Enzo's Penthouse – 11:45 AM
The mid-morning sun flooded the apartment through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the glass-and-steel skyline into a blinding grid of light. Inside, the air-conditioning hummed at a perfect, silent chill.
Enzo stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the spoils of his status. To his left, a massive 100-inch OLED TV acted as a black mirror against the wall. On his desk sat a custom-built liquid-cooled gaming rig, its internal RGB lights pulsing a cold, predatory violet. Nearby, a velvet-lined display case held a collection of luxury chronographs, their gold and platinum bands catching the sunlight.
"How? How did professional killers fail?"
Enzo's roar shattered the quiet. He paced past his desk, his reflection flickering in the tempered glass of the PC case. "The only one worth a damn is Allen, and he was too busy playing hero for Madison! He was a sitting duck!"
"I am sorry, sir," the voice on the phone crackled.
"Sorry? I paid you a billion! You promised me a clean sweep, not a hospital ward full of broken men. Those 'Team D' punks were supposed to be the best in the business, and they got handled like children!" Enzo slammed his hand onto the desk, rattling a stack of expensive watch-winding cases. Before the man could reply, Enzo ended the call with a violent swipe.
He stared out at the city. "Once I'm back at school, I'll break them myself."
He dialed his old MMA instructor to arrange a session—it was time to reclaim his "prime" form. After hanging up, he caught a glimpse of his MMA gear tucked inside a walk-in closet filled with designer suits. His ego was a raw nerve, but a text from a girl—I want to see you—provided a brief, smug distraction.
Meet me on the bridge by the lake. Now, he typed, smirking as the heart emojis flooded back.
Then, the second notification arrived. A file from his fixer.
[VIDEO_ATTACHMENT_SECURE.MP4]
Enzo sat in his ergonomic racing chair and pulled the video onto his triple-monitor setup. The high-resolution screens made the grainy footage look even more haunting.
In the video, a boy in a school uniform—his face hidden by a matte-black motorcycle helmet—was cornered in an alley. Team D lunged, knives drawn. Then, the screen went black for nearly fifty seconds. When the image flickered back, the alley was a slaughterhouse. Men were folded into impossible shapes, their limbs twisted like scrap metal.
Enzo stepped back, his chair rolling across the hardwood. "Fifty seconds?" he whispered, his voice finally cracking. "Who is this monster?"
His hands shook as he reached for a glass of mineral water. The high-end luxury of his room suddenly felt fragile. If I can't beat someone like that, Enzo thought, his eyes narrowing, I need to own him.
He ignored the girl waiting at the bridge and summoned Olivia. She entered minutes later, looking around the opulent room. "What's so urgent?"
Enzo turned the massive monitor toward her. "Do you know him?"
Olivia squinted at the helmeted figure. "No face, no name. Why does it matter?"
"He's the one who saved Sophia," Enzo said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. "He dismantled a professional hit squad in the time it takes to boil water. Single-handedly."
Olivia stood stunned, the scale of the violence on the screen finally sinking in.
"If we bring him into the fold," Enzo continued, "we become invincible. We find his weakness. Family, money, debt—everyone has a price."
Olivia took a deep breath, and asked "And if he doesn't?"
Enzo's cold, predatory smile returned. "Then we manufacture one. We ruin his family's business. We create a medical crisis they can't afford. We make his life a living hell, and then we step in as the 'saviors.' We pay the bills, we fix the problems, and in exchange... he becomes my shadow."
"He will be my bodyguard," Olivia corrected, her eyes flashing with a similar greed.
"Fine," Enzo murmured, watching the video loop one more time. "As long as he's on the team."
As Olivia walked out to make the calls, Enzo looked at his reflection in the dark TV screen. "I always win," he whispered. "No matter what."