze mid-type. The muscles in his jaw twitched before he turned, eyes sharp. He whispered back, but it came out more like a restrained snap. "Don't fucking say that here."
I smiled lazily. "Oh, you're scared for your reputation, aren't you?"
He shook his head, frustrated. "What the fuck, you just can't say stuff like that. People will think something's off."
I laughed under my breath. "It's not like other dudes don't do that."
Devon finally looked at me. Not the usual glance. It was tight, exasperated. "Other dudes certainly don't do that, Treasure. Not unless they're in a relationship. And even then, they… aren't just like—fuck buddies long-term."
My voice lowered further. "Who's gonna tell them all these details, Devon? You arguing with me here is what's gonna cause suspicion. Let's just go home and you can angry-fuck me or whatever. Do whatever you want."
There was silence. He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Then he said, flatly, "Go home on your own. I'm not going right now."
I leaned back, scoffed. "You're so serious about this fucking thing. Well, fuck you, Devon. Do whatever suits you."
I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair, shrugged it on, and walked out without another word. The cold air outside slapped me in the face like it knew I deserved it. I shoved my hands in my pockets and drifted aimlessly down the street, head heavy and buzzing, even though I hadn't had a drop yet.
I don't even know what happened. Not really. The past couple of years had felt like one long moment that kept looping, stretching, repeating itself in different lights. And I just… didn't hate it. I didn't mind it either. I was fine with it. Maybe too fine.
I thought back to what Devon said. That what we were doing could be perceived as weird.
But weird how?
In high school, boys used to talk about that stuff all the time. Some of them used to jerk off in the same room, same couch, even—to porn or to nothing at all, just because puberty made us weird and frantic and dumb. There were two guys I knew who admitted they'd tried it in front of each other, just once, like some rite of passage. They laughed about it in the locker room and no one even flinched.
Back then, nobody said that meant anything. It was hormones, curiosity, muscle memory. Puberty hit like a hurricane and nobody expected you to think straight.
But that didn't mean I thought gay either.
I liked what Devon and I had. I liked the pleasure. The familiarity. The ease of it. I'd gotten used to his touch, to the weight of his body, the way he kissed like he was trying to silence something inside himself. I liked that too. I liked all of it.
So when he said it could be seen as weird, I just… couldn't wrap my head around it. I never cared what people thought. Not when it came to that.
I kept walking, city lights flaring against wet asphalt, until I reached the nightclub. The doorman nodded. I nodded back. Familiar faces, familiar scene.
The bar was low-lit, smelled faintly of sweet rum and disinfectant, and the music was vibrating the shelves, but not enough to make the bottles fall. It was familiar, this place. A little grimy around the corners but steady—like a crooked tooth you learn to like.
Oliver was behind the bar, as usual. He had this face that always looked like it just heard the worst news of the day but didn't care enough to stop working. Sharp jaw, lazy smirk, arms inked with washed-out lines of old tattoos. He moved like he'd done this a thousand nights before, but not with boredom—with a quiet kind of rhythm, like he was dancing to a beat no one else could hear.
I liked him. Not in that way. But I liked that he didn't ask too many questions. And when he did, it was never the type that tried to fix anything.
We weren't friends, not really, but he knew my drink. He knew when to talk and when to leave me alone. And sometimes, that's better than friendship.
"Rum and coke," I said, "and I have a question."
Oliver didn't even glance up. "You're not even drunk yet, Treasure."
I chuckled. "This is serious. I have a question."
Oliver set the drink down in front of me, eyed me warily. "What kind of question?"
"It's not offensive or anything. I'm just… really curious."
He raised a brow. "Uh-huh."
I took a sip, then looked him in the eye. "Have you ever had sex with a guy?"
He blinked. "Wow. That's the question?"
"Yeah."
"No," he said. "Not that I'm against it. I mean, I'm an ally, okay? But I'm not into guys. Never have been."
I nodded. "Cool. Cool, yeah. I'm not into guys either."
Oliver stared at me. "But you've had sex with a guy?"
"Yeah."
"And you're… not into guys."
"Nope."
"Then you must be bisexual."
I frowned. "I don't find other guys appealing. Like, I'm not out there checking them out or whatever."
He tilted his head like he was trying to decode a new species. "So you're… only gay for one guy?"
"I'm not even gay, Oliver. Stop saying that."
"Okay," he said slowly, backing off with both hands. "My bad."
He gave me that look—like I was a half-solved puzzle and he'd just realized he'd been working on it upside down.
Then he wiped his hands on a rag and leaned back against the bar, arms crossed over his chest, eyes still on me, but softer now. "When was the last time you were in a relationship?" he asked. "With a girl, I mean."
I swirled the drink in my glass, watched the ice knock into itself.
"I don't know," I said. "I haven't really… been in a relationship. I flirted with girls, sure. Had a girl suck me off behind the restaurant I used to work at. But nothing serious." I shrugged, keeping my eyes low, like the rum might suddenly explain everything if I stared at it long enough. "I don't know. I just don't really care. I don't have the time, or the money, or the fucking bandwidth to be in a relationship. I was trying to get out of the gutter, man. Like, really out. I didn't concentrate on anything but climbing out of the shit hole I was in. And even now? I'm barely breathing above the surface."
Oliver nodded slowly, the kind of nod that didn't agree or disagree, just acknowledged. "And you've been continuously sleeping with that guy?"
I looked up. "Yeah."
He didn't respond right away. Just pressed his lips together, tilted his head like he was sorting through a mess in the back of his mind. "Is it really weird? You also think that is weird?"
I exhaled hard, tapping my fingers against the rim of my glass. "Is it?"
Oliver shrugged, his voice flat but not cruel. "Look, I'm not saying it's weird. Don't get me wrong. But it is borderline stupid to think this is also normal. I mean—without you admitting it. Call a spade a spade, Treasure."
I leaned forward a little. "No, no. Look. Some situations, you don't have to call a spade a spade. Sometimes you can call a spade a shovel. You know what I mean? In this world, in the year we're living in, not everything has to come with a label. I don't have to explain myself or identify every goddamn thing I feel or do."
Oliver raised a brow, unbothered. "Then don't label yourself. But don't call yourself straight either. That's a label too."
I narrowed my eyes. "Why are you debating with me? I'm the customer. The paying customer. You're supposed to agree with me. The customer is always right."
He snorted. "Not on my shift. The customer can be right during Samantha's shift. You know Samantha? The one with the fake lashes and the big hoop earrings? Yeah. She'll nod along, smile sweet. Me? I'm allergic to bullshit."
"Fuck's sake," I muttered, tossing back the rest of my drink. "Forget it, Oliver. Forget I asked. I'm never asking you another question again."
He smirked and reached for the rag again. "This is sober Treasure talking. Drunk Treasure asks better questions anyway. Like—'What do football players do when they retire?' or 'Why don't escalators ever get cleaned properly?' or 'Do you think birds feel happiness, like real joy?' That Treasure? I don't mind him. He keeps the night interesting."
"Okay, fine," I grumbled, waving him off. "Forget it."
"Already have," he said, grinning as he walked down the bar to serve someone else.
I sat there for a moment, tongue thick with unsaid things, the music thumping somewhere above my head like a heartbeat I wasn't part of.
I downed more of the drink and let the burn run through me, hollow and sharp. I stared past the bar toward the dance floor, where bodies moved in loose, sticky rhythm. The DJ had switched to Brazilian phonk—fast, sensual, bass-heavy.
I didn't even know when that trend caught on, but fuck, I loved it. Something about the way it took over people's spines, the way it turned limbs to liquid and gave everyone permission to forget whatever the fuck they were carrying.
I watched them and wished, just for a second, that I could join in. That I could get out of my own head, get off the edge I'd been walking since Devon looked me in the face and made me feel like a dirty little secret.
I just wanted to dance. Like them. Like I wasn't anything at all.