Hunter jogged leisurely along the coastal road of Paradise Island, stretching his facial muscles as he moved.
He hadn't expected his [Acting: Level 4] to be so effective. The "deeply in love, heartbroken suitor" routine had flowed out of him effortlessly.
"I could probably make a decent living in Hollywood with these chops," he mused. "Though if I could have squeezed out a tear or two at the end, it would have been perfect."
He replayed the scene in his mind. He was fairly certain that when he dropped those cheesy, heartfelt lines, Sam—who clearly hadn't been inoculated against such romantic tropes—had wavered. Her heart had skipped a beat for him.
Hunter was pleased. His path to becoming the "Sea King" (a slang term for a master player/womanizer) was becoming smoother with every conquest.
"Stop right there!"
A furious roar interrupted his self-congratulation.
Hunter stopped, feigning surprise.
"Finally lost your patience, did you?" he thought, suppressing a smirk.
Blocking his path was a man slightly shorter than him, with bronzed skin, a muscular build, and a scruffy beard. He looked like he was ready to kill.
It was Jared. The same man who had been stalking them all day.
Hunter, maintaining his persona, looked at him with confusion.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Jared was shaking with rage. His temper had always been his downfall, and tonight was no exception.
All day, he had watched this tall, handsome Asian tourist flirt with his girlfriend. He had watched them laugh, touch, and bond. And moments ago, he had watched Sam initiate a hug with him.
The image of Sam in this stranger's arms broke something inside him.
"You son of a bitch!"
Jared roared and charged, swinging a wild haymaker at Hunter's face.
Hunter frowned slightly. He had expected a confrontation, but Jared was even more reckless than he thought. No words, no warning—just violence.
"You're a far cry from the other Paul I know," Hunter muttered cryptically, referencing the actor Paul Walker's other famous role as Brian O'Conner.
As Jared closed the distance, Hunter moved.
He calmly reached out and caught Jared's fist mid-swing.
Jared froze, shock registering in his eyes. Before he could wind up his other hand, Hunter squeezed.
Crack.
"Argh!"
Jared screamed as his hand was crushed by a grip that felt like hydraulic pincers. The pain in his bones and muscles was blinding.
"No discipline at all," Hunter noted.
He needed Jared intact to find the treasure and fully disappoint Sam, so he didn't break the hand. He just applied enough pressure to teach a lesson, then released him.
But sparing the hand didn't mean sparing the rest of him.
As Jared clutched his throbbing hand, glaring daggers at him, Hunter sneered.
"The security in the Bahamas is a joke. Can't even go for a run without running into thugs and robbers."
Thud.
Hunter lashed out with a lightning-fast kick, burying his foot in Jared's groin.
He held back most of his strength—he didn't want to kill the man—but a groin shot was a groin shot.
Jared didn't even see it coming. One moment he was standing; the next, his world exploded in agony.
"Oooo... agghhh!"
He collapsed into a fetal position, gasping for air.
Hunter didn't stop. He stepped in and delivered several controlled kicks to Jared's face and ribs.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Soon, Jared was a bloody mess. His nose was gushing, and his face was rapidly swelling with bruises. It looked horrific, but Hunter was careful—it was all superficial damage. Painful, humiliating, but not permanent.
"Pfft."
Hunter spat on the ground next to him, venting a bit of his own jealousy (feigned or otherwise).
"Garbage like you can't even mug someone properly," he scoffed. "I don't know how you have the face to live in this world."
He gave Jared one last kick for good measure.
"Consider yourself lucky I'm too tired to call the police. Get out of my sight."
Hunter turned and jogged away toward his villa, leaving Jared groaning in the dirt.
Jared lay there for a long time, the pain radiating through his body. Eventually, he struggled to his feet, watching Hunter's retreating back with hatred burning in his eyes. He screamed a few impotent curses into the night air before limping home, humiliated and broken.
The Next Morning.
Sam woke up, washed, and ate breakfast alone.
She waited for a while, but Jared didn't come out of his house.
She frowned, staring at his closed door. They were neighbors as well as lovers, and usually, their mornings were synchronized.
But since the fight over the necklace, things had been icy.
She hadn't gone to his place last night. And after Hunter's emotional confession, her own heart was in turmoil, keeping her awake until the early hours.
She hadn't forgiven Jared yet. The only reason she was going with him today was because they had promised to pick up his friend, Bryce, from the airport. Sam honored her commitments.
After waiting for what felt like forever, Sam's patience wore thin. She marched over and banged on his door.
"Jared!"
"Jared!"
"Bryce's flight is landing soon! We have to go!"
Finally, she heard movement inside.
The door creaked open, and Jared stepped out.
Sam gasped.
His face was a wreck. Swollen, bruised, with dried blood crusted under his nose.
Despite her anger about the necklace, her instinct to care for him kicked in.
"Jared! Oh my god, what happened to you?"
Jared stiffened.
He had tried to teach the Asian tourist a lesson and got beaten like a dog instead. His pride—already fragile—couldn't handle the truth. He would rather die than tell Sam that her "client" had humiliated him.
"I'm fine," he snapped, his voice cold and muffled by his swollen lip.
He brushed past her, grabbed his toothbrush, and hurriedly washed his face.
"Let's go," he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
He walked to his beat-up car and got in.
Sam stood there for a moment, stunned by his hostility. She sensed the resentment radiating off him, but she didn't understand it. He was the one who sold her necklace. He was the one who got into a fight. Why was he treating her like the villain?
Sam wasn't a doormat. She wouldn't be treated like this without reason.
She got into the car but slammed the rear door shut, sitting in the back seat like a passenger in a taxi.
They drove to the airport in suffocating silence.
Neither of them spoke a word. The rift between them, already wide, was now a chasm.
Neither noticed the motorcycle trailing them at a discreet distance.
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