Leione Mansion

The day passed uneventfully after the test. Kyle had been escorted back to the guest wing by the same silent butler who never seemed to blink. The man had a name—Garrison—but Kyle kept forgetting it because he looked like he belonged in a Victorian portrait: tall, stiff, with an expression permanently set to "mild disapproval." Still, the guest wing was a palace of its own, with plush carpets that swallowed his footsteps and a bed so soft Kyle thought he'd melt into it.

He lay there that night, staring at the ceiling and letting himself breathe. No strange men lurking behind the shelves. No agents. No metal men. No Maya vibrating into oblivion. Just silence. Real, clean silence.

And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn't sleep with his fists clenched.

Morning broke with golden light filtering through oversized windows. Kyle was halfway through a rich breakfast—eggs with herbs he couldn't name, toast that actually cracked when you bit into it, and some imported fruit that tasted like mango and honey had a baby—when Garrison appeared beside him, wordlessly, like a vampire but polite.

"Mr. Leione would like to speak with you," he said. "In the east study."

Kyle followed. The hallways were so long they felt like museum galleries, filled with sculptures and paintings—real ones, not knockoffs. Every few feet, there was a door, and each one whispered secrets Kyle wasn't allowed to know yet.

Mr. Leione was waiting in a sunlit room that smelled faintly of cedar and coffee. He wasn't dressed in one of his usual custom-tailored suits today—just a knit sweater and slacks. He looked... fatherly. But Kyle didn't trust masks, even when they were warm.

They exchanged small talk over coffee. Mr. Leione asked about Kyle's mother, and Kyle told him how Nora Carter used to work two jobs just to afford textbooks for him. He talked about his father, or rather the lack of him. "He just vanished one day," Kyle said. "Left a note that said, 'I can't do this anymore.' That was it."

Mr. Leione nodded, eyes unreadable. "And yet here you are," he said, "stronger than most boys with two parents."

They moved on to other topics. Mr. Leione began sharing pieces of his empire. How he started with a single fishing company and turned it into a distribution behemoth. How his biotech firm grew out of a failed clean water initiative. "There are four major houses under my name," he said. "Three abroad. But I've pulled my family and assets here because of the threats."

Kyle didn't miss the major in his sentence. This meant there were other houses. "Assassination attempts," Kyle said, sipping quietly. "I heard."

Mr. Leione exhaled through his nose. "Yes. That. It's been... relentless. And strange."

Kyle tilted his head. "Strange how?"

The older man's eyes darkened. "They never come for me, Kyle. Always her. Always Vera. It doesn't make sense. If it were a hostile takeover, I'd be the first to go. Remove the king, then pressure the princess. But they're skipping a step." He leaned forward, voice low. "I need to know why."

Kyle sat back slowly. He saw it now. This conversation wasn't just for sentiment. It was a mission briefing.

"You want me to investigate," he said plainly.

"Yes." Mr. Leione didn't mince words. "I've hired bodyguards before. They failed. You... you have potential. You're smart. Careful. Calm under fire. You didn't just save Vera—you handled it like a soldier trained for chaos. I want you close to her, yes—but also with your eyes open. Find out who's behind this. And why."

Kyle nodded slowly. "Then I can't be a bodyguard."

"Exactly." Mr. Leione stood and walked to a locked drawer, pulling out a folder. "I had this prepared just in case. Adoption papers. You're now officially Kyle Leione, my son on record. No press release—just internal documentation and forged legal trails. If anyone investigates, they'll find a quiet adoption months ago."

Kyle took the folder, flipping through the documents. The seal, the dates, the signatures—it all looked terrifyingly real.

"You'll be treated as family. Dressed as one. Trained as one. If anyone asks why you're protective of Vera, it's because siblings watch each other's backs. You'll go where she goes. Sleep under the same roof. No one will question it."

Kyle nodded again, this time slower. He felt the weight of it now. He was going deeper than just a bodyguard. He was slipping into their bloodline. Even if it was all paper.

"Fine," Kyle said, tucking the folder under his arm. "Let's see this home I'll be inheriting."

The tour began an hour later.

This time, Garrison actually explained things.

They began with the indoor sports complex, a gleaming space filled with polished wood and echoing voices. It had a full basketball court, a pool that looked Olympic-sized, and a rock-climbing wall that stretched three stories. On one side, there was a dojo—an actual, honest-to-God dojo—lined with mats, punching bags, and weapon racks. Kyle could smell the sweat of past sessions, but it was somehow clean, as if aggression had its own filtered air system.

Next came the music hall, which had better acoustics than Kyle thought physically possible. There was a grand piano at the center, surrounded by stands for violin, cello, and even a harp. Vera, Garrison mentioned, was trained in multiple instruments. "She insists on regular practice. Even when armed men try to kill her."

"Nice to know she has priorities," Kyle muttered.

They passed through the gallery corridor, a series of rooms dedicated to art. Oil paintings. Ancient masks. Marble busts. Kyle saw one painting of a red-haired woman who looked suspiciously like Vera but much older. When he asked, Garrison replied, "Her mother. Deceased."

Kyle didn't ask more.

Then came the library—and Kyle actually stopped in his tracks. It wasn't just a wall of books. It was a chamber, built with spiral staircases, tall ladders, and leather couches that looked older than Garrison. Sunlight poured in from a stained-glass dome above, and the place smelled like aged paper and dusted wood.

"You can read any volume here," Garrison said. "Many are original copies. Some are classified. Don't open red-stamped tomes without permission."

Kyle smirked. "What happens if I do?"

"Dr. Curb will know."