After resting for a while in the hospital room, the man finally stirred awake. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the sterile ceiling lights above, and the first thing he said—hoarsely—was:
"The criminal… What happened to him?"
One of the two policemen in the room answered calmly, "He is still knocked out, sir. Under tight custody. We're making sure he won't escape again."
The man let out a relieved exhale and let his head drop back against the pillow.
"Good. That bastard caused enough trouble already."
A few seconds passed before he looked up again, more alert now. "And what about the boy? The one with me?"
The other officer nodded toward the door. "He's waiting outside, sir. Should I call him in?"
"Yeah," the man said, rubbing his eyes. "Send him in."
The door creaked open moments later, and the boy stepped in—eyes wide, uncertain. Before he could speak, the man gave a tired but genuine smile.
"You saved my life back there. Don't think I forgot that."
The boy looked down, almost awkwardly.
The man waved the compliment away.
"Still. You did good. And since you're already a confirmed Plot Armour holder… I've got a proposal for you."
The boy's brows lifted slightly.
"Proposal?"
"Would you like to join the Enforcers? We operate out of the Academy."
There was a long pause before the boy asked the obvious:
"What do I get out of it? And… what do you even do?"
The man gave a lopsided grin.
"Benefits depend on your importance. Author's call, not mine. But let's just say... if you're worth something to the plot, the perks aren't bad."
He stretched his arms with a wince, then continued:
"As for what we do? Think of us as cops—but for Plot Armour holders. We catch the ones who misuse it. The cheaters, the abusers, the ones who got it by doing heinous crap."
The boy looked intrigued. "And the Academy?"
The man scoffed softly.
"Less of an 'academy' and more of a glorified headquarters. Founded by the Author himself. He runs the whole show. Principal, director, whatever you wanna call it. No one outranks him."
He paused, voice lowering just slightly.
"He says he created this world. Claims it, owns it. But who knows? Never seen him create it with my own eyes. Still... he knows things."
Another pause. This time, the silence lingered.
"So… will you join?"
The boy hesitated. "I don't know… feels sudden."
"No need to decide now," the man said casually. "Just come meet the Author. Hear him out. If it doesn't feel right, walk away. No strings attached."
The boy nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll come… see what it's about. Then I'll decide."
"Good." The man leaned back. "Go home. Pack a bag. It'll be a long visit. Meet me here in an hour. We'll leave together."
The boy unlocked the door and stepped inside, clothes torn, caked in dirt, and smeared with dried blood. The moment he crossed the threshold, a wooden ladle clattered to the floor.
"What happened to you?!"
His mother rushed out from the kitchen, eyes wide, hand trembling slightly. Her voice wavered between panic and instinctive scolding.
"Are you hurt? What happened? Who did this to you?!"
He held up a hand.
"I'm okay, Mom. It's not my blood. "
She pulled him closer, inspecting his arms and neck like a mother inspecting an old pressure cooker that just exploded.
"What the hell happened?!"
He sighed and walked past her into the living room, peeling off the half-shredded shirt as he spoke.
"So… I was walking home.... and he offered me a job at the academy"
He slumped onto the couch.
His mom blinked.
"…What?"
"Yeah," he said, rubbing the dried blood off his face with a towel. "They want me to be an Enforcer. At the Academy."
A long pause followed.
"Is this some kind of teenage trauma response?" she asked slowly. "Are you going to become a vigilante now? Should I call someone?"
"It's a real job, Mom," he said, cracking a tired smile. "The guy's legit. Even gave me time to pack."
His mother sat down beside him, quiet now. Her eyes weren't panicked anymore. They were... searching.
"Are you doing this because you want to… or because you think you have to?"
He thought for a moment, then gave the most honest answer he could:
"I don't know yet. But I want to find out."
She didn't speak again. Just placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Mom," he called out. "Can you help pack my bag?"
She blinked in surprise. "How long will you be gone ?"
He nodded. "It's more of a tour right now. Just going to check it out."
Her face softened, but her eyes glistened. "Your father would've been proud."
It had been two years since his father died in an accident. But thanks to his planning, the two of them were never left struggling financially. Still… the emotional vacuum was something money couldn't fill.
She sighed. "If this is what you want… then go. I won't stop you."
"Thanks, Mom."
The boy returned as promised. The man stood by the gate, arms crossed, sunglasses on like he was in a spy film.
"You're on time. Good."
Just then, the boy noticed something strange.
"Uh… is our transport running late?"
The man looked at his watch and smirked.
"Nah. Should land any minute."
"Land?"
Before the boy could ask more, the low roar of engines echoed from above. A sleek, white personal jet began its descent . The boy's jaw dropped.
"Wait… a jet? You have a jet?"
"Yeah," the man said, casually brushing dust off his sleeve.
"Are you, like, rich-rich?"
The man let out a sharp laugh.
"Nope. Not generational rich. Everything I've got , I earned with my salary as an Enforcer."
The boy narrowed his eyes.
"So… you took gifts like a lot?"
The man looked genuinely offended.
"Hey! Not bribes! Legit salary. I was the strongest enforcer in the entire Academy. They pay me to stay."
"You were the strongest," the boy teased.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"
"You said 'was the strongest.' Past tense."
The man grinned, cracking his neck.
"If you join, you'll become the strongest. And I'll be second."
The boy laughed, confidence blooming. "Big words. Let's see if they're true."
The jet's staircase extended, and the engines began to cool. As they boarded, the boy had more questions buzzing in his head, but the man stopped him mid-sentence.
"Save your breath. Ask the Author. He loves talking. Trust me."
They strapped in. The boy leaned back, eyes heavy from the day's chaos. But just as sleep began to creep in, the man muttered one last thing:
"Oh, yeah. Word of warning…"
The boy opened one eye.
"Don't mess with the zombie-looking nerd. That's the Author."
"Zombie-looking…?"
"Yeah. Nerdy. Pale. But don't be fooled—he's petty as hell. Say the wrong thing, and he'll make you regret it. So be nice."
The boy stared blankly.
"You're joking."
"You'll see."
He reclined his seat.
"Now shut up. I'm sleeping."