Consciousness returned in slow waves. First came the dull ache—a deep, bone-deep exhaustion that settled in my limbs like lead. Then the sterile scent of antiseptic, mixing faintly with something richer, something expensive. My fingers twitched against fine sheets, smoother than any hospital bed should have been.
I cracked an eye open.
A dimly lit room. Ornate furniture. A chandelier that gleamed in the low light. This wasn't a hospital. This was luxury wrapped in pretense, a throne room disguised as a convalescence ward.
Vincent Giovanni's estate.
A figure sat beside me, her face partially obscured by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Alexis. She wasn't hunched over medical notes, wasn't moving with her usual clinical efficiency. Instead, she was watching me, a deep furrow in her brow, her fingers pressing into the edge of the mattress. Her eyes—sharp, calculating, always searching—were softer now.
"You're awake," she said, her voice quieter than usual.
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw. Only a low croak came out. Alexis sighed, grabbing a glass of water and holding it to my lips. I drank slowly, the cool liquid soothing the burn. When I finished, she set the glass down but didn't move away.
"You almost died," she murmured, more to herself than to me. "Do you even understand how close it was?"
I flexed my fingers, testing my body. Sore, but functional. My ribs protested, my muscles screamed, but I was alive. "Close enough," I rasped.
Alexis scowled. "That's not funny."
I gave a small, lopsided grin. "I wasn't joking."
Her hands curled into fists on her lap, frustration plain on her face. But beneath it, something else. Worry. Not the detached concern of a scientist observing an anomaly—but something real, something raw.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You don't get it. I watched you go down. I saw you stop moving. And for a second, I—" She cut herself off, swallowing hard. "You can't keep doing this."
Something in my chest tightened. Alexis was rarely this open. She was always composed, always analytical. But here, now, she wasn't speaking as a researcher monitoring a test subject. She was speaking as someone who cared.
I reached out, resting a hand over hers. "I'm still here."
She huffed, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she curled her fingers around mine, squeezing just slightly.
For a moment, there was nothing but quiet. The hum of distant conversation beyond the door, the soft flicker of candlelight casting shadows across the room. No grand declarations, no sharp remarks—just a rare, fleeting moment of comfort between two people who had seen too much.
But I couldn't stay in bed forever. My body protested as I pushed myself upright, the bandages around my torso pulling tight. Alexis immediately moved to steady me, but I waved her off.
"I need to see Giovanni."
She frowned. "You should rest."
"I'll rest when I know what the hell is going on."
My eyes drifted to the nightstand. There, resting against a velvet cushion, was my cracked Mr. Beetle mask. The once-pristine surface was fractured, a web of lines running through the once-solid design. I exhaled through my nose. I'd have to thank Camille later for it.
For now, I had bigger concerns.
The meeting room was grand, as expected. A long mahogany table stretched across the space, papers and documents scattered across its surface. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the air thick with the scent of cigars and expensive cologne.
Vincent Giovanni sat at the head of the table, exuding an effortless authority. His sharp suit was pristine, his movements leisurely as he swirled a glass of dark liquor. Around him, his operations team—his inner circle—engaged in quiet discussions.
Then there was me.
Shirtless, bandaged, with only a pair of loose slacks to maintain some level of decency.
Giovanni raised a brow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ah, Mr. Beetle. Or should I say, Reynard? A pleasure to see you upright. Though, I must say, you do have a habit of making dramatic entrances."
I leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. "Sorry to interrupt your tea party."
He chuckled. "And yet, you do so with such little elegance. No suit, no tie—just scars and bandages. A bold fashion statement."
Anthony, standing near the far end of the room, cut in with a grin. "Good news, boss. Since we won the tournament, Giovanni's handing over all remaining copies of the prototypes. No more loose ends."
That should've been good news. Should've been a victory.
But I wasn't celebrating.
I turned to Giovanni, my gaze sharp. "Then explain something to me. Why did Ragnar have one?"
Silence fell over the room.
Giovanni exhaled, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "Likely sold to him by someone else. I'm not foolish enough to give another family an upper hand."
I scanned him. The subtle shifts in his posture, the steady rhythm of his breath—no deception. He was telling the truth.
That didn't mean I liked it.
I nodded slowly. "Fine." Then I glanced at Anthony. "Clean up everything. Report back when it's done."
He gave a lazy salute. "You got it."
With that settled, I turned, heading back toward the hallway. Alexis fell into step beside me.
The adrenaline had long faded, but my mind was still running, sifting through every detail, every piece of the puzzle that had yet to fall into place. The tournament was won, the prototypes were ours—but the real question remained.
What came next?
As we stepped out into the night air, I let my gaze drift upward. The stars burned bright above, distant and indifferent. My thoughts swirled, questions piling atop one another.
And then, an abrupt reminder.
A notification flashed in my mind, the event quest reward kicking in at last.
JOB PROMOTION: BOXER (A-RANK)
I exhaled slowly. A new threshold. A new set of possibilities.
The question was—did I want a new job right now?
The thought lingered as I walked forward, Alexis at my side, the weight of the night settling onto my shoulders.
For now, I had decisions to make. And soon—very soon—I'd have to choose my next move.