They made me put on a red armband.
"Candidate number 19," they said. It sounded like an old B-movie robot name. Jamila stayed on the sidelines, stuck between a perfectly trimmed bush and a butler who seemed to breathe only black tea.
The training ground was bigger than my building. At each end, testing modules: VIP escort, defense in narrow corridors, group combat, reflexes... and even an area with guys wielding plastic swords like they were sacred katanas. I saw a guy do a roll to pick up his weapon. Seriously.
Jamila, in the background, had her arms crossed and eyes narrowed like knives.
Then Claremont's voice rose over the loudspeakers.
— Start of phase one: civilian protection against surprise attack. Three attackers. Candidate number 19, step forward.
I stepped onto the platform. A silhouette in the distance played the "client." The assault began immediately: two guys charged from the left, a third appeared from a low wall on my right. All well-built. Not here to decorate.
I sighed.
The first came at me, foam baton in hand. He raised his arm. I stepped forward, slipped inside his movement, grabbed his wrist, and with a hip pivot, threw him to the ground. He fell like a sack of potatoes.
The second tried to grab me around the waist. I let him have me for half a second, then tightened my hips and drove a knee between his ribs. He coughed like a cat swallowing its tongue. Followed by a sweep. Two down.
The third? Ah, him. He had a neon plastic knife. He tried to stab me like cutting dry bread. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him around completely, and bam, down in the grass.
Total time? Less than ten seconds.
I heard murmurs. A whistle. Claremont chuckled into his mic.
— Number 19, phase two. Reflex test. Avoid projectile shots.
They placed me in a fenced area. A series of small cannons fired rubber balls at moderate speed. The goal: don't get hit.
The first balls whistled. I raised my arms, tilted my head. A slow-motion pass. A step to the left. A shoulder rotation.
I saw them coming. Their trajectory. Their speed. It was as if everything slowed down.
I dodged every ball. Every single one. Even those coming from behind. I did a backward jump just for style at the end. Looked like a graceful penguin. Badass version.
At the end, a technician raised his arms, completely baffled.
Next phase: group combat. Five guards awaited me. All armed. Two with plastic swords (heavy ones, though), one with a modified paintball rifle, two unarmed.
Jamila yelled at me from the sidelines:
— You're going to get killed, idiot!!
I gave a thumbs-up. My way of reassuring her.
When the whistle blew, I charged. Straight at the one with the rifle. He fired. Too late. I was already in front of him. I punched the barrel to bend it, then a hook to his jaw. He dropped instantly.
The two swordsmen tried a crossed assault. Bad timing. I slipped between them, grabbed one's arm, used it as a shield against the other, then threw them into each other. They crashed to the ground with a mattress-like thud.
The last two hesitated. Big mistake.
I grabbed one by the collar, lifted him, and threw him into his buddy's legs. Strike. All down. None standing.
Total silence.
Claremont clicked his cane on the ground.
— Execution time: record broken. No damage taken. Candidate number 19... you are a deliciously absurd anomaly.
Jamila was speechless.
I just sat down in the grass next to one of the dazed guys.
— Got any water? I asked an assistant.
He handed me a bottle, trembling.
I opened it, took a sip, and sighed.
Honestly… I thought it'd be harder.
I had barely finished my bottle when Claremont was already descending the marble steps of the porch, a grin stretched ear to ear, his cane clicking like a clock on the courtyard tiles.
— Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! he exclaimed. You're real, young man? Not some android lost from a local lab?
I shrugged. Still sitting in the grass, surrounded by five guys moaning like cows at the slaughterhouse.
— I think so.
Jamila came running, looking frantic.
— You're crazy, completely insane! What if there had been real bullets? What if one of them stabbed you with their ridiculous sword?!
I looked at her, put a hand on her head, and said calmly:
— You're cute when you worry.
She blushed scarlet. Again.
Claremont stopped a meter from me, leaning slightly as if inspecting a rare stone.
— Mr. Natsa, if you agree, I'm hiring you today. I haven't seen anyone dismantle my security team with such elegance since… well, never.
I stood slowly, patted my pants, and replied:
— You said $10,000 to start, right?
— Exactly. Housing included, meals too. And if you survive my guests, it can double very quickly.
— Your guests also shoot rubber bullets?
He laughed. A hearty, almost contagious laugh.
— Oh no, they shoot for real. But you won't have to face them. Not yet, at least.
I looked at Jamila. She had her arms crossed, her gaze a little less thunderous.
— Did you hear that? Housing included. Meals too.
— You really think this is a good idea?
I smiled.
— Not at all. But it pays well.
Claremont pulled a small shiny black card from his jacket's inner pocket and handed it to me.
— Tomorrow at ten o'clock. I live in the Albrecht Tower, floor 58. Give this card to reception; they'll let you up. And don't be late. I love punctual people.
I took the card, twirled it between my fingers. Jamila looked at it like it was a cursed scroll.
— You can still say no, she whispered.
I smirked.
— I said I wanted a job where I can be myself. Well, here it is.
Claremont walked away, his cane softly echoing on the tiles. Before passing through the glass door, he turned back.
— Oh, I almost forgot. My name is Claremont Rüzgar. Pleased to meet you, young anomaly.
And he disappeared into his millionaire's mansion, leaving me with a worried Jamila, a red armband, and five guards on the ground.
An almost normal day, all in all.
The way back was silent.
Jamila walked beside me, head down, arms crossed as if carrying an invisible burden. I chewed gum calmly, hands in pockets.
— You know, Natsa… this job scares me a little.
I turned slightly toward her, one eyebrow raised.
— Because it pays too well? Or because there are guys with plastic swords?
She didn't answer immediately. She stopped near a streetlamp and looked up at the sky. The clouds drifted like regrets.
— No, I'm serious. You know those types: eccentric rich people, shady business, crooked deals… And you, you act like nothing can touch you.
I shrugged.
— Because nothing really touches me. Not physically, at least.
— Mentally? Emotionally?
She looked me straight in the eyes. I chuckled.
— You ask questions like a psychologist who missed her calling.
She tapped my shoulder, but lightly.
— I'm worried, idiot.
I looked at her, then put a hand on her shoulder.
— You don't have to worry. I'm fine. I'm careful. And if something happens, I'll improvise like usual.
She stared at me a moment, then sighed.
— That's what worries me most, your "like usual."
We arrived in front of her building. She climbed the few steps of the porch, then turned around. The streetlamp above gave her hair a slightly golden shine.
— Good luck tomorrow… I won't be able to come with you this time.
I winked.
— I'll manage. Just don't have nightmares while I'm saving the world.
She rolled her eyes, but I saw her smile faintly. Then she went inside.
The next day arrived.
I was on time. Always. The security gate recognized me, Claremont's card beeped. In the grand hall of Albrecht Tower, I was surrounded by marble, gold leaf, and sharply pressed black-suited men. I wore the same jacket as the day before. Not out of laziness. Out of principle.
The other guards looked at me like a virus. A parasite coming to gnaw at their comfort. I heard whispers in corners. "Is that him?" "Is that the kid the boss took personally?" "Tch… did he sleep with someone or what?"
I smiled. They were funny.
The day passed slowly. Patrol in the corridors, straight posture, earpiece fixed to my head. An old guy ordered me to stay "discreet but present." I fell asleep on a leather chair for thirty minutes. No one dared wake me.
Around 6 p.m., as I was about to leave, Claremont appeared in the hall, cane in hand, serious look.
— Natsa. Can you stay a moment?
I nodded and followed him into his office, a huge place with a view over the whole city, and probably two or three parallel dimensions.
He closed the door.
— Tomorrow evening, I have a meeting. An important family… very important. They come from far away, and these aren't the kind of guys you turn away.
I settled into a leather armchair as soft as a cloud.
— And you want me to serve the canapés?
— No. He hesitated. I want you to protect me personally. I don't know why, but I have a bad feeling. Like my life might be at stake…
I stayed silent for a moment.
— Okay.
He blinked.
— You don't want to know who they are? What they want? The risks?
— No. If I'm your bodyguard, my job is to keep your body safe. No matter who wants to trample it.
Claremont stared at me for a long moment. Then a big smile split his face.
— I like your style, Natsa. I think we're going to get along well, you and me.
He held out his hand. I shook it.
The meeting tomorrow? I had already forgotten the details. But I was paid. And that was enough to show up.
Night had fallen over Marlha. The city lights stretched in long blurry streaks behind the window of my small apartment. Sitting on the couch, a bowl of lukewarm ramen in my hands, I absentmindedly watched a documentary about glowing fish from the abyss. The voice-over guys had the gift of making even floating algae sound dramatic.
Then my phone vibrated.
I looked at the screen.
"Dad"
I let out a small laugh before answering.
— Hello?
— Hey, kid! Have you forgotten us or what? my father's voice shouted, full of energy. Don't you want to come visit us in Grenoble? Your little sister Elara asks about you every day!
A familiar warmth rose in my stomach. Before I could answer, I heard background noise, a softer voice approaching.
— Give me that phone, damn it. You talk too loud.
— He's MY son too, you know!
— My son… said my mother taking over, I hope you're not having problems, huh? Otherwise, you can always come back. Come stay here, life in Marlha, I know, isn't easy.
— Give me the phone back, you're going to scare him!
— It's my turn to talk!
The handset started shaking with their quarrel, like an old radio sitcom. I imagined their two faces pressed against the same phone, and I couldn't help but laugh softly.
— It's good to hear you, I whispered sincerely. You know… I'm adapting here. I even got a job recently.
A respectful silence suddenly settled.
— A job? my mother said, voice tense with a mix of surprise and worry. What do you do, my child?
I tilted my head, searching for words. My hand tightened around the bowl.
— I am…
I stopped. A fraction of a second.
If I said I worked as a bodyguard for a wealthy magnate possibly linked to political spheres, I imagined them already packing to "rescue" me from there. No. Bad idea.
I deliberately dropped my spoon.
— Oops, I dropped something. Actually, I'm a waiter in a small restaurant here.
— Our big boy is doing well! my mother exclaimed, proud as if I'd become president.
— That's my son! said my father. A real man. There's no lowly job.
— I hope you don't drop too many girls, given how handsome you are…
— Given how I used to drop girls in my day, it's obvious he does too—
— Excuse me?! my mother snapped, sharp as a blade.
— Uh… um… son! my father changed the subject faster than a politician in custody. You should think about coming to see us, even once. It would make us very happy.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
— I'll think about it, dad. I'll think about it.
— Very well. See you, champ.
They hung up. I stayed a moment, phone still at my ear. Then I smiled softly.
— I like those guys. My human family…
The next day.
It was time.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Impeccable black suit. Black gloves. Connected earpiece. Simple but effective glasses. And on my left arm, a red armband signaling my role: close protection.
My hair was tied back. My face calm, as always. But in my mind, everything was clear.
Tonight, I wasn't just protecting a man. I had to anticipate a threat.
I turned on my heel.
— I'm ready.