Noah stood still.
The silence around him felt heavier than the air. The others watched—not with curiosity, not with a welcome attitude, but with something colder.
Judgment.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just stood there, a quiet weight in the middle of the room, his presence sharp but uncertain.
This wasn't his thing.
Introducing himself. Breaking the ice. Saying "hi."
What am I supposed to say?
"Hi, I got punched, kidnapped, and somehow didn't die?"
Before he could even try, the yellow-haired guy stood up.
Fast.
Too fast.
In one smooth motion, the guy was in front of him—circling, his eyes sharp, his steps slow and calculated, like a lion sizing up a deer that wandered into its cage.
Noah's muscles tensed.
What the hell is he doing—
Hands landed on his shoulders.
The grip wasn't painful—but it wasn't friendly either.
A grin followed. Wide. Off.
"You don't look special," the guy said flatly, scanning Noah's frame like he was appraising junk metal. "Weak as hell. Total nerd with those nerdy specs. Legs—too thin. Stance? Garbage. Forearms? No density. No scars on your knuckles."
He leaned in slightly, voice low.
"Your body hasn't seen a single day of real training."
Noah blinked, caught off-guard.
Before he could even respond, the guy added:
"Did you really kick Tadashi?"
There was no fury in his tone. Just curiosity—cold and amused, like someone poking at a rumor.
"We've sparred with him a dozen times. Not once did any of us touch him. Either he slipped, or…" He raised an eyebrow. "He took pity on you."
Noah stayed quiet, jaw tightening.
The guy's smirk widened.
"Right. Forgot to introduce myself." He raised two fingers in a lazy salute. "Veron. Street fighter. MMA on the side. And Kickboxing is my speciality."
Then—a movement.
Sharp. Sudden.
Noah saw it—just barely. The turn of Veron's hips. The pivot of his foot. His upper body twisting with practiced control.
A spinning back kick.
(In kickboxing, a spinning back kick is a powerful, deceptive strike. The attacker turns away mid-spin, then launches a heel straight into the opponent's body. It looks circular, but it hits in a straight line—fast and brutal.)
Noah's instinct fired-- but he was too slow .
The heel came flying toward him—
Then stopped.
Inches away from his ribs.
Veron chuckled, lowering his leg like it had all been a joke.
"I thought you'd block that," he said. "Guess your reflexes suck too. If I'd followed through, you'd be out cold."
Then his face shifted—grin fading. Eyes narrowing.
"Honestly? You're not gonna last long. But hey… let's find out."
Noah didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Because someone else did.
"That's enough."
The voice was calm. Quiet.
But it silenced the room like a switch had been flipped.
Veron straightened.
Noah turned—and saw him.
Brian.
The air changed instantly. Veron didn't move, didn't argue. Just stepped back.
Brian walked forward with the weight of someone who didn't need to raise his voice to be obeyed. He didn't have swagger. He didn't posture. He just moved, and the room moved around him.
"You show respect when a new member joins," Brian said coolly. "If the Chairman placed him here, he has potential. You respect that."
Veron scoffed under his breath. "Shit, man. I was just welcoming him."
"This isn't a welcome. This is intimidation."
Brian turned to Noah and stepped in close.
He held out a hand.
"I'm Brian John. Team leader. If you've got a problem—especially from a member—bring it to me."
Noah hesitated, then shook his hand.
It was firm. Steady.
A grip that meant what it said.
For just a second, Noah felt the floor beneath him stabilize.
Maybe… not everyone here wants me gone.
Then the door opened.
Tadashi entered.
Expression unreadable. Voice sharp.
"Brian. Take everyone to the main room. Mrs. Lesley is overseeing today's training."
Brian gave a short nod.
Veron backed away. The mood shifted again.
Training.
Falcon Corps – Training Hall B12
The main room was something out of a military sci-fi film.
Vaulted ceilings. Steel-reinforced walls. Combat rings lined with tracking sensors. Rows of equipment that didn't belong in any normal gym.
It wasn't a training hall.
It was a ground to prove.
Noah stepped inside, eyes wide.
This place… is serious.
This isn't just for training. This is where people are made—or broken.
To the left, the girl with the pink ponytail leaned against the wall, scrolling through her phone like nothing mattered. She wore fingerless gloves. Her legs were crossed, but her foot tapped a beat every few seconds—restless, sharp.
To the right, the white-haired guy sat cross-legged on the floor, gaming console in hand. He looked zoned out, but Noah noticed his thumbs—fast, controlled, rhythmic. He never missed a pressing button.
Noah watched them both.
Do they care that I'm here at all?
They weren't ignoring him. They just didn't care he existed.
Brian stepped beside him, arms crossed.
"The girl is Abella," he said. "The white-haired guy, Aron."
Noah nodded slightly.
"They don't talk much," Brian continued. "They're not being rude. That's just how they are."
That was enough.
Noah could live with silence.
Then the air changed again.
Like a drop in pressure. Like the room noticed something.
The door opened.
And she walked in.
Mrs. Lesley.
Tall. Elegant. Red hair cascading past her shoulders in gentle waves. She moved like someone who never rushed—but always arrived exactly when she meant to.
Her figure was athletic, toned from years of training. Not bulky. Not delicate. Efficient.
And her eyes—beautiful, sharp, piercing, unblinking—saw everything.
She stopped in front of Noah.
"So," she said. "You're the newbie."
Her voice was cool. Clean. Professional.
"I heard about you from Tadashi."
Noah stood still, gaze level.
She didn't flinch. Just studied him.
"I'm your instructor now," she continued. "That means I oversee your training, operations education, and performance evaluation within Falcon Corps."
Noah didn't respond.
She didn't wait.
"Falcon Corps," she began, "primarily operates through international gold channels. We handle acquisition, refinement, trade, and redistribution. But…"
A pause.
A smile.
Not warm. Not cold.
Just dangerous.
"Our operations go beyond gold."
Noah stiffened slightly.
"We influence several industries—luxury cars, foreign cinema, boutique logistics. But rest assured…" Her eyes narrowed just a bit. "We don't deal in drugs. That's for low-level garbage. Falcon Corps doesn't get its hands dirty."
Her words were like silk. But beneath the softness was steel.
This wasn't just a company.
This was an empire with rules written in polished gold and quiet threat.
Classroom Sector – 10:37 AM
The lights dimmed slightly as they entered a different section of the facility.
Rows of sleek, black desks lined the room—each equipped with a touchscreen panel , and a biometric scanner built into the armrest.
A massive smart screen stretched across the front wall, glowing softly with shifting graphs and heat maps.
Gold prices. Currency fluctuations. Commodity trends.
Data scrolled in real time, updating faster than Noah could process.
Everyone took their seats without any instruction. Without noise.
This was normal for them.
Noah sat down slowly.
His fingers brushed the smooth surface of the desk.
Mrs. Lesley walked to the center of the room.
With a flick of her wrist, a holographic display projected above the table—an interactive model of global trade routes.
She tapped one line.
A red dot pulsed along a route between Dubai and Zurich.
"This is Gold Route 7B," she said. "Carries over 40% of our refined imports. Every shipment is tracked. Every transfer logged. Every anomaly flagged."
She looked directly at Noah.
"You'll learn how to read this data. How to predict trends. How to manipulate outcomes. Because in Falcon Corps, power isn't just about strength."
Her lips curled slightly.
"It's about control."
A tablet slid onto the table in front of Noah.
He picked it up. The screen lit up with charts, reports, and a live feed of global gold prices.
They're not teaching us to survive.
They're teaching us to run an empire.
When it was over, Noah packed his things in silence.
His thoughts spun, but he kept his face still.
As he turned to leave, a voice cut in from behind.
"Noah."
He turned.
Brian.
The team leader stood alone, arms crossed, gaze level.
"Café. Four o'clock," he said.
Noah blinked. "Why?"
Brian didn't explain.
"I'll be waiting."
And with that, he left.
Noah exhaled.
His chest felt tight. His mind, heavier than before.
This place wasn't just dangerous.
It was inescapable.