Tomas woke before the alarm.
Sunlight cut through the window in sharp, almost uncomfortable lines, illuminating the bare room. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, listening to his breathing—the steady rhythm of his heart. His body felt heavy—but obedient. The pain was dull, familiar. Useful.
He began with light conditioning.
Push-ups—slow, controlled. Every movement precise, no wasted motion. Squats. Sit-ups. Sweat came quickly, but his breathing remained calm. Tomas hated chaos—even in training.
Then he went running.
The city streets were still half-asleep. The asphalt was cool and damp from the night air, the morning crisp and clear. His footsteps were quiet, rhythmic. He didn't run fast—he ran long, letting his thoughts settle. Each step was a reminder: the body had to be ready. Always.
He stopped in front of the combat gym.
The door opened with resistance. Inside, the air was thick with sweat, rubber, and metal. There were plenty of people—young, loud, confident. The moment Tomas stepped inside, the gym owner, an old man who had seen too many fights to be impressed, locked eyes with him.
His gaze turned cold.
"I thought you wouldn't come back," the man said.
"I paid for the month," Tomas replied evenly, and walked past him to the jump ropes.
He started skipping.
Slow at first. Then faster. His footwork was quiet, efficient. He warmed his body to the point where reflexes sharpened and thoughts went silent.
Beside the old man stood a large, solid-looking fighter with clear experience.
"Why does that newbie look so arrogant?" the fighter muttered.
"Let him be," the old man replied.
Tomas moved to the heavy bag.
The first punches were measured. He tested angles, distance, recovery. Then the power increased. The strikes became faster, more precise than the last time. The bag swung unevenly—he wasn't hitting with brute force, but accuracy.
The same fighter watched with a wide grin.
"Hey, newbie," he called out. "Want to spar? It's better with a real person."
Tomas turned.
His face was calm. Empty.
He assessed the man—size, experience, confidence. Typical.
No matter how strong you are, Tomas thought, you're still human. And humans are full of weaknesses.
"Alright," he said. "But I don't know the rules."
The man laughed.
"Doesn't matter. Hit wherever you want."
"As you wish," Tomas replied.
A murmur spread through the gym. The old man pushed his way toward the ring.
"What's going on?"
"Jekas is going to teach the newbie some manners," someone chuckled.
"Hey, Jekas," the old man snapped. "You've got a fight in a few days!"
"Relax," Jekas said with a crooked smile. "Just warming up."
Tomas put on MMA gloves and stepped into the ring.
Jekas was at least a head taller.
The bell rang.
Jekas attacked immediately—one punch toward the head, another to the body. Tomas barely avoided them, reacting purely on instinct, retreating with sharp movements.
"Don't be scared," Jekas laughed. "Those were light shots."
In an instant, Tomas was close.
Too close.
Jekas saw his eyes—cold, hollow—and something inside him faltered.
A strike to the solar plexus. Precise.
Then to the calf—right where the nerve ran.
Tomas stepped back.
The laughter around the ring stopped.
In the silence, Jekas laughed again.
"Feels like a mosquito bite…"
He put weight on his leg.
It trembled.
The old man moved to stop the fight—but Tomas was already there again. This time, Jekas couldn't react fast enough. A sharp strike to the throat—directly to the Adam's apple. Not full force. Just enough.
Another strike to the same leg.
Jekas collapsed, his face turning blue as he struggled to breathe.
Tomas crouched, pulled him upright, leaned him forward so he wouldn't choke.
Then he calmly stepped out of the ring.
"You know that strike is illegal," the old man said.
"I'm not a boxer or an MMA fighter," Tomas replied flatly. "I asked about the rules. He said everything was allowed."
The old man lowered his eyes.
"But this is my gym. There have to be rules—so no one dies."
"If I wanted him dead," Tomas said coldly, "he would be."
He turned and went to collect his things.
The old man said nothing more. He had seen it clearly—this could have ended in death.
Tomas picked up his phone.
A missed call from Viktor.
A new job.
He called back.
"Hey, Tomas. Got time?"
"Yes."
"I've got work. Different this time. Might take longer. I'll explain when you get here."
"I'll be there in a couple of hours."
Tomas went home, showered, changed, grabbed his keys.
And drove out.
The gates opened the moment Tomas's car slowed.
The guards didn't ask for a name anymore. They already knew him.
He drove through the wide stone entrance and parked near the main building. The mansion loomed ahead—too large to feel like a home, too controlled to feel alive. Everything here existed for power.
As Tomas stepped out of the car, a man approached him immediately.
"Come. I'll take you to Viktor."
Tomas nodded and followed without a word.
They moved through familiar corridors, but the atmosphere was different this time—heavier. When they reached Viktor's office, Tomas noticed two armed guards standing at the door.
Something important was happening.
Inside, five people were already waiting.
They looked like people who made decisions that ruined lives quietly.
Their posture, their silence, the way none of them spoke first—it all told Tomas the same thing: these were not men and women who needed to raise their voices to be obeyed.
"Ah, Tomas," Viktor said, rising from behind his desk. "Come in. Let me introduce you."
Tomas stepped forward, his gaze calm, sharp, unreadable.
One by one, the five turned toward him—and smiled. Not warmly. With interest.
Viktor gestured as he spoke.
"Michael Russo — Finance Chief. He moves money, hides profits, makes sure we look clean on paper."
Michael Russo sat slightly apart from the others, hands folded neatly on his lap. He wore an expensive suit that showed no sign of excess—no jewelry, no visible luxury—only precision. His face was composed, almost expressionless, but his eyes were alert, constantly calculating.
This was a man who didn't threaten or intimidate.
He erased people financially before they ever realized they were under attack.
Michael gave a brief nod, acknowledging Tomas not as a subordinate—but as an asset.
"Luis Herrera — Expansion and Market Control. He identifies new territories and absorbs rivals without open conflict."
Luis leaned back in his chair, one arm resting casually on the armrest. Unlike Michael, he smiled easily—too easily. There was confidence in him, but also impatience, as if he were always thinking several steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
This was the type of man who never fought unless he had already won.
Luis smiled faintly, eyes sharp with curiosity as he studied Tomas.
"Anthony DeLuca — Operations Director. Logistics, territory, transport. Quiet efficiency."
Anthony stood near the window, hands behind his back. He hadn't smiled when Tomas entered. He hadn't reacted at all. His gaze was steady, cold, and analytical—watching posture, breathing, balance.
He was the kind of man who noticed small details and remembered them forever.
Anthony studied Tomas carefully, as if committing his strengths and weaknesses to memory.
"Mateo Alvarez — Head of Security and Enforcement. Protection, discipline, and force when necessary."
Mateo stood straight, shoulders squared, feet planted evenly apart. His body bore the signs of years of combat—old scars, healed fractures, the controlled stillness of someone trained to react instantly.
He didn't look impressed.
He looked cautious.
Mateo didn't smile.
He measured Tomas like a threat—or a weapon yet to be tested.
"And Isabel Rojas — Legal and Negotiation Lead," Viktor finished.
"Alliances, legal insulation, and negotiations that look clean from the outside."
Isabel sat with her legs crossed, posture relaxed, fingers resting lightly on the arm of her chair. Her smile was warm, practiced, and dangerous.
She looked like someone who could end a conflict with a sentence—or start one just as easily.
Isabel smiled broadly.
"Finally," she said lightly, "a young and handsome face. It was getting depressing being the only woman among middle-aged geezers."
Tomas showed no reaction.
"Pleasure," he said flatly. "What work will I be assigned?"
Luis laughed. "I like him. Straight to business."
Viktor nodded. "Good. Then let's get serious."
He leaned back slightly.
"As you know, Tomas, we control the entire industrial district of the city. But now we want to expand into the logistics zone—the port."
He paused deliberately.
"That area is controlled by several major players. NovaCure. Amber Port Logistics."
At the sound of NovaCure, something flickered.
Tomas's fist clenched.
His face remained expressionless, but his eyes darkened—sharp, focused, dangerous.
I need to get close, he thought. This is the opening.
Viktor noticed.
"We're aware of your… history with NovaCure," he continued calmly.
"And we know you're not just a doctor."
He met Tomas's gaze directly.
"We want you'll serve as security and medical support for Isabel and her team during negotiations in hostile territory. I won't lie—it's dangerous."
The room went quiet.
The leaders exchanged looks. It was a powerful role—for someone new.
Tomas didn't hesitate.
"I agree," he said. "On three conditions."
Everyone looked at him.
"First," Tomas continued, "Mateo trains me in hand-to-hand combat."
Mateo raised an eyebrow—then smiled slightly.
"Second," Tomas said, "I want full access to all information on NovaCure. Personnel. Executives. Residences. Warehouses. Everything. No questions about why."
The room grew tense.
"And third," Tomas finished, "money doesn't matter. Whatever you pay—transfer it to the account I provide."
He looked at Viktor.
"If these terms are acceptable, I take the job."
Mateo chuckled softly. "Interesting man. I'm in."
Isabel smiled. "I finally get a good-looking bodyguard. I'm in."
One by one, the others nodded.
Viktor smiled.
"Agreed. All your conditions will be met."
He turned to the group.
"That's settled. I'll provide mission details later. Mateo—Tomas—stay. The rest of you are dismissed."
The room emptied until only Viktor, Tomas, and Mateo remained.
"So," Viktor said, "you're willing to train him?"
Mateo nodded. "Yes. This will be… interesting."
"Good," Viktor continued. "Tomas, we need you in peak condition. Mateo will assess you, and based on that, we'll decide when the operation begins."
He paused.
"We'll give you a room here so training can be constant."
Tomas nodded. "I'll collect a few things from home and return."
"Excellent," Viktor said. "Then we're done here."
As Tomas turned to leave, one thing was clear.
This wasn't just a job anymore.
It was alignment.
And the war he'd been preparing for had finally found its shape.