The call had come in the middle of the day. A curt order from Brooklyn Holloway, his boss, delivered in that clipped tone she used when she was furious. Ian had sprinted through the long, immaculate corridors of The Château, where the Holloway clan lived, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

Something was wrong. Brooklyn rarely lost her composure, and Ian knew better than to keep her waiting.

When he reached her office, the door was ajar. Inside, Brooklyn paced like a storm waiting to break. Her suit—usually pristine—was rumpled, stained with faint splatters of red. Her long black hair flew wildly around her face, her scowl carving sharp lines into her otherwise delicate features.

At her father’s desk sat William Holloway, the clan leader. Silent. Watching.

Ian entered soundlessly, taking his place beside Bruce, his second-in-command. Bruce glanced at him, shrugged—a silent “I don’t know either.” Ian took a quick scan of the room. A figure knelt near William’s desk, surrounded by Holloway's bodyguards. Blood soaked the man’s threadbare clothes, streaking his arms and face. He looked battered and young—too young for this kind of mess.

Brooklyn turned abruptly, pointing a sharp finger at Ian. “Finally. Get over here.”

Ian walked forward, coming to stand at her side. Brooklyn was tall—almost eye-level with him—and for once, there was no amusement in the way she glanced down at him.

“This man,” Brooklyn began, her voice shaking as she exhaled harshly, “has ruined my deal with the Faunus.”

William Holloway cleared his throat behind her. Brooklyn paused, biting back her anger.

“Tell him everything,” William said, his voice calm and heavy like a blade waiting to drop.

Brooklyn shot her father a quick look before returning to Ian, who stood quietly, waiting.

“Someone found out about my meeting,” Brooklyn said, voice cold. “The Faunus owner was there, ready to talk. Then, suddenly—gunfire. One of our men was shot.”

Ian stiffened. “Who?”

“Julian,” Brooklyn replied, her expression turning grim. “Dad’s man. Armando is handling it.”

Armando, the head of William Holloway’s personal guards, was as reliable as they came. Ian allowed himself a breath of relief, though it didn’t show.

“And him?” Ian tilted his head toward the kneeling man.

Brooklyn studied the bloodied figure, her expression unreadable. “He broke into the bar just before the shooting started. Coincidence? Maybe. But his timing was so bad, it cost us five million.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed as he took a closer look. The man was built—broad shoulders, strong legs—but the bruises mottling his face made him look smaller. More breakable.

“I want him working for me,” Brooklyn said. “Under you.”

Ian turned to her, brow arching. “You want him as one of my men?”

She crossed her arms. “We’re one man short, Ian. He owes me. He can pay back his debt with sweat and blood.”

William nodded in agreement, his approval final. Ian sighed inwardly. Babysitting wasn’t in his job description.

“I don’t see why not,” Ian replied, his voice dry. “But if he’s useless, I’ll throw him back where he came from.”

Brooklyn smirked faintly. “I’m counting on you to sort him out. Train him.”

She spun on her heel, her father rising behind her, and the two swept out of the office. Ian waited until the rest of the guards filed out before approaching the kneeling man.

The kid flinched when Ian crouched in front of him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his suit pants.

“What’s your name?” Ian asked calmly.

The younger man hesitated. “Thomas.”

Ian sighed, shaking his head. “Don’t lie to me. Once more—what’s your name?”

The kid’s brows knit together. Finally, he muttered, “Tim.”

Ian nodded. “Clever. Close enough to fool people who aren’t paying attention.”

Tim frowned, suspicious, but Ian just smirked. He reached over and untied Tim’s hands, pulling him to his feet.

“Let’s go,” Ian ordered, already heading for the door. “First stop: the infirmary. I don’t want you bleeding on the floors. Brooklyn would kill me.”

Tim shuffled behind him, his steps uneven but steadying. “Brooklyn… she’s your boss?”

Ian didn’t bother looking back. “It’s Miss Holloway to you. And yes, she’s my boss. And yours now too.”

Tim’s voice carried a hint of disdain. “And you? What are you supposed to be here?”

Ian stopped abruptly, turning. Tim skidded to a halt, nearly crashing into him.

“I’m your boss too. The Head Bodyguard and you better follow the hierarchy scrupulously if you don’t want me to beat your arse,” he steps closer to Tim, noting that he is taller and bigger and definitely looks intimidating in front of the scared man. 

“I don’t care that Brooklyn thinks you’re good at fighting. You won’t be good enough here, not among professionals. I’m sure I’ll have to teach you how to hold a gun when some of us have known how to use one since childhood. It will be my responsibility to teach you how to fight correctly and efficiently when every blow hits and causes damage, so you do not become a burden for us when some of us have been martial arts champions or professional boxers, even ex-soldiers.” He steps a little closer, frowning and feeling his irritation taking hold of him. 

“So, you better show some respect, Tim, ’cause I have the power to make your life miserable.”

The younger man swallowed hard, visibly paling. Ian’s lip curled in a faint, satisfied smirk. Without another word, he turned and continued toward the infirmary, Tim trailing behind.

♤♤♤

When they finally reached the room, Ian left the younger man in the capable hands of the doctor present, and, as he was about to leave the place, he was stopped by one of his men.

“Ian,” came the sharp voice of a passing guard, “Miss Holloway’s asking for you. She’s in her office.”

The man disappeared back into the shadows, leaving Ian to frown thoughtfully. She’d already said her piece earlier, hadn’t she?

But Brooklyn didn’t summon people twice without reason. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Ian turned down the Château’s maze-like hallways toward Brooklyn’s office. The building always felt unnervingly quiet—a pristine fortress above a city drowning in smog and chaos.

♤♤♤

Ian knocked on the heavy oak door and waited. A muffled “Come in” followed, and he stepped inside.

Brooklyn sat behind her desk, brow furrowed as she studied a spread of papers. The crimson tie of her white suit jacket contrasted sharply against the pallor of her skin, like blood smeared across snow. Without looking up, she gestured toward the dark red sofa across the room.

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“Sit,” she said, standing up and grabbing the papers. Ian obeyed, taking the seat opposite her as she joined him, sitting down with a slight sigh.

“You wanted to see me?” Ian prompted, watching as she flipped the papers onto the coffee table.

“Yes.” Brooklyn’s voice was clipped, but there was something thoughtful behind her sharp tone. “Regarding the events today, we have a problem.”

“With the newcomer?”

She shook her head, her dark hair slipping over her shoulders like ink. 

“No. Maybe. I don’t know yet.” She paused to grab a bottle of water, twisting it open before speaking again. “I had Dave run ballistics on the scene.”

“And?”

Brooklyn turned fully to Ian, her frown deeper than before. “The bullets were meant for me.”

Ian’s stomach hardened, though his face betrayed nothing. “For you?”

“This meeting was supposed to be a complete secret. Only me, my father, and the men I brought with me knew about it.” Her voice dropped, words measured. “That means someone knew we’d be there. Someone who wants me dead.”

Ian considered this, though he said nothing yet. Brooklyn didn’t need empty responses—she needed results.

“I’ve been thinking,” she continued, running a hand through her hair, frustration bleeding through, “that maybe this connects back to the Wyndams. To Gaius.”

Ian’s expression didn’t change, but his mind sharpened at the name. The Wyndams had always been the Holloways’ shadow—Ironhaven’s eternal second, as people whispered. A family hungry for power and willing to bleed the streets dry to take it.

Brooklyn didn’t look at him as she spoke, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window, where the city skyline stretched into haze.

“Gaius’s been… emboldened. There was the attempt on my father’s life last month—allegedly his doing. And now, this.” Her voice dipped lower like the words were sharper than she intended. “Then there’s Avalon.”

At the name, Ian’s jaw tightened faintly. Avalon Wyndam.

Brooklyn turned to him then, nodding slightly. “You’ve seen what he’s like. Cruel. Jealous. Dangerous. If anyone would take a shot at me, it’s him.”

Ian didn’t disagree. Avalon Wyndam was Gaius’s oldest son—a man who was equal parts charm and venom, known for his ruthless games and unpredictable temper. Ian had crossed paths with him only a handful of times, but Avalon had a way of leaving an impression—like a blade that grazed but never quite cut.

Brooklyn met Ian’s eyes again, her expression colder. “I need you to keep both eyes on Avalon and the Wyndams. Follow him when you can. Gather anything—information, rumours, patterns. I need to know what they’re planning.”

Ian inclined his head slightly. “And what about the newcomer?”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” she said briskly, standing up as if the matter were decided. “You’re spread thin enough already.” A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “You can always delegate, Ian. I’m sure the others would love the chance to show Tim what life’s like in the Château.”

Ian mirrored the smirk, already imagining the chaos brewing in the bodyguard wing as they waited to haze the newcomer.

“It’s settled, then,” he said, rising to his feet. “Good night, Brooklyn.”

“‘Night, Ian,” she replied, waving him off as she returned to her desk.

♤♤♤

Ian walked through the dim hallways at an unhurried pace, the soft thud of his footsteps breaking the silence. The bodyguard wing lay ahead, but before he reached it, he noticed a shadow hovering near a door at the end of the corridor.

He stepped closer, silent as always, and recognised the silhouette immediately.

Tim.

The man was standing stiffly by one of the dorm doors, his head tilted as though trying to listen for signs of life inside. Ian stopped just behind him, waiting. It took a full minute before Tim froze, his shoulders bunching. He turned abruptly, yelping as he jumped back.

Ian raised a brow, unimpressed. “What are you doing here?”

Tim’s face darkened faintly, as though embarrassed. “I got lost.”

Ian didn’t care if that was true. If Tim was here to play spy for the Wyndams, he wouldn’t make it out of the Château alive. But something about the man’s hesitant movements—the way his eyes darted nervously—seemed genuine.

“Follow me,” Ian said curtly, already turning toward the bodyguard wing.

They turned a corner, and Ian opened the door to the bodyguard wing, a stark contrast to the luxury of Brooklyn’s quarters. Functional. Utilitarian. Here, the scent of sweat, leather, and faint oil from gunmetal clung to the air. Tim glanced nervously at the open rooms, where other bodyguards passed the time cleaning weapons or sparring in pairs.

When they entered the wing, the energy shifted immediately—more focused, alive. Voices echoed faintly from the cafeteria, a distant sound of laughter followed by metal striking metal from the training rooms.

Ian ignored the curious stares. “Cafeteria’s here.”

He pushed open a door into a spacious room with long wooden tables and industrial lights hanging low from the ceiling. Two men leaned against the bar counter at the back, eyeing Tim as they sipped coffee.

“You eat here when you’re told,” Ian said curtly. “Food outside of schedule? You make it yourself. Keep track of what you use.”

Tim nodded stiffly, his gaze darting around the space. Ian barely slowed, already leading him back into the corridor.

“Sleeping quarters are next.”

They reached a narrow hallway lined with identical doors. Ian stopped outside one and pulled a key from his pocket, tossing it at Tim.

“Yours,” Ian said, jerking his chin toward the door. “You’re across from the others, for now. Prove yourself, and maybe you’ll move up.”

Tim stepped into the room, taking it in—spartan but liveable. A single bed, a small desk, and an adjoining bathroom. He looked like he wanted to say something, but Ian cut him off.

“Remember this,” Ian said as they walked. “This isn’t a place for mistakes. You’ll train. You’ll fight. You’ll earn your place, or you’ll find out how quickly you can fall from grace.”

Tim didn’t reply, but Ian noticed the way his fists clenched by his sides. Good. Maybe there was some fight in him after all.

“Get some sleep,” Ian added, pausing outside Tim’s door. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what you’re really made of.”

♤♤♤

The next day, Ian showed Tim where his men trained daily. The room was a wide, open space dominated by three large squares outlined in red tape—combat zones where Ian’s men spent hours sparring. The smell of mats, sweat, and metal hung in the air.

Ian stepped inside the first square, shrugging off his suit jacket with deliberate precision. He folded it neatly on the floor, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves. Every movement was calm, practised—like a predator stretching before the hunt.

“Shoes off,” he ordered without looking up.

Tim hesitated before hurriedly toeing off his shoes. His eyes darted around nervously as if searching for an escape route.

Ian tilted his head. “Step into the square.”

Tim’s steps were tentative as he moved to face Ian, his shoulders bunched with tension. “What are we doing?”

“We’re fighting,” Ian replied simply, raising his fists into a practised stance. “And you’re going to show me if you’re worth my time.”

Tim blinked, eyes wide. “Right now?”

“Yes. Right now.” Ian’s tone left no room for argument. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Tim lifted his fists awkwardly, trying to mimic Ian’s stance. It was an amateur’s attempt—his weight too far forward, knees locked instead of bent. Ian’s sharp eyes caught every mistake.

“Too stiff,” Ian muttered, circling Tim slowly, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Your legs need to give you balance, not hold you down.”

Tim barely registered the warning before Ian struck.

It wasn’t a hard hit—just a sharp jab to the jaw that sent Tim stumbling back, his eyes wide with shock. He scrambled to recover, fists shaking as he raised them again.

“Move your feet,” Ian said, his tone flat, almost bored. “Static targets don’t last long.”

Tim tried to adjust, shifting from foot to foot, but Ian was already moving. The next blow caught him under the chin—swift, efficient, and precise. Tim grunted, stumbling back further until his heel caught on the edge of the square.

“Focus,” Ian barked, circling him again. “Stop watching me. Watch what I’m doing.”

Ian didn’t just watch Tim’s punches—he watched his eyes. The flicker of frustration, the way he clenched his jaw as if he refused to break. The kid didn’t have technique, but he had fight. That mattered more. He lunged forward with a clumsy swing. Ian sidestepped it effortlessly, his expression unimpressed, and drove a jab into Tim’s stomach that folded him like a paper doll.

Tim wheezed, his knees hitting the mat hard. Humiliation burned alongside the pain, but beneath it, something else churned—a stubborn refusal to stay down. Ian stopped moving, standing over him with barely a hair out of place.

“You’re not good,” Ian said flatly.

Tim looked up, chest heaving, and spat a bitter, “Not compared to you, no.”

Ian didn’t flinch. “I fought underground rings for years. Where I come from, fights are a matter of survival. You either win, or you’re dead meat.”

Tim blinked at him, his breathing slowing. Ian saw the faint shift in his expression—something wary but curious—as he took in Ian’s calm, looming presence.

Ian extended a hand. Tim hesitated for only a second before taking it, allowing Ian to pull him to his feet.

“This is your reality now,” Ian said quietly, his voice low and cold. “This isn’t sport. Every fight counts. Every mistake bleeds. Learn fast, or learn what dying slow feels like”

Tim swallowed hard, his bruised jaw twitching as he nodded.

Ian picked up his jacket, slinging it over one shoulder as he turned to leave. “Get something to drink. Training starts now.”

Tim stood frozen for a moment, staring at the red square before shaking himself back to reality. He watched Ian disappear into the hallway, his footsteps echoing long after he was gone.