The neon lights of the city blurred into long, shimmering streaks of violet and gold against the wet asphalt. It was past 10:00 PM, and the air around Doitwell University had turned crisp, smelling of impending rain and expensive exhaust.
Jack Delman didn't care. He adjusted the strap of his bag and kept his pace brisk, his boots clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. Behind him, the low, predatory hum of a black Maybach acted as a constant, irritating heartbeat.
"Young Master, please," the voice of Mr. Yonde, his father's loyal chauffeur, crackled through the partially lowered window. "The Chairman was very specific. I am not to lose sight of you. Just get in the car. It's only three miles to the estate."
Jack didn't even turn his head. "I told you at the gate, Mr. Yonde. I'm twenty years old, not a toddler being picked up from daycare. Go home. Tell my father I died in a tragic walking accident if it makes your report more interesting."
"Sir, the threats this week—they aren't just rumors. The streets are not safe for a Delman after dark," Gable pleaded, the heavy car crawling along the curb like a persistent shadow.
"The only threat I'm worried about is dying of boredom in the back of that leather-scented coffin," Jack snapped. He increased his speed, his golden-brown eyes scanning the familiar geography of the district. He knew these streets better than any of his father's security teams realized—mostly because he spent half his life trying to escape them.
Ahead, the wide boulevard narrowed. A row of ancient, decorative bollards marked the entrance to a pedestrian-only shortcut—a winding, cobblestone alleyway that cut through the old textile district. It was too narrow for a bike, let alone a luxury Maybach.
"Jack! Don't you dare—"
"Goodnight, Yonde!" Jack yelled over his shoulder.
He bolted. His sneakers hit the pavement with sudden, frantic energy as he dove between the stone pillars. He heard the screech of brakes and Yonde's muffled shout of frustration, but by the time the car had come to a full stop, Jack was already thirty yards deep into the shadows of the alley. He didn't stop running until the sound of the engine was a distant memory.
He slowed down, catching his breath, a triumphant, jagged smirk dancing on his lips. "Freedom," he whispered to the empty air.
But the silence of the alleyway didn't feel like freedom for long. It felt heavy.
As he turned a sharp corner where the streetlights had been smashed out, a cold prickle moved down his spine. He stopped. From the darkness of a recessed doorway, three figures stepped out. Then two more appeared behind him, cutting off his retreat. They were young, dressed in oversized hoodies, their faces obscured by the gloom, but the predatory hunger in their stance was unmistakable.
"Nice watch, pretty boy," the one in the center rasped. He flicked open a switchblade, the silver flash of the blade the only light in the corner. "The bag, the rings, and the phone. Do it fast and maybe we won't mess up that expensive face."
Jack felt his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird, but his pride refused to buckle. He straightened his blazer, his voice dripping with a fake, icy calm. "Do you have any idea who my father is? If you touch me, you won't just be arrested. You'll disappear."
The boys laughed a dry sound. "Your daddy isn't here, Prince. But we are."
The leader lunged forward, his fist pulled back to strike. Jack flinched, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing for the impact. He'd driven away every bodyguard his father hired because he hated the cage, but in that split second, the reality of the danger Yonde had warned him about felt terrifyingly real.
The blow never landed.
Instead, there was a sickening thud followed by a sharp gasp of pain.
Jack opened his eyes. A man stood before him. He was roughly Jack's age, built with a lean, explosive power that seemed to vibrate in the narrow space. He wore a simple black hoodie and dark cargo pants, but it was his face that stopped Jack's breath. He was strikingly handsome—sharp, aristocratic features paired with eyes that were as cold as a winter sea.
The stranger held the attacker's wrist in a grip that looked like it could crush bone.
"Move," the stranger said. His voice wasn't loud, but it held a terrifying, jagged edge of authority.
"Who the hell are you?" the leader wheezed, struggling to free his hand.
The stranger didn't answer with words. In a blur of motion that Jack's eyes could barely follow, the newcomer dismantled them; It was the raw, brutal efficiency of a street fighter. A snap-kick to a knee, a palm strike to a chin, a fluid throw that sent the largest boy crashing into a stack of wooden crates. Within sixty seconds, the alley was filled with the sounds of groaning men scrambling to their feet and fleeing into the night.
The stranger turned slowly toward Jack, his expression remaining perfectly blank, though his eyes scanned Jack for injuries with a clinical intensity.
"Come with me," the man said.
Jack's fear was rapidly being replaced by his usual brand of defensive arrogance. He smoothed his hair, leaning back against the brick wall. "Impressive. Truly. You've got the 'silent protector' act down to a science. Who are you? Some vigilante looking for a hobby?"
The man stepped closer, invading Jack's personal space. "My name is Dwayne Shane. I'm your new bodyguard."
Jack froze. The smirk vanished. "My new what? No. Absolutely not. My father hasn't mentioned a—" He stopped, remembering the surprise his father had hinted at during dinner. "You've got to be joking. You're my age. You look like you should be in a boy band, not a security detail."
"I don't joke," Dwayne said coldly. " The car is waiting at the end of the block. Let's go."
"Wait," Jack said, a wicked idea forming. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills. He peeled off five of them and held them out toward Dwayne's chest. "Look, Shane. Thanks for the save back there. Consider this your payment for the night. Now, go back to my father, tell him I'm impossible to work with, and keep the change. We can both go our separate ways."
Dwayne looked at the money, then looked Jack dead in the eye. He didn't move a muscle. "I don't want your money. I have a job to do."
"Everyone wants money," Jack sneered, his temper flaring. "Don't act like you're above it, you charity case. You're just another dog my father bought to keep me on a leash. Now take the cash and get out of my sight before I—"
Before Jack could finish his insult, the world tilted.
With a sudden, effortless movement, Dwayne stepped in, hooked an arm behind Jack's knees and another around his back, and hoisted him into the air.
"Hey! Put me down! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Jack shrieked, kicking his legs and pounding his fists against Dwayne's shoulders. It was like hitting a wall of solid granite. Dwayne didn't even flinch.
"You're resisting," Dwayne noted tonelessly, beginning to walk toward the street. "This is for your safety."
"I'll have you fired! I'll have you jailed! You're kidnapping me!"
Dwayne ignored the tantrum, carrying Jack out of the alley and straight toward the waiting car. Yonde stood by the open rear door, his jaw nearly hitting the pavement as he saw the new guard carrying the Young Master like a sack of expensive flour.
Dwayne tossed Jack onto the plush leather seat with just enough force to be jarring, then slid in right after him, closing the door and locking it.
"Drive," Dwayne commanded.
Jack scrambled into the corner of the seat, panting, his face flushed with a mix of fury and an odd, confusing heat he didn't want to acknowledge. He looked at Dwayne, who was sitting perfectly still, eyes fixed on the window, completely indifferent to the chaos he had just caused.
"You're going to regret this," Jack hissed, tucked into the far corner of the car.
Dwayne didn't look at him. "Probably. But for now, sit still. You've done enough walking for one night."