The paper felt heavier than its weight.
Lucius turned it over, searching for more, but there was only the ink. Four words, sharp and final.
Your first contract. Midnight.
He sat on the narrow bed of the dormitory wing, neon light bleeding through tall windows, painting the walls in fractured color. His pulse hammered a steady drumbeat against his ribs.
He had expected weeks of observation. Tests. More fights like Calder.
Instead, the Shield had wasted no time.
Midnight came fast.
Two suited men waited outside his door, silhouettes framed by the dim corridor light. Neither introduced themselves. One simply said:
"Follow."
They led him down a spiral of glass and steel, past halls where laughter and clinking glasses had died into silence. The deeper they walked, the quieter it became, until Lucius could hear only the whisper of polished shoes against marble.
The corridor ended at a door of black steel. One guard swiped a card. The lock clicked.
Inside: a war room dressed as a boardroom.
Screens glowed against the walls, maps of the city pinned with red markers. At the long table, men and women in suits leaned back in velvet chairs, their gazes sharp.
At the head sat Damien Corso.
"Vale," he said, voice smooth as glass. "You didn't vanish after Calder. Good."
Damien lifted a slim folder and slid it across the polished wood. Lucius caught it before it could skid off the edge.
Inside: a photograph.
A boy—no, not quite. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Dark hair, eyes sharp but young. His name printed clean beneath: Marco Vitale.
"Son of Enzo Vitale," Damien explained. "The Vitale Family keeps half the city's underworld breathing. But someone's trying to cut off their heir before he comes of age."
Lucius studied the photo. "You want me to babysit a mob prince."
Damien's smile curved. "You'll call it protection. But yes."
"And if I fail?"
"Then the Shield's reputation bleeds," Damien said, his tone sharpening. "And so do you."
A second folder came—this one slimmer. A forged ID, a burner phone, a sleek earpiece.
"No insignia, no chain of command," Damien said. "You're his shadow. If a bullet finds him, it goes through you first."
Lucius tucked the items into his duffel. His academy instincts prickled. No standard briefing. No backup. Just him, dropped into fire.
"Why me?" he asked.
Damien's eyes narrowed, amusement flickering. "Because you're expendable. Fail, and nobody mourns. Succeed, and maybe you earn a suit that fits."
The words landed cold, but Lucius accepted them. Expendable was still better than invisible.
They drove in silence. Black sedan, tinted glass, city lights flickering by like a river of neon veins.
The car stopped outside a club on the East Docks. Bass pulsed through the walls, the kind of beat that drew young blood with more money than sense.
Inside, the air smelled of smoke, perfume, and spilled liquor.
Marco Vitale sat in a booth like he owned the place—shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging loose, two girls laughing at his side. A bottle of champagne glittered on the table, half-empty.
When Lucius approached, Marco's eyes lifted. Sharp, assessing, older than his years.
"You're not one of my father's men," Marco said flatly.
"I'm not," Lucius admitted. "But tonight, I'm your shield."
Marco leaned back, smirk curling. "And tomorrow?"
Lucius met his gaze without blinking. "Depends if you live through tonight."
The boy's smirk faded.
---
It began with a whisper of movement.
Lucius's academy-trained instincts flared as the crowd shifted unnaturally. Three men in dark jackets had slipped through the doors, not dancing, not drinking—just moving with precision.
Hands too close to their belts. Eyes fixed on the booth.
"Down," Lucius said.
Marco frowned. "What—"
"Now!"
Lucius shoved the boy sideways just as the first flash of steel caught the light. A blade arced down where Marco's throat had been.
The club erupted. Screams cut through the bass. Lights strobed red and white.
Lucius caught the attacker's wrist, twisted, drove his elbow into the man's jaw. Bone cracked. He ripped the knife free and pivoted—parrying the second man's strike.
Marco scrambled back against the booth, wide-eyed but alive.
The third man drew a pistol.
Lucius's heart slammed once, hard.
No weapon of his own. Just the knife. Just instinct.
The gun raised.
Lucius hurled the knife across the strobe-lit chaos.
Steel met flesh with a sound lost in the thunder of music.
The man staggered, but his finger tightened on the trigger.
The muzzle flashed—
And the world went white.