Nickolai didn't even glance at the corpse. He holstered his pistol with a smooth, practiced motion, his gaze snapping to me like a predator locking onto its next target.

"And you," he said, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet, "who the fuck are you?" His finger hovered over the grip of his pistol, his eyes narrowing as he took me in—every detail, every breath, every lie he sensed clinging to me like a second skin.

"Because I dug. And you know what I found?" His lips curled into a snarl, his voice dropping into something darker, something deadlier.

"There is no Victor. Your face is in the system, sure—your fingerprints, your voice, your movements—but your identity?" He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "It doesn't exist."

Nickolai's hand twitched, his pistol already half-drawn, the cold metal glinting under the dim light. His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet, each word dripping with lethal intent. "So tell me, Viper—or whatever the hell your real name is—who sent you? Who do you really work for?" His eyes burned into mine, searching for cracks, for lies, for any sign of weakness. The air between us was thick with tension, the kind that precedes violence—inevitable violence.

Natalya didn't let him finish.

She moved between us, her body a shield, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Dad," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument, "he's Jack."

Nickolai's gaze snapped to her, his expression darkening. "So why are you protecting him?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "He's been lying. Betraying us. Playing us like fools."

Natalya shook her head, her voice steady, unshaken. "Because he's my man."

That was all it took.

Something primal flickered in Nickolai's eyes—rage, possessiveness, the instinct of a father who had spent a lifetime controlling everything around him. But before he could react, I stepped forward, pulling Natalya behind me. My gaze locked onto Nickolai's, unflinching, unapologetic.

"Hello, Mr. Nickolai," I said, my voice calm but carrying the weight of a promise. "My name is Jack Reynolds." I didn't break eye contact.

"I know approaching Natalya like this doesn't seem good. But I had no other choice." My voice dropped, darker, raw.

"I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. And trust me—I had no intention of hurting her. Only protecting her." I paused, letting the words sink in. "And now? She's my woman."

Nickolai's expression twisted, his fingers tightening around the grip of his pistol. "What if I don't agree?" he snarled, his voice a warning.

I didn't hesitate. "Nothing can make me leave Natalya," I said, my voice final. "If you don't like it…" My eyes darkened, my tone turning cold. "Then I'll take her away from here."

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

Then—Nickolai laughed.

It was a deep, rumbling sound, filled with something between amusement and respect. "Kid," he said, shaking his head, "this is the first time someone has challenged me like this." His grin was sharp, predatory. "Good. Good."

He leaned back slightly, his gaze sweeping over me like he was sizing up prey. "Okay," he said, his voice dropping into something deadly. "I'll give you a chance." His eyes flicked to the men standing in the shadows of the hall, their postures rigid, their hands resting on their weapons.

"I know you're a good fighter. So prove it." His voice turned cold, final. "If you can beat my men—all of them—and prove you're worthy of my daughter…" He shrugged, but his eyes were lethal. "Then I have no objection. But if you fail?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You'll be buried here."

Natalya stepped forward, her voice sharp with alarm. "Dad—!"

But Nickolai had already made a gesture with his hand.

The doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and fifty men filed in, their boots thudding against the marble floor. Each one was built like a tank, their faces scarred, their eyes cold. Professional killers. Elite fighters. The kind of men who didn't just fight—they ended people.

Natalya moved between us again, her voice urgent. "Dad, this isn't good," she said, her eyes flicking between me and the army of men now surrounding us. "Your men will be dead. It'll be difficult to find their replacements."

Nickolai chuckled, clearly shocked by his daughter's confidence in me. "You have that much confidence in him?" he asked, his voice laced with skepticism.

Natalya didn't flinch. "He's the man I've chosen," she said, her voice steady. "He can beat all of them…" She smirked, her eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "With just a snap of his fingers."

Nickolai's amusement faded, replaced by something colder. "Don't worry," he said, his voice a low growl. "I'll ask my men not to beat him to death." His gaze locked onto me, challenging.

"And I'd like to see how he can beat fifty of the world's top fighters…" His smirk was mocking. "With a snap of his fingers."

If this man wasn't Natalya's father, I would've killed him already.

But he was.

And it looked like I needed to show him what I was capable of.

Natalya and Nickolai stepped to the side, taking their seats on the elevated platform like spectators at an execution. Nickolai's eyes gleamed with anticipation, his fingers tapping impatiently against the armrest. "Begin," he said, his voice a command.

Nickolai's fifty men fanned out in a loose semicircle, their postures rigid, their eyes locked onto me like wolves sizing up prey. Each of them was a killer—hardened, trained, their bodies marked with scars from countless battles.

Their knuckles cracked, their muscles coiled, ready to strike at Nickolai's command. The clink of metal against metal echoed as they drew knives, brass knuckles, and batons, their grins sharp with the anticipation of bloodshed.

Nickolai leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his gaze never leaving mine. "Go on, then," he said, his voice a dark purr, "show me what you've got, Viper." His smirk was a challenge, a dare, the kind of expression a man wears when he's already decided you're dead.

Natalya, seated beside him, bit her lip, her fingers gripping the armrest of her chair. She knew what I could do—but she'd never seen it like this. Not in front of her father. Not in a room full of men who existed to kill.

I didn't move.

I just stood there, my hands loose at my sides, my expression unreadable. The men charged.

The first wave came at me like a storm—fists flying, blades flashing, their shouts filling the air. I didn't flinch. I didn't even breathe harder.

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