He stepped into our path in a single stride, cutting off our exit before we could even fully turn.
The hand that had lingered in his pocket moved quickly—and a folding knife appeared.
The blade snapped open with a sharp metallic click.
Four inches. Serrated.
Already angled. Already aimed.
Directly toward my ribs.
“Do not tempt me,” he hissed.
The girl behind me made a small, broken sound—barely a whimper—but I felt it.
My grip on her hand tightened slightly.
“Last chance.” His voice dropped lower. “Walk away, or bleed.”
A blade wasn’t allowed in the academy.
Every system here was designed to strip away anything that could be used as a weapon against another recruit.
But rules didn’t stop people like Enzo.
Somehow, someone always found a way.
Enzo’s hand edged closer, the knife grazing my ribs—sharp, lethal.
One wrong move, one slip, and my life could vanish before my body even knew what hit it.
“My patience has run out, Elena,” he said, voice dropping into a dark, almost amused tone. “Walk away. I won’t say it twice.”
He stepped forward half a pace.
My fingers flexed at my side, already calculating—one quick motion could disarm him.
My heart pounded, every nerve alive, muscles coiled for action.
Then a voice cut through the tension like a blade.
“Elena.”
Low. Calm.
Unmistakably authoritative.
Ciro.
Enzo’s smirk faltered.
Just slightly.
His friend stilled.
Both of them froze in place for half a second too long.
Because that voice—that presence—was not something you ignored.
