Lucius Vale walked out of the gates of Saint Anselm Military Academy with nothing but a duffel and the echo of his disgrace.
His uniform, stripped of insignia, clung to him like skin that no longer belonged. The city lay ahead—steel towers catching pale morning light, swallowing him in glass and shadow.
He had been raised to command. Now he was no one.
The tribunal's words still cut in his skull: reckless conduct, insubordination, unfit for command. They hadn't cared that the mission had succeeded. They hadn't cared that lives had been spared.
Rules mattered more than results.
Lucius had tried to salute, but his hand had faltered. The gesture had felt counterfeit, like the last act of a soldier who no longer existed.
He tightened his grip on the duffel. One thought pulsed beneath his ribs like a war drum.
I will not disappear.
The skyscraper rose like a blade in the heart of the Financial District. Its mirrored surface caught the morning sun, sharp enough to blind.
Red Shield Security.
The name gleamed across the entrance in embossed steel.
Men in tailored suits moved with precision, their eyes scanning the street without ever seeming to. Limousines idled at the curb. Senators, tycoons, and men who wore their wealth like crowns streamed through the doors, flanked by guardians in black.
Lucius adjusted the collar of his worn shirt. He did not belong in this river of silver ties and polished shoes. Not yet.
But belonging was something he would earn.
Inside, the lobby spread like a cathedral of commerce—marble floors, chandeliers, the hum of wealth in motion. At the center, a receptionist's eyes flicked over him: the cheap shirt, the duffel, the hunger in his stare.
"Appointment?" Her tone left no room for hesitation.
Lucius met her gaze without flinching.
"I'm here to join Red Shield."
A pause. Then her hand moved over the console.
Two men in suits appeared from the elevators, tall and sharp, their steps in perfect rhythm.
"Follow," one of them said.
The corridor was lined with quiet art—wars painted as victories, battles reduced to loyalty.
In the elevator, the taller man finally spoke.
"Why are you here?"
"Because the Shield doesn't care about medals," Lucius answered. "It cares about survival. About results."
A flicker of amusement in the man's eyes.
The doors opened into a concrete chamber. A single ring of light glowed above.
"Step inside."
Lucius did.
From the shadows came another figure—broad-shouldered, suit stretched across muscle, jaw like carved stone. His tie was knotted perfectly, as if precision extended even to combat.
"This is Calder," the man said. "He breaks those who don't belong."
Calder loosened his cuffs with calm grace. His eyes, however, promised violence.
Lucius braced.
The first strike came fast. Calder moved like a hammer. Lucius flowed like water. Impact rattled through him, bones singing from the force.
"Why seek the Shield, disgrace?" Calder's voice was cold between blows.
Lucius blocked, countered, teeth gritted.
"Because I refuse to vanish."
A feral smile cut across Calder's face.
The clash escalated—hammer vs water, brute strength vs survival instinct. Each hit dragged Lucius closer to collapse. Each counter clawed him an inch of respect.
Then Calder stopped. He adjusted his tie as if the fight had been nothing but posture.
The silence that followed was heavier than the blows.
The first man nodded once.
"He belongs."
Marble returned beneath his feet. Now the corridors opened into a lounge dressed as power—mahogany tables, velvet chairs, the air thick with cigars and ambition.
Men and women in perfect suits spoke in low tones. Their laughter carried edges sharp as knives.
Lucius's gaze swept the room. Here were ex-generals, spymasters, warlords in silk disguise.
A voice rose from the bar, smooth and deliberate.
"So this is the academy's castaway."
Lucius turned. A man leaned against the counter, dark suit immaculate, glass tilting in his hand.
"Damien Corso," he said. "Captain in the Shield. Clients come to me when their enemies write their names in bullets."
Lucius inclined his head. "Lucius Vale."
Damien's smile curved like a knife.
"Vale, hmm? Learn this fast—brotherhood keeps you alive. But ambition? Ambition kills."
Later, in the council chamber, Commander Rourke studied him from the head of a long table. His hair was silver, his presence iron.
"You were expelled," Rourke said. "Why should I allow your disgrace under my Shield?"
Lucius met his eyes.
"Because disgrace forged me harder than honor ever could. I don't need medals. I need purpose. And I will not break."
Silence stretched sharp as a blade.
Finally, Rourke spoke.
"Raise your hand."
Lucius did.
"You will shield those who can pay. You will not falter, even when the man behind you deserves the bullet. You are not a soldier. You are a wall. And walls do not crack."
The words seared into him like a brand.
That night, alone in the dormitory wing, Lucius stared out at the neon-lit city.
The laughter of brothers echoed in the hall. Brotherhood, yes. But under it ran the hum of ambition, sharp and dangerous.
A sound broke his thoughts—the click of his door.
A slip of paper slid across the floor.
Lucius picked it up. The handwriting was sharp, deliberate.
Your first contract. Midnight. Don't be late.
His pulse hammered.
The Shield had wasted no time. His disgrace was over.
His war was about to begin.