Lugh Everveil cruised through the city in his sleek convertible, the engine humming like a smug cat, with his freshly appointed secretary, Aiselle Starlight, perched in the passenger seat. She was a vision—curly brown hair dancing in the breeze, glasses flashing with lofty brilliance, and that purple blouse popping like a neon sign against the morning light.
They pulled up to the towering Everveil Group building, a gleaming fortress of glass and steel, and Aiselle leapt out with the finesse of a prima ballerina. Her black skirt swished as she tossed over her shoulder, "Mr. Everveil, I'll scout the investment scene—get things rolling! You deal with the bodyguard pick—don't slack off!"
With that, she strutted off, hips swaying like a pendulum set to sass mode. Lugh chuckled, watching her vanish into the lobby.
"Still got that spark, huh, Starbie? Never dull!"
He parked his ride with a dramatic flourish, sliding out and sauntering toward the security department with the easy swagger of a man who owned half the skyline—and then some.
The security manager, a wiry fellow with a mustache that screamed "I'm the boss," was already posted at the entrance, practically bouncing with excitement.
"Young Master Everveil!" he chirped, dipping into a bow so deep he nearly kissed the asphalt. "Welcome, welcome!"
Lugh waved a hand, all faux-gravity. "Skip the 'Young Master' stuff—starting today, I'm Vice President Everveil of the investment company. Let's keep it official, yeah?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Everveil!" the manager grinned, unfazed. As they strolled inside, he unleashed a barrage of praise—"So sharp!" "So talented!" "A true prodigy!"—packing a dozen compliments into thirty steps.
Lugh's grin twitched. "Love the ego boost, but tone it down, pal—I'll get a headache!"
They stepped into the security department's buzzing hall, a den of brawn and bustle. Towering bodyguards flexed and fiddled—some pumping weights, others glued to surveillance screens, a few tinkering with gear.
The manager clapped his hands like a camp counselor rallying the kids. "Everyone, front and center!"
All but two—who stayed locked on the monitors—jogged over, forming three crisp rows like a drill team.
The manager puffed up, gesturing at Lugh with a theatrical sweep. "Listen up! This dashing, youthful genius beside me is Lugh Everveil—son of our big boss, heir to the empire, and now the slick new vice president of our investment wing! He's here to snag one of you lucky lugs as his personal bodyguard—a golden ticket, folks! Show him your stuff—got it?"
"Yes, sir!" they barked in unison, their voices bouncing off the walls like a cannon salute.
The manager grinned, milking the hype. "Now, let's give Vice President Everveil the stage—clap it up!"
A storm of applause broke out, loud and hearty. Lugh raised a hand, and it hushed like he'd waved a magic wand. He flashed a grin, leaning in with lazy charm.
"Not much to say, just this: roll with me, and we'll feast like royalty—spicy grub, spicy drinks, the good life!"
"Genius!" the manager crowed, clapping first. "Short, punchy, and profound—words to live by!"
Lugh blinked. "…Okay, dial it back, buddy."
"So, Mr. Everveil," the manager pressed, "how're we picking? These guys are cream of the crop—ex-military vets, tough as steel, ace security skills, and they can drive anything with wheels!"
Lugh tilted his head, smirking. "They all look primo, but I'm a fan of guts. Anyone bold enough to step up?"
"I'm in!"
"Me too!"
Two hands shot up like firecrackers. Lugh's eyes flicked to the first—his guy, a hulking tank from his past life, loyal as a shadow and fierce as a storm. Perfect pick.
But the second? His grin froze.
"Wait… him?!" Lugh's brain hit the brakes.
That guy—Akira Lykos—wasn't supposed to be here! He was the second protagonist, scripted to play bodyguard to Flame Gheata, the fiery CEO of Gheata Group, in a classic "roughneck woos the queen" tale. So why was he slumming it in Everveil's security squad, staring at Lugh like he'd just won the lottery?
___
Akira Lykos, 28, stood there in his crisp security gear, all broad shoulders and cool composure. On the outside, he was just another grunt—punching the clock, guarding doors, fading into the background. But dig deeper, and oh mama—he was a legend.
The underworld knew him as the mercenary king, a war god who'd blazed through hundreds of missions, leaving thousands in his wake. Blood, chaos, glory—he'd owned it all, untouchable.
Then, fed up with the carnage, he'd traded the battlefield for city streets, playing humble security guard to savor the sweet mess of normal life.
Oh, and one more twist—he was reborn, just like Lugh.
In his original playbook, he'd landed at Gheata Group, locking eyes with Flame Gheata and sparking a romance hotter than a forge. But fate had flipped the script, and now here he was, staring down Lugh Everveil—the man who'd torched his world.
Lugh, to the casual observer, was a spoiled rich kid—flashy, flirty, dripping in cash. But Akira knew the truth. Beneath that glitzy shell was a juggernaut—strong, cunning, unstoppable. The guy was a master of everything—combat, schemes, charisma—building a trillion-dollar empire in a blink, claiming the global throne.
Akira's vaunted strength? A pebble next to Lugh's mountain.
And the real kicker? Lugh had taken it all. Flame Gheata—his blazing soulmate—swept off her feet. His mercenary kingdom? Smashed to rubble. His skills? Shattered, leaving him a broken shell, chased out of town like a stray. A nobody, scorned and hunted.
So, reborn with a fire in his gut, Akira vowed to rewrite the ending—reclaim his glory and hit Lugh back a hundredfold. But how? The guy was a fortress—no flaws, no weak spots, a perfect storm of power.
Then it hit him: "Get close. Slip in. Win his trust. Find the crack—and crush him!"
___
Lugh stared at Akira, his mind whirring. "This ain't right—why's he here?"
The guy's presence threw his game plan into a blender. Akira's eyes locked on his, crackling with a mix of shock and thrill, like a predator sizing up a prize.
Lugh masked his unease with a lazy grin. "Well, well—two protagonist! Let's see what you've got."
The manager clapped, blind to the undercurrent. "Step up, boys—wow the boss!"
Lugh's bruiser flexed, all grit and muscle, ready to shine. Akira, though, held still, his gaze drilling into Lugh like a laser.
"He's onto something," Lugh thought, his pulse ticking up. "But what?"
Aiselle, back at the investment office, was already barking orders, her heels clicking like a war drum. She'd pegged Lugh as a "playboy with a plot" and was itching to unravel it.
Jessica Snow, meanwhile, floated through her day, Lugh's lavender vial winking at her from her desk, her heart skipping at his name.
Xavier Cain, still bedridden, seethed through another of Lugh's smug pop-ins. "Still down, huh? Take care!" the jerk had purred, and Xavier's revenge meter hit the roof.
And now, Akira Lykos—another reborn wildcard—had stormed the stage, eyeing Lugh with a hunger that promised fireworks.
The city thrummed on, clueless to the brewing chaos. Lugh smirked, playing it cool, but inside?
"Two protagonists, one me—game on!"