"Listen. For an aristocrat, being gifted is a disgrace. To people like you, the gifted are nothing but tools—trash you use for your own interests. Even when someone from a noble family develops abilities, their power is kept in check."
"But why? If I have the strength to protect myself, why would I need to hire someone else?"
"You really did damage your brain," he muttered. "For families like yours, status is everything. You don't dirty your hands. You don't lift a finger. You pay others to do the dirty work."
"You said I have a lot of power?"
"That's right. Shame it'll go to waste."
"And if I don't want it to go to waste?"
"Listen," Start said, his tone sharpening. "Training the gifted isn't a vacation. They study relentlessly. They train their bodies, their minds. They don't live in luxury or eat delicacies. They claw their way up. Their goal is to serve people like you—because becoming a personal bodyguard is considered an honor. Most of them don't live to old age. Their lives belong to people like you."
"And still… if I want to train—would you take me?"
"You do realize your family would never allow it? Your father is already furious you didn't get into the academy. Imagine his reaction if you said you wanted to become a servant."
I grimaced, picturing steam practically pouring from Marcus Holivan's ears—but my thoughts were elsewhere.
What would happen when that specialist arrived and uncovered the truth?
Between two evils…
"I can't leave the estate on my own. And you're right—my father would never allow it. But if I say I want this… will you help me get out of here?"
Start studied me in silence for several long moments.
I didn't look away.
This man might be my only chance at freedom.
—or survival.
"Think carefully," he said at last, his voice serious.
"I already have."
"If you're certain, come to the far end of the garden tonight. The apple trees. Wait by the last one, near the wall."
"You'll take me with you?" I asked, unable to hide the hope in my voice. "But what about—"
"How is not your concern." He cut me off. "If you don't change your mind, someone will come for you at midnight. But remember—if you do this, your old life is over. And life at the academy won't be kind to you."
"I understand."
"I doubt that," he said, shaking his head before turning and leaving.
My heart pounded, the rush of blood loud in my ears.
I'd never felt anything like this before.
Abilities. The supernatural. Escape.
Everything was new.
But I wasn't the same Anna anymore.
Now I was Alan Holivan.
No… not even that.
I was something in between.
Something new.
And I would have to learn how to live a life I couldn't have imagined even a week ago.
I turned and headed toward my father's study.
At this point, I didn't care what he said—or how furious he became.
He was angry at Alan.
But I wasn't him.
"God… I survived that," I muttered, collapsing onto the bed.
"The master was very angry," Marta said quietly as she followed me into the room. "Let me treat your face so it won't bruise."
"Let it bruise. Why should I care?"
"Please, sir," she pleaded softly. "If it's visible tomorrow, I'll be dismissed."
I sighed heavily and sat up, pressing a hand to my burning cheek.
Bruises had never been a big deal to me. Growing up as the youngest among boys, I'd often had to fight for things—an extra piece of candy, a chicken leg at dinner.
But in this house… appearances mattered more than anything.
I turned the injured side toward Marta, and she immediately began applying ointment, relief evident in her movements.
Every part of me resisted.
I wanted to keep the mark—a reminder that I was making the right choice.
But my stubbornness wasn't worth costing this kind woman her job.
A cool sensation spread across my cheek.
Marcus Holivan had truly been furious.
My whole body tensed as he loomed over me, unleashing everything he thought—and what he thought of his son was… far from flattering.
When he finally struck me, I almost relaxed.
Physical pain didn't scare me. It never had.
What terrified me was something else entirely.
Not disappointment.
Indifference.
Cold, unmistakable disdain.
He didn't see Alan as a son.
He saw him as nothing more than an asset.
I knew those words weren't meant for me.
But that didn't make it any easier to endure.
I stayed silent the entire time—which only seemed to enrage him further. Apparently, he wasn't used to his son holding his tongue instead of begging for forgiveness.
If Theodore hadn't walked in when he did… I doubted it would have ended with just one slap.
My head had snapped to the side so hard I lost my balance.
This body really was weak.
Theodore found me on the floor—and our father looming over me, ready to strike again.
So maybe… my new brother had just saved my life.
Now, all I wanted was for Marta to leave so I could start packing.
More than ever, I knew staying here would be a mistake.
If Marcus reacted like that to a simple rejection from the academy… what would he do if he discovered the truth?
A shiver ran through me.
"Does it hurt? I'm sorry…"
"No, it's fine. Thank you. And… could I have some time alone?"
"Of course. Call if you need anything."
"And Marta—please tell Mother I'll speak with her tomorrow. I'm not in the right state today."
"I'll let her know."
As soon as the door closed, I jumped to my feet, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out a sports bag.
Most of Alan's clothes were formal—but after some digging, I found a few pairs of jeans, T-shirts, a hoodie, and some sweatpants. Along with underwear and socks, they quickly went into the bag.
Toiletries. Right—only the essentials.
I glanced at the already bulging bag.
Then opened the bedside drawer and took out the cash I'd found earlier.
Not much—but there was also a card. One I was almost certain would be blocked the moment they realized I was gone. Besides, I didn't want to be tracked.
Along with the cash, I grabbed a few expensive-looking tie clips, a couple of cufflinks, and a wristwatch. I didn't need them—but I could sell them if necessary.
Once the bag was packed, I hid it under the bed.
I knew someone would come check on me soon.
Fully dressed, I slipped under the covers and pretended to sleep.
It wasn't easy—my eyes kept closing for real, and I was afraid I might actually drift off.
Time crept toward half past eleven when the door opened with a faint creak.
Someone peeked inside.
I held my breath—and stayed perfectly still even after they left.
I couldn't afford to be late.
There was no way I could leave through the front entrance unnoticed.
So I settled on the only plan I could think of.
Bedsheets.
Tied together.
Lower myself from the third floor.
"I really hope these hold together," I muttered, tightening another knot. "I've watched way too many shows. If I crack my skull, it'll be almost funny…"
With a quiet exhale, I tossed the makeshift rope out the open window—securing the other end to the leg of the heavy bed.