The ruthless CEO was exactly what Luke needed.
Black-hearted businessmen had connections. They knew people who knew people—the kind of contacts that didn't show up on LinkedIn. If Luke wanted to build something that operated in the shadows, he needed someone comfortable with moral flexibility.
The interview lasted fifteen minutes. By the end, Emil Garrett had a job.
"Your first assignment," Luke said, sliding a folder across the desk. "I need mercenaries. Security personnel for the company."
Emil's brow furrowed slightly. "I'm not sure I understand, sir..."
He was being careful. New job, new boss, strange request. Better to clarify than assume and screw up on day one.
"Let me be specific." Luke leaned back in his chair. "I need people who can handle dirty work. People who follow orders without asking questions. People who know how to keep their mouths shut."
Emil's expression shifted as understanding dawned.
"I see. How many are we talking about?"
"As many as you can get. The casualty rate will be... significant."
That made Emil pause. Casualty rate? What exactly was this company planning to do?
But he was a professional. He'd been hired to solve problems, not ask questions.
"In that case, sir, I'd advise against long-term contracts." Emil's mind was already working through the logistics. "Buying out their obligations would waste company funds. Better to structure it as per-mission compensation with hazard bonuses."
He'd been about to suggest standard employment agreements, but if people were going to die regularly, that changed the calculus entirely. Long-term contracts meant ongoing liabilities—pensions, benefits, severance for families. Per-mission work was cleaner.
Luke smiled. Here was a man who thought about the bottom line first and ethics never.
"Good thinking. You're the CEO now."
Emil blinked. "Sir?"
"You just demonstrated exactly the kind of decision-making I need. Congratulations on your promotion."
For a moment, Emil Garrett—disgraced businessman, borderline bankrupt, desperate enough to take a meeting with a mysterious startup—didn't know what to say.
This kid had pulled him out of the gutter. Given him a second chance when no one else would. And now, based on a single suggestion, he was being handed control of a company with sixty billion dollars in capital.
Even someone as cynical as Emil felt something stir in his chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or at least a recognition that betraying this particular boss would be monumentally stupid.
"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."
"One more thing." Luke held up a finger. "Death benefits. Anyone who dies on the job, their families get compensated. Generously."
Emil opened his mouth to argue—death benefits were expensive, and mercenaries knew the risks they were signing up for—but Luke cut him off.
"Non-negotiable. Happy soldiers fight harder. Soldiers who know their families are protected? They'll walk into hell for you." Luke's smile turned slightly cold. "Besides, I'm already asking them to face things that might give them nightmares. The least I can do is make sure their kids eat if they don't come home."
It was a pragmatic argument dressed in humanitarian clothing. Emil could respect that.
"Understood, sir. I'll structure the compensation packages accordingly."
Emil worked fast.
By the next day, Umbrella Corporation's headquarters had acquired over a hundred new "security consultants." They arrived in unmarked vans, carrying enough personal weaponry to supply a small army. Hard-faced men and women with the look of people who'd seen combat and hadn't flinched.
Luke watched them assemble in the underground training facility, impressed despite himself.
"I didn't hire them to stand around looking intimidating," he told Emil. "They need training. Real training. Combat readiness for situations they can't imagine."
"Combat readiness?" Emil still didn't fully understand what Umbrella Corporation actually did. There was a subsidiary called Rhodes Island Pharmaceutical. Various shell companies with unclear purposes. Underground facilities that looked more like bunkers than offices.
And now a private army being told to prepare for "situations they can't imagine."
What exactly had he signed up for?
Luke didn't elaborate. Instead, he gestured toward EMIYA, who'd been observing the mercenaries with an expression of mild disdain.
"Archer will be their commanding officer and head of security. He'll handle the training personally."
EMIYA stepped forward, surveying the assembled fighters with the air of a man evaluating livestock.
The mercenaries were professionals. They'd worked for governments, corporations, and less savory employers across dozens of conflict zones. They knew better than to cause trouble with their new bosses—especially bosses who paid this well. Short-term contracts with premium rates meant you kept your head down and did your job.
But EMIYA had other ideas.
"Alright, you mutts." His voice carried across the training floor, sharp and mocking. "Let's see what you're made of. Anyone who can put me on the ground becomes the new security chief. I'll even let you come at me together."
The mercenaries bristled. A few hands twitched toward weapons before discipline reasserted itself.
Their squad leader—a grizzled veteran named Cooper—barked a command, keeping his people in check. But the anger in their eyes was obvious.
"I didn't know you had 'Provocation' as a skill," Luke commented dryly.
"Old habits." EMIYA's smile was razor-thin. "Picked it up on various battlefields. Can't remember which ones anymore."
He'd been a Counter Guardian for so long, killed so many people across so many timelines, that individual memories had blurred together. Taunting enemies was just muscle memory at this point.
"You heard him," Luke announced to the assembled mercenaries. "That's a genuine offer. Take him down, and you get promoted. Salary increase, long-term contract, the works."
Cooper stepped forward, still cautious. "You're serious, sir?"
"Completely."
That was all the permission they needed.
Two men broke from the formation immediately—big guys, confident in their size and training. They'd been in enough fights to know they could handle most opponents.
EMIYA gestured lazily. Come on, then.
The first one went down in two moves. The second lasted slightly longer—three moves, a personal best.
The remaining mercenaries watched with growing unease. They'd seen skilled fighters before. Special forces, elite operators, the best of the best.
This was different.
EMIYA moved like water, like smoke, like something that didn't belong in a human body. Every strike was precise, economical, devastatingly effective. He wasn't showing off. He was just... efficient.
One by one, the mercenaries attacked. In groups of two, then three, then half a dozen at once. It didn't matter. EMIYA flowed through them like they were standing still, dropping bodies with surgical precision.
"Five minutes, forty seconds."
Luke checked his watch as the last mercenary hit the ground.
Over a hundred trained killers, and EMIYA had dismantled them all in under six minutes. Hand to hand. No weapons. Not even breathing hard.
The mercenaries lay scattered across the training floor, groaning, trying to process what had just happened. They were professionals. They'd spent years honing their skills, surviving situations that killed lesser men.
And they'd been handled like children.
"Get up," EMIYA said, his voice carrying no sympathy. "Training starts now. By the time I'm done with you, you might actually be useful."
Nobody argued.