The wax seal burned in Lucius's pocket as he climbed the marble steps.
Commander Rourke wants you. Now.
Men in tailored suits passed him in the corridor, their eyes flicking his way, curiosity sharp behind practiced indifference. Recruits were not summoned by Rourke. Not directly. To be called was to be judged—or cut.
Lucius's footsteps echoed like a countdown.
At the end of the hall, two guards stood before a set of double doors. Their suits were immaculate, their faces carved from granite.
"Vale," one said. "He's waiting."
The doors opened with a slow groan.
Commander Rourke's office was nothing like the marble lounges or velvet halls below.
It was stripped bare, concrete walls, steel beams, no ornament. A long desk sat at the center, papers stacked with ruthless precision. Behind it, Rourke sat like a general in permanent campaign.
Silver hair combed back. Suit blacker than night. Eyes cold, pale, and sharp as the edge of a blade.
He did not rise when Lucius entered.
"Vale," he said, voice like a gavel. "Sit."
Lucius obeyed, lowering himself into the hard chair opposite the desk.
The silence was suffocating.
Finally, Rourke spoke. "You bled in the field."
"Yes, sir."
"You kept Marco Vitale alive."
"Yes."
Rourke's gaze cut deeper. "And yet, you were attacked by trained killers in a public club. Do you know what that means?"
Lucius kept his voice steady. "That the boy was marked."
"That we were marked," Rourke corrected, his tone sharp. "The Shield was marked. And your actions determined whether our name would stand untarnished… or be dragged into the gutter."
Lucius held his gaze. "I did what I had to."
Rourke rose slowly, circling the desk. His footsteps were deliberate, each one echoing like the strike of a hammer.
"You were expelled from the academy," he said. "Disgrace, they called it. Reckless. Unfit. And yet…" He stopped behind Lucius, his shadow falling across him. "When the fire came, you moved. You killed. You shielded."
He leaned down, voice cold in Lucius's ear. "Tell me, Vale. Did you feel shame when you pulled that trigger?"
Lucius's pulse hammered. He remembered the weight of the pistol, the man collapsing, the silence after the shot.
"No," he said.
Rourke's hand pressed briefly on his shoulder, heavy as judgment. "Good. Shame is for soldiers. We are not soldiers."
He moved back around the desk, facing him again. "We are walls. And walls do not bleed for honor—they stand for purpose."
Rourke's gaze sharpened. "Now, tell me. Who do you think sent those men after Marco?"
Lucius hesitated. He thought of Silas Kane's folder, the surveillance photos marked before the attack. He thought of Damien's smirk, Calder's warning: not every enemy comes from outside the Shield.
But to speak it aloud… was a risk.
"I don't know," Lucius said finally.
Rourke studied him, eyes narrowing. "A wise answer. For now."
He sat again, folding his hands. "Listen to me, Vale. The Shield does not survive because of contracts alone. We survive because those who carry our crest carry no doubt. No hesitation. No questions."
Lucius felt the words like a cage tightening.
And yet, he heard Silas's whisper: Choose before the ground breaks beneath you.
Rourke pulled a small box from his desk and slid it across the table.
"Open it."
Lucius did. Inside was a silver pin shaped like a shield, its surface engraved with the crest of Red Shield: a wall crowned with steel.
"This," Rourke said, "is your mark. Wear it, and you are recognized as one of us. Fail to honor it, and it will be torn from your chest before your corpse cools."
Lucius closed the box. The weight of the pin felt heavier than any medal he'd worn at the academy.
Rourke's voice hardened. "But know this: there are those within my Shield who forget what it means to be a wall. They think themselves kings, generals, merchants of ambition." His tone sharpened like a blade. "You will not listen to them."
Lucius's chest tightened. He thought of Silas, of Damien's mocking toast, of Calder's unreadable gaze. Rourke already knew. Or suspected.
"I understand," Lucius said carefully.
Rourke's eyes narrowed. "Do you?"
The Commander stood again, moving to the window. From here, the city stretched wide, towers glinting in the afternoon sun, streets crawling with power unseen.
"You think this city belongs to senators. Moguls. Crime lords," Rourke said. "It doesn't. It belongs to us. Because without walls, their empires crumble. Without men like you, they are prey."
He turned, eyes blazing with cold conviction. "That is why I built the Shield. To remind the world that survival is not earned by crowns or votes. It is earned by walls that do not crack."
Lucius felt the weight of those words press against him. This man believed. With every bone, every breath, he believed.
Rourke stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Do you believe, Vale?"
Lucius met his gaze. "I believe survival is all that matters."
Rourke's lips curved faintly. "Good. Then you will stand. Until you break."
The moment hung heavy, then Rourke slid a folder across the desk.
"Your next assignment."
Lucius opened it. The photos inside showed a man in his fifties, sleek suit, smile too polished. The name beneath read: Senator Harold Grieves.
"He has enemies," Rourke said. "Enemies with deep pockets. He's hosting a gala tomorrow night. You will be part of his detail."
Lucius studied the photo. A senator. Not a crime family heir this time—a public face, a man with influence in daylight.
"This is different," Lucius said.
"Every wall faces a different storm," Rourke replied.
As Lucius rose to leave, Rourke's voice cut across the room.
"One more thing."
Lucius turned.
Rourke's eyes bored into him. "Loyalty is not tested when the bullets fly. It is tested in silence, when whispers reach your ear. If I ever learn you've bent your ear to those whispers, Vale…" His tone dropped to ice. "…I will tear that pin from your chest myself."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Lucius inclined his head. "Understood."
He left the office, the silver pin still heavy in his hand, his pulse thundering.
Outside the Commander's doors, Lucius paused in the dim corridor.
Someone was waiting in the shadows.
Damien Corso.
His smirk was sharper than ever, his glass of whiskey somehow already in hand.
"So," Damien murmured. "The old wolf gave you his little speech, didn't he? Walls. Loyalty. Silence."
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Careful, Vale. Sometimes the walls don't crack from outside fire. Sometimes… they rot from within."
He clinked his glass softly against Lucius's chest, right where the silver pin now rested.
"Welcome to the real Shield."