Training begins, and a pawn learns to think like a predator.
The mornings began before sunrise. John woke to the blare of a whistle, his body jolting upright in the unfamiliar softness of a bed that felt more like a trap. Within minutes, he was outside in the compound, the cold air biting at his skin as Alex's men surrounded him.
"Again," barked a tall, scarred man named Victor. He was Alex's lieutenant, a former soldier whose eyes were as sharp as knives.
John's chest heaved as he pushed himself off the dirt, his knuckles raw from hours of combat drills. He had lost count of how many times Victor had slammed him down, correcting every move with brutal precision.
"You fight like a prisoner," Victor growled. "Reactive. Desperate. That won't work against men who control the game. You want revenge? Then learn to control them."
John spat blood into the dirt, eyes blazing. "Then show me."
Victor smirked. "That's the spirit."
Days bled into weeks. John's body hardened under relentless training—hand-to-hand combat, knife work, firearms, surveillance. He ran miles until his lungs burned, sparred until his bones ached, studied documents until his eyes blurred. But Alex didn't just train his body.
"You must learn patience," Alex said one evening, sliding a chessboard between them. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp.
John frowned. "I don't play games."
Alex's smile was thin. "Revenge isn't a brawl. It's a war. Every move, every sacrifice matters. If you act out of rage, you lose. If you act out of fear, you lose. Learn to think like a predator."
John stared at the board. He hesitated, then picked up a pawn.
"Good," Alex murmured. "The pawn seems weak, expendable… until it reaches the other side."
John understood the message. He was the pawn. For now.
Sophia was drowning in casework. Her position as prosecutor demanded long nights and compromises she no longer believed in. But her mind wasn't on her files—it was on that anonymous message. She had started digging quietly. Pulling prison records, surveillance footage, reports from the riot. And she found something disturbing: a gap. John's name was marked "secure," but no footage showed him after the incident.
When she asked questions, her superiors grew cagey. "Don't dig too deep," one warned. "The Mark family doesn't appreciate curiosity."
But Sophia couldn't stop. She still loved John, though guilt gnawed at her every day. She had failed him once. She couldn't do it again.
Back at Alex's compound, John collapsed onto his bed after another grueling session. Sweat drenched his shirt, bruises marred his arms, but his eyes were sharper than they had ever been. He looked Into the mirror on the wall. The man staring back wasn't the broken heir who had been dragged into prison five years ago.
This man's gaze was colder. Harder. Dangerous.
Alex entered quietly, observing him. "Do you see it?"
John's voice was hoarse but steady. "See what?"
"The monster you need to become."
John held his reflection for a long moment. And for the first time, he didn't flinch.
That night, Sophia sat alone in her apartment, staring at John's old photograph on her desk.
"If you're alive…" she whispered, brushing her fingers against his face in the picture, "…please don't lose yourself."
But even as she said it, somewhere deep inside, she knew the man she once loved was already gone.
What would return… was something else.