Mixed feelings.
No matter how I looked at it, something about this was wrong.
Marcus Holivan.
Alan's father.
A high-ranking aristocrat.
And today—
I was his personal bodyguard.
A joke.
That's what this was.
No one could really touch a man like him.
Not truly.
His real bodyguards were still there—shadowing us through the city, always close, always watching. They just didn't interfere when the staged attacks happened.
Like earlier.
Near the shopping center.
He'd dropped off his shaken wife—
and walked away without a second glance.
Just like he ignored me.
To him—
I didn't exist.
Fine.
I didn't need his attention.
All I needed—
was to prove what I could do.
And this time—
I would surpass Alan.
No matter what.
"Get that filthy mutt out of the way," Marcus said flatly as we stepped out near a restaurant.
One of his bodyguards hesitated.
"Sir, it belongs to someone. There's a tag—I can call the owner—"
"Did you not hear me?" Marcus frowned.
A pause.
Then—
"Kill it."
"…Sir—"
That was as far as he got.
The man dropped to his knees.
Both hands clamped over his head.
His jaw locked so hard I heard the crack—
he'd bitten his tongue to keep from screaming.
I moved instantly.
Scanning.
Threat?
None.
No weapon.
No attacker.
Nothing.
And yet—
a trained man was collapsing right in front of me.
Convulsing.
Unable to move.
Blood ran down his chin, soaking into his shirt.
Then—
just as suddenly—
it stopped.
His body went slack.
He gasped for air—
pale—
shaking—
then crawled.
On his knees.
Toward the dog.
A small Pomeranian.
Tail wagging.
Trusting.
Clueless.
He pulled a knife.
One motion.
Clean.
The throat opened.
Blood spread across the pavement.
I didn't move.
Didn't react.
Didn't blink.
But something inside me twisted hard.
What the hell was that…?
"Change your clothes," Marcus said with a grimace. "It's unpleasant to look at."
He turned.
Walked away.
Like nothing had happened.
We followed.
I glanced back once.
The man—
still pale.
But no longer in pain.
"Disobedience is punished," the second bodyguard said quietly. "And it hurts."
A beat.
"That's the bodyguard's oath. Choose wrong—and service turns into hell."
The rest of the attacks came and went.
I handled them.
Easily.
Too easily.
Compared to the arena—
this was nothing.
But it drained me.
Protecting someone—
was harder than protecting yourself.
And when that someone could command you—
force you—
break you—
it wore you down.
By midday, we were heading back to the shopping center.
I watched everything.
Every angle.
Every reflection.
The second attack had come through the car window.
A paint round.
Almost took his head off.
I'd stopped it.
Barely.
"Break," Marcus said suddenly, staring straight into the camera.
"They've tested you four times already. I doubt they'll repeat themselves."
Then—
he spoke to me.
"Alan. How capable is he?"
I didn't expect that.
"Alan is talented," I said. "He's improved significantly. Both in control and physically."
"Are you stronger?"
"Physically, yes. But I'm not sure I'd win now."
A pause.
"I beat him once. But he's stronger now."
Marcus scoffed.
"That piece of trash."
Disgust.
Pure.
"He's a stain on my family."
A chill ran through me.
He meant it.
Completely.
That kind of hatred—
toward your own son—
I understood Alan a little better in that moment.
I stayed quiet.
Waiting.
Dreading what came next.
"I want that mistake erased," Marcus said calmly.
Gone.
"I want him to suffer."
A pause.
"Bring him to me."
Silence.
"No one can know."
"You want me to kidnap someone under public scrutiny?" I asked.
"Not now. After the tournament."
"I won't do that."
"Yes," he said quietly.
"You will."
"The oath lasts twenty-four hours. After that, I'm free."
He smiled.
And something inside me tightened.
"You think I don't know how to make people obey?"
"Don't drag me into your family."
"Then I'll involve myself in yours."
A pause.
"How is your little sister?"
My blood ran cold.
"I hear she's very pretty."
"Don't you dare—"
Pain.
Instant.
Violent.
It tore through me so hard I screamed and collapsed against the seat.
It didn't last long.
Seconds.
But it felt endless.
Like something was ripping me apart from the inside.
Draining everything.
I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
"I don't deal with prostitutes and their bastards," Marcus said coldly. "But the underground market?"
A faint smile.
"It loves untouched things."
My stomach twisted.
"What do you think happens… when your mother hears about a generous buyer?"
He leaned back slightly.
"How long before she packs your sister's things… and disappears with the money?"
I lay there.
Breathing.
Trying to recover.
Trying to think.
How—
how could someone like Alan—
come from someone like this?
I remembered him.
His awkward smile.
The way he tried.
The way he helped.
How did someone like that—
survive under a man like Marcus?
"I see we understand each other now," Marcus said.
Satisfied.
"I'll give you two weeks after the tournament."
A pause.
"If you survive."
Another.
"And if you don't…"
A faint smile.
"…someone will still deliver the message."
"Two weeks."
He turned away.
Like I no longer mattered.
"The choice is yours."
The car stopped.
I forced myself upright.
Stepped out.
Opened the door for him.
Because I didn't have a choice.
Now I understood.
Why everyone feared Marcus Holivan.
He didn't control people.
He broke them.
Found the weakest point—
and pressed—
until there was nothing left to resist.