Isaiah woke up to complete silence.
Not the kind of silence he was used to, the kind that came from cheap walls and neighbors who were still asleep. This silence was way too heavy. Clean. Like it belonged to a place that had never known struggle, never known the sound of pipes rattling or sirens outside the window.
His eyes opened slowly, and for a moment he didn't move. The ceiling above him was smooth, uncracked, the paint flawless. Even the air felt different. Cooler. Filtered. Expensive.
Isaiah sat up, the blanket sliding down his chest. The sheets were soft against his skin, and the mattress underneath him felt like it was built to cradle a person rather than punish one. It still didn't feel right or real. Nothing about this place ever felt real.
Then his eyes drifted to the nightstand beside him.
The contract was still there.
It sat neatly on the nightstand, perfectly aligned like someone had measured the exact angle it should rest at. The pen was placed beside it, like an afterthought, but Isaiah knew better. Nothing about Zayne felt like an afterthought.
Isaiah swallowed hard and rubbed his face. He didn't know what he expected. Maybe for the paper to disappear, for last night to feel like some strange weird nightmare. But the ink was real. His signature was real. His agreement was real.
He had handed his life over in exchange for survival.
Isaiah swung his legs off the bed and stood. The carpet beneath his feet was thick and plush, so soft it almost irritated him. It reminded him too much of what he didn't deserve. He crossed the room slowly, staring at everything like it might vanish if he blinked too hard.
The room was huge. Bigger than his entire apartment. The furniture looked untouched, like it belonged in a hotel suite for celebrities. There was a dresser made of polished wood, a couch near the window, and a large television mounted neatly against the wall. The curtains were heavy and dark, the kind that could block out the entire world if you wanted them to.
Isaiah walked to the window and pulled the curtain back slightly.
The city stretched out beyond the glass. Tall buildings, distant movement, morning light creeping between streets. It looked the same as always, but it felt different now, like he was looking at it from the wrong side of a wall.
His stomach twisted.
This wasn't his life.
This wasn't supposed to be his life.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Isaiah's entire body stiffened. Before he could even respond, the door opened.
Zayne stepped inside like he belonged there. Like he belonged everywhere. His presence filled the room immediately, dark and quiet, as if the air itself made space for him. He was dressed already, black fitted shirt and dark pants, everything clean and sharp. Even his watch looked like it could buy Isaiah's tuition twice over.
Isaiah watched him, unable to stop the tension rising in his chest. Zayne's eyes swept the room once, then landed on Isaiah with the same calm intensity he always carried.
"You're awake," Zayne said.
Isaiah nodded. "Yeah."
Zayne's gaze flicked toward the contract, then back to Isaiah. He walked closer, his footsteps quiet despite the unusual flooring. Isaiah couldn't tell if Zayne was trying to move silently or if he simply had the kind of control that made sound unnecessary.
"You slept," Zayne said.
"I mean… eventually," Isaiah replied, his voice dry.
Zayne's expression didn't change. "Did you regret it?"
The question made Isaiah's chest tighten. He didn't answer right away, because regret wasn't something Isaiah could afford. Regret meant you had a choice. Isaiah hadn't had choices in a long time. He had only ever had survival.
He forced himself to breathe evenly and met Zayne's eyes. "Not yet."
Zayne studied him for a moment, then gave a faint nod as if he'd been expecting that answer. "Good."
Isaiah didn't like how calm Zayne was. Like Isaiah's fear didn't matter. Like Isaiah's entire life was just another business transaction.
Zayne turned toward the dresser, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a folded stack of clothes. He placed them on the bed without care, like he was tossing down a napkin.
"Shower. Brush your teeth. Put those on," Zayne said.
Isaiah stared at the clothes. The fabric looked expensive too expensive. Too clean. Too perfect. "I don't have any of my stuff here."
"I know," Zayne said, voice flat.
Isaiah looked back up. "So you just… bought me clothes?"
Zayne's eyes met his again, and Isaiah immediately felt like he'd said something wrong.
"I don't repeat myself, Isaiah."
Isaiah swallowed. "I wasn't trying to be disrespectful."
Zayne didn't respond. He simply turned and walked toward the door. Before leaving, he paused, his hand resting on the frame as he glanced back.
"And eat today," he added, as if that mattered more than anything else.
Isaiah frowned slightly. "What?"
"You'll need strength," Zayne said, and then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Isaiah stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, staring at the clothes and the contract. His mind kept trying to catch up to what his life had become overnight. He had always imagined luxury as freedom. Now he was realizing luxury could feel like a cage too.
He went into the bathroom, turning on the shower. The bathroom was bigger than his old kitchen. The sink was marble, the shower was glass, and everything looked untouched. Shelves were stocked with expensive soaps and bottles lined up neatly, like the room had been prepared for him before he even arrived.
That thought made Isaiah's skin crawl.
He showered quickly, the hot water soothing his skin in a way he wasn't used to. It felt good. Too good. He brushed his teeth with a new toothbrush that had been left out for him, unopened, and then dressed in the clothes Zayne provided.
When Isaiah looked in the mirror, he didn't recognize himself.
The outfit fit perfectly. Not just close, but exact, like it had been tailored to his body. Dark pants, a fitted shirt, even shoes that looked like they cost more than his old rent. Isaiah turned slightly, staring at the way the clothes changed him. They made him look like he belonged somewhere higher than he ever had.
He hated how much he liked it.
Isaiah left the room and stepped into the hallway. The mansion was quiet, but not empty. He could feel eyes on him, even before he saw anyone. When he turned a corner, he spotted two men standing against the wall. They wore black, their posture straight, their faces blank. Guards.
They looked at Isaiah briefly, then looked away.
Isaiah kept walking, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He followed the hallway until the scent of food reached him.
It hit him suddenly, warm and rich, and his stomach growled before he could stop it. Isaiah froze, embarrassed, but then he entered the dining room and saw the table.
The table was huge, long enough to seat ten people comfortably, but only two spots were occupied. Zayne sat at the far end, a cup of coffee in his hand, calm and composed like he'd been sitting there for hours.
The table was covered with food. Eggs, fruit, toast, pancakes, sausage, bacon, juice, everything arranged neatly like it was a buffet. Isaiah's throat tightened because it didn't even feel real to see so much food just sitting there.
Zayne looked up. "Sit."
Isaiah hesitated, then sat down carefully. The chair felt expensive too. Everything here felt like it belonged in another world.
Isaiah reached for a plate slowly, unsure of what he was allowed to do. Zayne didn't speak again, just watched him with that same quiet gaze.
Isaiah started eating.
The first bite almost made him pause. The food was warm, seasoned, fresh. Not microwaved. Not cheap. Not rushed. Isaiah didn't realize how hungry he was until he couldn't stop. His body responded like it had been starving longer than he admitted.
Zayne's voice cut through the deep silence. "You're thin."
Isaiah's hand stopped mid motion. He looked up. "Thanks? I guess."
Zayne's expression didn't change. "It wasn't a compliment."
Isaiah felt heat rise in his face. He kept eating anyway, forcing himself not to react. He wasn't going to let Zayne see him get defensive.
After a few minutes, Isaiah finally spoke again. "Why are you doing all of this?"
Zayne leaned back slightly, coffee still in his hand. "Because I need you alive."
Isaiah's stomach twisted. "You mean because you need just a random 'guard' alive."
Zayne's eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice stayed calm. "Call it what you want."
Isaiah stared at him. "So what now? I just live here and do whatever you say?"
Zayne's gaze held his. "That's what you signed for."
Isaiah's grip tightened on the fork. He hated how simple Zayne made it sound, like Isaiah hadn't just given up everything.
Zayne stood up abruptly, setting his cup down. "Finish eating. Then come with me."
Isaiah blinked. "Where are we going?"
Zayne didn't answer. He simply turned and walked out of the room.
Isaiah sat there for another moment, then finished quickly. He followed Zayne through the mansion, down long hallways and wide rooms. Everything was polished, clean, designed to intimidate. Isaiah could tell the house wasn't just money, it was power.
Outside, a sexy black luxury car waited.
Zayne opened the passenger door.
Isaiah paused. "You're driving?"
Zayne looked at him like he'd asked something ridiculous. "Get in."
Isaiah climbed inside, and Zayne sat onto the driver's seat. The car started smoothly, and within moments they were on the road.
Isaiah watched the city pass by. His heart was racing, but he couldn't say what he was really thinking. He couldn't admit he felt trapped. He couldn't admit he was scared.
Zayne spoke after a while. "We're going to the university."
Isaiah's head snapped toward him. "Why?"
"We're not attending class this week," Zayne said.
Isaiah frowned. "I can't just skip a week. I'll fail."
Zayne glanced at him briefly. "You won't."
Isaiah's stomach dropped. "How would you even—"
"I already handled it," Zayne interrupted.
The words hit Isaiah like a punch. Isaiah didn't respond, because what could he say? Zayne said it so casually, like school was just a small inconvenience that could be erased with money and influence.
When they arrived at campus, Isaiah's heartbeat spiked.
Students were walking around, laughing, carrying backpacks, living normal lives. Isaiah felt like he was walking among ghosts. Like he was the only one who didn't belong anymore.
The moment they stepped out of the car, heads turned.
Whispers started immediately.
Isaiah could feel it, the curiosity and shock from strangers who recognized Zayne's presence. Isaiah didn't know if they knew his name, but they knew his aura. Money. Danger. Authority.
And Isaiah standing beside him made it worse.
Zayne walked through campus without hesitation. Isaiah had to hurry to keep up. They entered the administration building, and the secretary at the front desk froze the moment she saw Zayne.
Her smile looked forced. "Can I help you?"
Zayne didn't bother with politeness. "Dean's office."
The secretary swallowed. "Do you have an appointment?"
Zayne leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping. "Tell him I'm here."
Isaiah watched her hands shake as she picked up the phone. She didn't argue. She didn't hesitate. Within seconds she nodded quickly and stood.
"He'll see you."
Zayne turned and walked down the hallway. Isaiah followed, his chest tight. This didn't feel like a normal visit. It felt like an live execution.
They entered the dean's office, and the dean stood immediately, his face sweating.
"Mr. Blackridge," the dean said quickly, forcing a smile.
Isaiah froze.
Blackridge.
That name hit him harder than he expected. It wasn't just a name. It was something old, something feared, something whispered about.
Zayne didn't smile. He simply walked to the chair and sat down without asking.
Isaiah remained standing near the door, unsure of what he was supposed to do.
The dean cleared his throat. "How can I help you?"
Zayne folded his hands calmly. "Isaiah Holloway will be excused from classes for one week. No penalties. No marks. No disciplinary action. No questions."
The dean blinked. "That's… highly irregular—"
Zayne's eyes lifted slightly.
The dean stopped talking immediately.
Isaiah's stomach twisted as he realized what was happening. Zayne wasn't asking. He was telling.
The dean swallowed. "If he misses a week, he'll fall behind. His grades—"
Zayne's voice was quiet, but sharp. "His grades will be fine."
The dean hesitated, then nodded quickly. "Of course. Yes I'm so sorry. We can do that."
Isaiah stared at him, disbelief flooding his mind. He had begged this school for help before. Financial aid, extensions, payment plans. They had always treated him like he was disposable.
But Zayne walked in, spoke two sentences, and suddenly the rules didn't exist.
Zayne stood up. "Good."
The dean forced another smile. "Is there anything else you need?"
Zayne paused, then turned his head slightly toward Isaiah. His eyes flicked over him, like he was analyzing him again.
Then he looked back at the dean.
"No," Zayne said. "That's will be all."
He walked out.
Isaiah followed, his mind spinning.
When they got back outside, Isaiah finally spoke. "You can't just do that."
Zayne stopped near the car, looking at him calmly. "I can."
Isaiah's jaw tightened. "Why would you excuse us for a week?"
Zayne stepped closer. His voice lowered, not quite a whisper, but intimate enough to feel dangerous. "Because you need serious training to get where I need you to be."
Isaiah's heart beats faster. "Training?"
Zayne opened the car door, his expression unreadable. "You want protection? You want a better life? You want to live and survive? Then you need to become useful."
Isaiah's throat tightened. "So that's what this is? You're just turning me into a weapon?"
Zayne's gaze lingered on him longer than necessary.
Then he said, "I'm turning you into mine."
Isaiah's breath caught.
Zayne slid into the driver's seat, starting the car. Isaiah hesitated only a moment before climbing back into the passenger seat.
As they drove away, Isaiah stared out the window again, his thoughts tangled. He should've felt relieved. He should've felt grateful.
But all he felt was the slow realization that Zayne wasn't just helping him.
Zayne was claiming him.
And Isaiah didn't know if the worst part was that he could feel it… or that some part of him was already too tired to fight it.