Chapter 33

Achilles and Shea rushed out of the college as soon as their last class ended. They hurried to his car, both of them tense and on edge. Achilles slid into the driver's seat, his movements sharp and precise. As soon as Shea buckled in, he gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.

The trees blurred past as Achilles sped down the winding road towards his mansion. Shea gripped the armrest, her knuckles white.

"What are we going to do about the video?" she asked, her voice tight with worry.

Achilles's jaw clenched. "Don't worry about it. I'll handle it."

"But—"

"I said I'll handle it," he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

They rode the rest of the way in tense silence. As they pulled up to the mansion, Achilles barely waited for the car to stop before he was out and striding towards the front door. Shea scrambled to keep up.

The butler appeared as if summoned, his face a mask of calm efficiency.

"Take care of her," Achilles ordered, gesturing to Shea. Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed back to his car.

Shea watched, confused and a little hurt, as Achilles walked away. Just as he reached the car, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. His posture was rigid, radiating tension.

As Achilles put the phone to his ear, a voice answered. "Hello?" It was Ryder.

Achilles's grip tightened on the phone as he spoke to Ryder. "Meet me at the old warehouse on the edge of town. One hour." He hung up without waiting for a response.

An hour later, Achilles pulled up to the abandoned warehouse, its rusted metal walls looming in the fading light. He stepped out of his car, his senses on high alert. The air was thick with tension.

Ryder's car screeched into the lot, followed by two more vehicles. Ryder emerged, flanked by six burly men. His cocky grin was plastered across his face.

"Brought some friends, I see," Achilles said, his voice cold.

Ryder shrugged. "Just insurance. Now, about that video..."

Achilles's eyes flashed dangerously. "Delete it. Now."

"Or what?" Ryder taunted.

In a blur of motion, Achilles lunged forward. His fist connected with Ryder's jaw, sending him stumbling backward. The goons sprang into action.

The first man swung at Achilles, but he ducked under the blow and drove his elbow into the attacker's solar plexus. Another came at him from behind, but Achilles spun, his leg sweeping the man's feet out from under him.

Ryder, recovering from the initial blow, joined the fray. He threw a punch at Achilles's head, but Achilles caught his wrist and twisted, forcing Ryder to his knees.

"The phone," Achilles growled. "Where is it?"

Ryder spat blood. "Go to hell."

Achilles's grip tightened, and Ryder howled in pain. The remaining goons hesitated, unsure whether to attack or retreat.

"Last chance," Achilles said, his voice deadly quiet. "The phone, or I break every bone in your body."

As Achilles held Ryder in a vice-like grip, a sudden chill swept through the warehouse. The air crackled with an unseen energy, causing both Achilles and the goons to pause.

A figure materialized from the shadows, cloaked in a midnight-black robe that seemed to absorb the surrounding light. The hood obscured their face, but piercing golden eyes gleamed from within its depths.

The mysterious newcomer moved with inhuman grace, gliding across the warehouse floor without a sound. In an instant, they were upon Achilles, a hand shooting out to grasp his throat with surprising strength.

Achilles released Ryder, his instincts screaming danger. He lashed out with a powerful kick, but the robed figure effortlessly dodged, countering with a palm strike that sent Achilles flying across the room.

Ryder and his goons backed away, their earlier bravado evaporating in the presence of this new threat.

Achilles sprang to his feet, his eyes now glowing an intense blue. He charged at the figure, unleashing a flurry of punches and kicks. To his shock, the robed individual matched him blow for blow, their movements a blur of deadly precision.

As they fought, Achilles found himself being driven back, step by step. His opponent's strength and speed were unlike anything he had encountered before. For the first time in years, a flicker of doubt crept into his mind.

The figure spoke, their voice a low, menacing whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Achilles Von Lunar. Your family's protection of the girl ends now."

Achilles snarled, "Never."

The robed individual pressed their advantage, forcing Achilles into a corner. "Hand over Shea to the Hawkins faction. This is not a request."

Achilles narrowed his eyes, his muscles tensing as he faced the mysterious assailant. Despite the beating he'd taken, he refused to back down. With a low growl, he launched himself at the robed figure, his fists a blur of motion.

The two combatants danced across the warehouse floor, trading blows at superhuman speed. Achilles felt his knuckles split as they connected with his opponent's jaw, but the figure barely flinched. They retaliated with a vicious elbow to Achilles' ribs, driving the air from his lungs.

As they grappled, Achilles' nostrils flared. A familiar scent tickled his senses, one he couldn't quite place. It was maddeningly close to something he knew, yet just out of reach. He inhaled deeply, trying to process the information even as he dodged a devastating roundhouse kick.

The scent was unmistakably Von Lunar. But how? Achilles knew every member of his family, and none of them would attack him like this. His momentary distraction cost him as the figure's fist connected with his temple, sending him staggering.

Shaking off the blow, Achilles circled his opponent warily. He tried to recall any distant relatives, any branch of the family tree that might explain this mysterious attacker. But nothing came to mind.

The robed figure seemed to sense his confusion. "Surprised, young Von Lunar?" they taunted, their voice a raspy whisper. "You should be."

Achilles lunged forward, feinting left before striking right. His fist grazed the figure's hood, nearly pulling it back. For a split second, he caught a glimpse of a familiar jawline, but it was gone before he could process it.

The scent grew stronger as they continued to fight, filling Achilles' nostrils with each breath. It was driving him mad. He knew this person, he was certain of it. But how could a Von Lunar be working with the Hawkins faction?