PART I: MARCUS THORNE – THE LAST LINE OF DEFENSE
The Ostrovian chill bit through the Kevlar-lined suit as if it weren't there. Marcus Thorne stood like a statue beside the gleaming black limousine, his eyes tracing every rooftop and alleyway along the presidential route. Seven years in the Special Protection Unit (SPU) the elite shield for President Zoran Kovac had wired his brain for a permanent state of high alert.
Ostrovia was a powder keg. Five years ago, Kovac had seized power in a blood-soaked coup, dismantling a "weak" democracy to build a regime of iron and fear. Marcus was a cog in that machine of oppression, even if his conscience often felt like it was being ground between the gears.
"You're too tense, Marcus," Viktor muttered from the other side of the car, taking a casual swig of water. "It's just a steel mill opening. Relax."
Marcus didn't turn. "Nothing is safe in our world, Viktor. Remember March? The man who almost executed the President was one of our own."
Viktor went silent. The memory of the internal mole an intelligence officer who nearly buried a knife in Kovac's ribs hung heavy in the air. Since then, Marcus had stopped trusting everyone. Even the men he bled with.
The drive to the factory took thirty minutes, but to Marcus, every second felt like a decade. He checked the radio every five minutes, his eyes scanning the crowds of "patriots" impoverished civilians forced to cheer for a man they loathed, their faces masks of hollow passivity.
When they arrived, Marcus moved with predatory precision. He scanned the five-story factory, the white plastic chairs, the towering floodlights. Everything looked textbook. Yet, his gut the one that had kept him alive through three assassinations was screaming.
"President beginning speech in T-minus ten minutes," the SPU Deputy Chief crackled over the comms. "All units, stay sharp."
Marcus stood half a step behind Zoran Kovac as the dictator took the podium. Kovac was a stout man, his face polished to a shine by the morning sun. He began to speak, his voice a booming, melodic lie about economic prosperity and national sovereignty.
"Brothers and sisters!" Kovac roared. "Ostrovia will be the titan of this continent!"
The crowd cheered on cue a dry, mechanical sound. Marcus's eyes flicked to the front row. A group of men in sharp suits stood too still. One of them reached into his jacket.
"Unit One, target at the front-left podium!" Marcus shouted into his radio, already lunging forward. "He's armed!"
Then, the world broke.
A small explosion rocked the back of the stage, sending Kovac stumbling. Simultaneously, a high-frequency jammer killed the radio comms. Marcus reached for his sidearm, but a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder.
"Easy, Marcus," a familiar voice whispered. It was Captain Dmitri, his mentor, the man who had trained him.
Marcus spun, eyes wide with fury. "Captain? What is this? Who set off the charge?"
Dmitri sighed, a flicker of regret crossing his hardened face. "This is the plan, Marcus. The President needs a sacrifice to solidify his power."
"A fake assassination?" Marcus hissed. "Why?"
"The opposition is gaining ground in the provinces. They call the President a thief. If the public believes the opposition tried to kill him and failed because of an 'internal traitor' he has the perfect excuse for a Great Purge." Dmitri's grip tightened. "And you, Marcus, are the chosen traitor."
The betrayal hit harder than any bullet. Seven years of sleepless nights, three lives saved, total devotion all discarded for a political theater.
"Why me?" Marcus's voice broke.
"Because you are the most trusted," Dmitri said flatly. "When you 'betray' him, the public will believe no one is safe. Plus, you have no family. No one will come looking for the truth once you're dead."
Sirens wailed in the distance. Dmitri pulled his suppressed pistol. "I'm sorry, Marcus. Orders are orders."
Before Dmitri could pull the trigger, a second, massive explosion tore through the factory. The rear wall collapsed in a roar of concrete and fire. The shockwave sent Marcus flying, his ribs snapping against a steel light pole.
Blood masked his vision. He saw Kovac being whisked away by "loyal" guards, the dictator not even glancing back at his discarded shield. As the darkness pulled him under, Marcus made one final, silent vow: If I get a second chance, I will never be anyone's tool again. I will live for myself.
PART II: ALEXANDRO VANDERBILT – THE WALKING ATM
A jolt of electricity seemed to snap Alex's eyes open. The air was warm, smelling of expensive cologne and jasmine a world away from the acrid smoke of Ostrovia. He looked up at a ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers and intricate crown molding.
Where am I?
As he tried to sit up, his body felt… light. Soft. He looked at his hands. They were slender, pale, and devoid of the calluses and scars he had earned over a decade of combat. He scrambled toward a floor-length mirror in the corner.
The reflection staring back was a stranger. A teenage boy with tousled dark hair, soft features, and wide, startled blue eyes.
This wasn't his face.
A rhythmic knock sounded at the door. "Master Alex? Are you awake? Breakfast is served in the dining hall."
Alex froze. The voice was polite, clinical. "Yes... I'll be down shortly," he replied. His voice was higher, smoother. It felt wrong in his throat.
He scanned the room. On a marble vanity sat a student ID: ST. GABRIEL ACADEMY – ALEXANDRO VANDERBILT, GRADE 11. Beside it, a smartphone buzzed incessantly with notifications.
Alex picked it up. The messages were a gallery of parasites:
Ryan:Hey Alex, buying those new limited edition sneakers tomorrow at Grand Central. You're covering me, right? You're loaded, don't be a prick. 😉
Jessica:Dinner at La Trattoria tonight. You're paying for the group. If you don't show, I'm telling everyone you're a liar and a cheapskate.
The "Saint Gabe Squad" Group Chat:Don't forget the cash for the theme park tomorrow, Alex. If you flake, we're telling the Dean you cheated on the physics midterms.
It was a systematic shakedown. These weren't friends; they were predators. Alex found a leather-bound diary in a drawer. The entries were a heartbreaking record of the original Alex's misery:
Feb 10th:Ryan forced me to buy him a 5-million-rupiah pair of shoes. He threatened to tell the whole school I'm gay if I didn't. Dad never has time to listen. He's always at the office. I'm so alone.
Feb 13th:Jessica made me pay $1,000 for dinner. When I said I couldn't, she kicked me under the table and told me I was 'useless' except for my wallet. I'm scared of them.
Marcus Thorne now Alexandro Vanderbilt felt a cold, familiar rage simmering in his chest. This boy had been a victim of a different kind of dictatorship.
"Alexandro," he whispered to the mirror, his blue eyes hardening with the steel of a professional soldier. "I don't know why I'm here, but I promise you this: The bullying ends today. You will never be a tool again."
Another knock, sharper this time. "Master Alex, your father is waiting. He says it's urgent."
Alex donned the St. Gabriel uniform a navy blazer with a gold wing emblem. He straightened his tie, the confusion in his eyes replaced by a lethal, focused calm.
In the mahogany-clad dining room, Maximilian Vanderbilt, CEO of Omni-Corp Electronics, sat at the head of the table. He looked at Alex with a mix of clinical concern and irritation.
"Alex, finally," Maximilian said. "The school said you had an 'accident' yesterday. Why wasn't I informed immediately?"
Alex sat down, his posture perfect, his gaze level. "I didn't want to disturb your schedule, Father. It was minor."
Maximilian sighed and pushed a white envelope across the table. "Inside is a black card with no limit. Money is no object, Alex. Just ensure you are socializing with the right people. Those 'friends' of yours are the children of future business partners. Keep them happy."
Alex looked at the envelope. This was why the original Alex was a walking ATM. His father had taught him that his only value was his bank account.
"Father," Alex said, his voice ringing with a newfound authority that made Maximilian pause his coffee mid-sip.