The gunshot cracked like thunder.
Lucius felt the shockwave burn past his cheek, hot and searing, close enough to leave his skin tingling. The flash burned a white scar across his vision, blinding for a half-second.
When his sight cleared, the gunman was still standing.
The knife had sunk into his shoulder, not his throat. Lucius had missed.
The man's arm shook with pain, but the gun was still steady, still pointed at Marco Vitale's chest.
Lucius didn't think.
He lunged forward, driving his shoulder into the man's torso. The pistol fired again, deafening at point-blank. The bullet shredded air, plaster, glass. Screams multiplied as the crowd scattered, bodies flooding toward the exits like panicked fish.
The two men crashed to the sticky floor, tangled in neon and shadows. Lucius's hands clamped on the gunman's wrist, forcing the barrel skyward. The man grunted, teeth bared, blood running down his sleeve.
The second attacker surged in. Knife gleaming.
Lucius rolled, dragging the first man into his path. Steel buried into flesh not meant for it. The wounded gunman howled, collapsing under the weight of his ally's mistake.
Lucius twisted the pistol free.
One heartbeat.
Two.
The knife-wielder raised his blade again.
Lucius squeezed the trigger.
The report was sharp, final. The man fell without another sound.
Silence clung to Lucius's ears, broken only by the pounding bass that still throbbed through the club's speakers.
He stood, gun steady in his hands, chest heaving.
Marco stared at him, pale under the strobe lights. The boy's arrogance was gone, replaced by raw, stunned awareness.
"You… you killed him," Marco whispered.
Lucius didn't answer. He didn't need to. The smoke in the air said enough.
The last of the attackers was gone, but danger never ended with the first wave.
Lucius grabbed Marco by the arm, yanking him to his feet. "Move."
"But—"
"Now!"
They ran. Past broken glass, overturned tables, the stink of champagne mixed with gunpowder. The crowd had already fled, leaving the club a hollow carcass of flashing lights and spilled liquor.
Outside, the night air hit sharp and cold. Neon bled across wet asphalt.
A black sedan screeched around the corner, tires shrieking. Lucius's grip on the pistol tightened.
The car's rear door flew open. A voice barked from inside.
"Get in!"
Lucius shoved Marco first, sliding in after him, pistol still raised.
The driver was one of Red Shield's men—clean suit, stone face, eyes fixed on the rearview.
No questions. No greetings. Just acceleration, the city whipping past in streaks of light.
Marco slumped against the seat, chest rising and falling too fast. He touched his shirt, smearing blood that wasn't his.
"They… they were here for me," he muttered.
Lucius said nothing. The boy wasn't wrong.
But the real question was who had sent them.
The sedan pulled into a gated compound on the West End, where ivy crawled up stone walls and iron gates gleamed under floodlights.
Guards with earpieces and rifles swarmed as the car rolled to a stop. The Vitale crest—silver lion, crown raised—was stamped across the gate.
The moment Marco stepped out, the guards straightened. One even bowed slightly.
Lucius followed, pistol lowered but still in hand. His eyes scanned the shadows, the rooftops, the movement of leaves in the night wind.
Inside, the mansion stretched like an empire. Marble stairs, chandeliers, gold-framed portraits of men with ruthless eyes.
At the top of the staircase stood Enzo Vitale.
Marco's father.
Age had silvered his hair but not softened him. His suit was darker than midnight, his stance sharp as a blade unsheathed.
His gaze landed on his son first, scanning for wounds. Then it slid to Lucius, cool and assessing.
"Who are you?" Enzo's voice was low thunder.
Lucius straightened. "Lucius Vale. Red Shield assigned me to guard your son."
Enzo's jaw flexed. His eyes cut to Marco. "And yet you arrive covered in blood."
Marco flinched. "They— they tried to kill me, Papà. In the club. He stopped them."
Enzo's gaze lingered on Lucius a moment longer. Then he gave a single nod, almost imperceptible.
"You may have earned tonight's breath," Enzo said. "But protection is not proved in one brawl."
Lucius didn't answer. He didn't need to. He knew the truth: this wasn't over.
Back at Red Shield headquarters, Damien Corso was waiting.
He leaned against the bar in the Hall, a glass of whiskey turning slow in his hand.
"Well, well," Damien murmured as Lucius entered, his shirt stained, his knuckles raw. "You kept the prince breathing. Congratulations."
Lucius's jaw tightened. "Three men in a public club. That wasn't a random hit."
"No," Damien agreed. "But we don't ask who writes the bullets. We just make sure they don't land."
"Who sent me in blind?" Lucius pressed. "No intel, no backup. Was that the Shield's test—or someone's setup?"
Damien's smile was thin. "You ask too many questions for a man on probation."
Lucius stepped closer, voice low. "If I hadn't been there, Marco Vitale would be dead. And the Shield's reputation would've been dragged down with him."
Damien's eyes gleamed, amusement flickering. "And yet, Vale, he's alive. Which means you passed."
He raised his glass. "To the Shield's newest wall."
Lucius didn't drink.
Later, alone in the dormitory wing, Lucius sat on his bed, the pistol still heavy in his hand.
The academy had drilled into him: every mission is won in preparation. But here—here, there was no preparation. Just contracts, enemies, chaos.
And yet, beneath the exhaustion, something stirred. A spark. Purpose.
He had shielded someone who mattered, and for a moment, he was not a disgrace.
But purpose came with a price. He could already feel it tightening like a noose.
A knock broke the silence.
Lucius rose, opening the door to find Calder—the man who had tested him in the arena. His suit was immaculate, his expression unreadable.
"You survived," Calder said simply.
"Barely."
"That's how most of us do."
Calder studied him a moment longer, then leaned in, voice low. "Keep your eyes open, Vale. Not every enemy comes from outside the Shield."
Before Lucius could reply, Calder walked away, footsteps fading into the dim hall.
Lucius closed the door, Calder's warning still ringing in his ears.
Not every enemy comes from outside the Shield.
He looked down at the pistol in his hand, the blood still drying on its grip.
And then he noticed it—
A new slip of paper, slid under his door.
The handwriting was sharp, deliberate.
Tomorrow. Noon. A meeting you cannot refuse.
Lucius's pulse quickened.
The Shield had tested him in blood. Now someone else wanted to test him in silence.
And this time, failure might not just cost him his life—
It might cost him his soul.