The building already felt tight with tension, as if the air itself had been pulled thin. Inside the hall, people stood shoulder to shoulder in a long line, each face carrying its own impatience, fear, and hunger for opportunity.
The cold marble beneath Colvin's shoes pressed through the soles like a quiet warning. Somewhere far off, voices murmured and echoed against the walls, soft as dust, sharp as knives.
The smell in the room was stale. Powder, old fabric, sweat, and the dry scent of aged curtains hung together in the air. Colvin stood among strangers and felt the strange heaviness of it all.
Every person around him seemed to carry a story. Every one of them looked like they were waiting for their chance to survive.
Then, near the corner of the hall, the first crack appeared.
A sharp voice rose. Then another. And another, a louder one.
Three men had begun to argue over who had the best answer to the interview's question. At first it was only words, but the words turned hard. Faces tightened. Jaws locked. Shoulders pushed forward. Their anger spread fast, like fire catching on dry paper.
The guards by the door noticed immediately. Their eyes sharpened. Their hands shifted slightly near their belts. Colvin could tell from their posture alone that they were watching for weakness, watching for hesitation. Maybe this was part of the test.
Maybe the interview was not only about what a person knew, but about what he would do when chaos within the household started breathing beside him.
Colvin swallowed.
Strong people always won first impressions, he thought.
He stepped forward.
"Wait," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "There is no reason to turn this into a fight."
But the moment he moved closer, the argument broke open.
One man shoved another. The second man lunged back. The third tried to break them apart, but only made things worse. A fist flew. Then another. The sound of flesh hitting flesh cracked through the hall like thunder.
Colvin's eyes widened a fraction.
So this was how it started.
A shoulder slammed into him as one of the men stumbled sideways. Colvin caught himself fast, but before he could speak again, one of the fighters came at him with a wild swing. Colvin ducked, the punch missing his cheek by inches, the rush of air brushing his skin. Another blow came from the other side. Then another. The men were moving like animals now, all raw force and no control.
He moved in.
His left hand shot out and caught one wrist. His right forearm blocked another punch hard enough to make his arm sting. He twisted his body and pushed one of the men back with a sharp shove to the chest, but the man came forward again, teeth bared, eyes wild with anger.
Colvin's breathing deepened.
Too close, he thought. Too many bodies. Too much noise.
The crowd around them recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. A woman near the line gasped and stepped back. Someone else nearly slipped on the marble. The guards at the door watched without moving a single limb.
Colvin grabbed the second man by the collar and turned him aside. The man stumbled, caught himself, then swung again. Colvin blocked it with his shoulder and felt the impact shiver through his body. The force was real, enough to push most men back. But Colvin did not move like most men.
He planted his feet.
The floor beneath him felt suddenly smaller, harder. His heartbeat thudded once, twice, then settled into a heavy rhythm. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, not from fear, but from the strain of holding back something inside him.
He had to stop them. He had to keep the situation from getting worse, even for just his sake. But now one of the men had wrapped both arms around him in a desperate attempt to force him out of the center.
Colvin gritted his teeth. Is this an evaluation for physical abilities?
The man was strong, stronger than he expected, and for a moment it seemed as if Colvin might actually be pulled off balance. Another fist came flying toward his face. He turned just enough for it to graze his jaw instead of landing cleanly. Pain flashed bright and hot through his skin. The blow made his ears ring.
He felt something in him tighten.
The man in front of him was still shouting. The third one had rushed back in, trying to land another hit. Colvin was surrounded. One arm was being pulled, another was pinned, and a knee slammed into his side hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
For a second, it looked as if the three men might overpower him.
The crowd held its breath.
Even the guards seemed to pause.
Colvin's face stayed calm, but inside, confusion flickered through him like a fast-moving spark. Why are they this strong? Why won't they stop? Why does this feel like a test that keeps changing?
Then the man gripping his arm yanked hard again.
Colvin looked down at the hand on his sleeve.
And something in him shifted.
He released a breath, low and sharp, and moved.
His shoulder drove into the first man's chest. His elbow struck the second man's ribs. At the same time, he grabbed the third man's wrist, twisted, and pulled him off balance with a sudden force that made the man stumble backward and nearly crash into the line behind him.
The room changed.
Colvin was no longer just holding them apart.
He was controlling them.
One man tried to rush him again, but Colvin stepped in and shoved him back so hard the man slid across the marble in a startled stumble. Another came forward with a raised arm, only to have Colvin catch the blow and redirect it sideways with a sharp turn of his body.
The movement was clean, fast, almost unreadable. It was not flashy. It was not clumsy. It was the kind of strength that looked quiet until you were the one being thrown aside by it.
The man on Colvin's left swung again.
Colvin blocked, then struck with the heel of his palm into the man's chest. The man lurched backward, stunned by the force and barely kept his toes onto the ground. Not because the hit was cruel, but because it was powerful enough to break the rhythm of the fight.
Colvin stepped forward and separated the three with brutal efficiency, using his body like a wall, like a blade, like a command.
His shoes slid once on the marble. He corrected it instantly.
A table nearby shook from the impact of one of the men stumbling into it. The sound of glass rattling made the room feel even tighter. Several people in the line gasped. A maid near the back dropped what she was holding. One of the guards finally moved a step forward, but even he seemed to hesitate, as if he had not expected this level of control from a single applicant.
Colvin caught the third man by the shoulder and spun him away with a single motion that left the man breathless. The force in Colvin's arms surprised even him. It felt too easy. Too natural. As if his body had already decided what to do before his mind had fully caught up.
He was breathing harder now.
Not because he was losing.
Because he was realizing that he was showing off his strength almost carelessly.
The fight was still not over, though. The first man lunged again, furious and unsteady. Colvin stepped into the attack, caught the arm, and shoved it downward.
Then he hooked a foot behind the man's ankle and sent him stumbling to the side. The second man tried to take advantage of the opening, but Colvin turned just in time and drove a shoulder into him, forcing him back into the line of sight of the guards.
At last, the three began to break apart.
Their anger was still there, but their momentum was gone.
Colvin stood in the center of it all, chest rising and falling, one hand slightly tense at his side, the other still stained with the pain of contact. The room had gone quiet enough for him to hear the tiny scrape of his own shoe on the marble.
And then, above him, from the second-floor balcony, someone was watching.
A woman stood there with a cane, her pale hair catching the light by the window. Beside her was a tall blond man. Both of them are calm, silently observing him. The woman's lips held a thin smile, as if she had found the scene interesting for reasons Colvin could not yet understand.
But he did not notice them.
He was still staring at the men he had just held apart, his thoughts moving too fast to settle.
Is someone pushing him to reveal his full abilities? How will they use it to their advantage if he did?
Before he could think any further, something else happened.
From the other end of the line, another shout ripped through the hall. A man in black shirt, face red with fury, stormed forward and began throwing things from a side room. Vases shattered. Frames flew. Decorative pieces crashed against the floor. The sound of breaking ceramic filled the hall like a scream.
Colvin moved again.
Fast.
He crossed the floor in a blur, sliding over the marble, lowering his body just enough to keep his balance. He grabbed a falling object with one hand, turned, and gently pushed a maid behind him before the wreckage could hit her.
A flying shard of glass flashed in the air. He reached out, caught it, and stopped it before it could strike a child nearby. Pain flared through his palm when the edge cut him, but he did not stop.
His hand was bleeding now.
He looked at the blood for only a second, then closed his fist and kept moving.
A painting almost fell onto an elderly woman. Colvin caught the edge of the frame and pulled it away just in time. Another object came spinning toward him. He twisted around it and shoved it aside with his forearm.
Every movement was quick, precise, and controlled. He looked less like a man fighting and more like a storm that had learned how to move through a room without destroying it.
The people around him stared.
Some are in fear.
Some in disbelief.
Colvin did not look back.
He could hear his own heartbeat now, loud in his ears, but it was not fear that made it race. It was the strange, unsettling realization that his body could do this. That he was not merely strong. He was far stronger than he had ever needed to be.
Then, at last, the chaos ended.
Two large men emerged from the side corridor, their footsteps heavy enough to silence the remaining murmurs.
Both wore dark uniforms, their presence immediately commanding attention. One of them surveyed the damaged hall with narrowed eyes before raising his voice.
"Enough. Everyone out," he ordered sharply. "By instruction of Mr. Morozov, the recruitment is finished. Clear the hall immediately."
His voice cut through the air like a blade.
No one argued.
The second guard stepped forward, gesturing firmly toward the exit. "Those involved in the disturbance are dismissed. The rest of you, leave in an orderly manner."
People began moving at once. Chairs scraped. Shoes shuffled across marble. Low whispers replaced earlier shouting. Some applicants looked frustrated, others relieved, and a few avoided eye contact entirely, as if ashamed to have witnessed the chaos.
The hall slowly emptied, leaving behind broken ornaments, shattered ceramic scattered across the floor, and the lingering smell of dust and tension hanging heavily in the air.
Colvin remained standing at the center.
Blood stained his palm, dark against his skin. His chest rose and fell steadily, controlled despite the exhaustion pressing into his muscles. His posture remained perfect, composed, almost untouched by what had just happened.
But inside, something felt wrong.
Too many things had slipped beyond his control.
Too many events had unfolded without meaning.
And the silence now felt heavier than the fight itself.
One of the guards spoke again, louder this time.
"The selected candidates will remain. Everyone else is dismissed."
Colvin's eyes lifted slightly.
Selected?
A faint unease crawled up his spine.
People continued filing out. Some muttered complaints under their breath. Others shook their heads in disappointment. The long line that had once filled the hall dissolved into scattered figures moving toward the doors.
Colvin hesitated only a moment before stepping toward a man who was already turning to leave. The man looked irritated, adjusting his sleeve as he walked.
"Excuse me," Colvin said calmly.
The man glanced back, clearly eager to go. "What?"
"What happened?" Colvin asked. "Why is everyone leaving?"
The man frowned slightly, as if surprised someone still did not understand.
"Are you deaf?" he replied. "They finished hours ago. The interviews were done earlier. We were just waiting for the results."
The words landed quietly.
Too quietly.
Colvin felt something tighten in his chest.
"Waiting…?" he repeated.
The man nodded toward the far end of the hall where two individuals stood near one of the guards.
At that exact moment, the guard lifted his hand and pointed directly at them.
"You two," the guard said firmly. "Stay. The rest may go."
The chosen applicants straightened immediately, relief flashing across their faces. One looked stunned and the other was proud, both stepping forward as if crossing an invisible threshold.
Colvin followed the gesture with his eyes.
For a moment, the sounds around him dulled.
Someone had already been chosen.
Not during the chaos.
Not after.
Long before he arrived.
He had been too late.
The man beside him shrugged. "Bad timing," he muttered before walking away with the rest of the crowd.
Colvin remained where he stood.
The hall continued to empty until only echoes remained. Broken fragments reflected faint light across the marble floor. Dust drifted slowly through the air, settling after the storm.
His fingers curled slightly around his wounded palm.
The pain grounded him.
Inside his mind, thoughts moved faster now, colliding with one another.
All that effort.
All that risk.
And the decision had already been made behind closed doors he never entered.
The first step toward his goal had disappeared without him even seeing it.
As the last footsteps faded into silence, a softer sound approached from behind him.
Unhurried.
Certain.
He slowly cast his gaze on her, as if he already knew it was the woman with the cane.
"You move like you've done this before. Are you interested in guarding me?"