Tyler's POV
The training room smelled like sweat, ego, and regret. I should've taken that as a sign to run.
Instead, I stood there in boxing gloves two sizes too big, surrounded by gym equipment I had no idea how to use, staring into the eyes of a woman who looked like she could fold me like a beach chair without breaking a sweat.
Azazel.
She stood across from me in the ring, her arms crossed, expression blank with just the tiniest hint of a smirk. Behind her, two men were still going at each other like they had lifelong grudges to settle. And they looked good doing it—like warriors. Me? I was just praying I didn't throw up.
"Alright, let's test out your boxing skills," she said, cracking her neck like a damn Marvel villain.
I laughed nervously. "Boxing? Yeah, sure, totally. I've watched, like, two Rocky movies."
She didn't even blink. Instead, she tossed a pair of gloves at my face. I caught them with all the grace of a dying seal.
As I tried to awkwardly shove my hands in, I piped up, "Listen, I might not look dangerous, and I didn't exactly finish PE in high school—those burpees were a crime, by the way—but babe, my hips? They don't lie."
I even did a tiny shimmy, hoping it would at least get a pity chuckle.
Azazel just narrowed her eyes and said, "Bring it on."
Gulp.
I leaned forward in what I assumed was a boxing stance—knees bent, arms up, chin tucked. It felt kinda right. I'd seen it in movies. I gave her a solid nod. Confidence. Swagger. The illusion of knowing what I was doing.
"Don't hold back," she said.
Big mistake.
I launched at her with the raw, chaotic energy of someone who had zero technique but a hell of a lot of enthusiasm. My swing was wild, wide, and slow enough that someone could've filmed it, edited it, and added commentary before it even got near her.
She ducked.
Easily.
And then—
Boom.
The air left my lungs like someone had hit a 'mute' button on my soul. Her fist connected with my stomach so fast I didn't even realize I'd been hit until I was staring up at the ceiling.
Stars. Literal stars.
Someone in the background snorted. "Bro really said 'my hips don't lie' and then got folded like origami."
"I think his hips just filed for divorce," another added.
I groaned and forced myself up, swaying like a plastic balloon in the wind.
"I'm… good," I wheezed. "I just… wasn't ready."
Azazel, stone-faced as ever, rolled her eyes. "Again."
Round two.
This time, I tried a jab. Something small. Precise.
She dodged like she was swatting a fly and came in with a hook to my jaw that sent me sprawling against the ropes.
"Oh shit—did anyone get that?" someone yelled. "We need a replay."
My vision was doubling. My ears were ringing. My pride was disintegrating like wet tissue paper.
"I don't even think he knows where he is," one of the fighters said. "Look at him. Poor guy's malfunctioning."
"Y'all remember that last punch? Man got Bluetooth disconnected."
Still, I stood.
Because I'm stubborn. And mildly stupid.
"I've… had worse," I coughed, tasting blood. "Once I fell off a hoverboard, sprained my ankle, and got hit by a pigeon all in one day. This? Child's play."
Azazel cracked her knuckles. "Last chance, Tyler."
"Give me all you've got," I slurred.
She did.
It was an uppercut straight to my ego. My body flew. I don't even remember the impact, just the aftermath. Flat on my back, arms spread, chest heaving like I'd just run a marathon uphill… on fire.
Everything hurt.
My brain was buffering. My limbs were noodles. I was bleeding—from where? I had no idea. Probably everywhere.
Azazel stood over me, arms folded.
"You're defenseless," she said calmly. "No speed, no form, no endurance."
I lifted a shaky hand and gave a weak thumbs-up. "But I've got… spirit."
"Spirit won't save your life in a real fight," she snapped. "Get up. Again."
I whimpered. "Can't. I think my soul left my body."
One of the fighters from earlier crouched beside me. "Hey, man. Respect for trying. But also? That was the saddest fight I've ever seen. No offense."
"So much offense," I mumbled into the mat.
Azazel finally relented. "That's enough. For now."
"Thank God," I whispered, and promptly passed out.
Not fainted—just decided my body was officially clocking out.
I was laid out like a sack of regret on the bed, every inch of my body screaming in languages I didn't even speak. My ribs ached. My arms were limp. My pride? Long gone. The only thing keeping me somewhat alive were the ice blocks being pressed over my bruised, swollen flesh. Whoever invented ice deserved a Nobel Prize.
"Out. Out!" I groaned as the door creaked open.
Azazel stepped in like a villain entering the final act—calm, confident, and absolutely terrifying. But beside her? A new face. A man.
He was tall, solidly built, with brown hair and dark eyes that didn't seem to match the toughness of his frame. There was something soft in the way he looked at me, even if his muscles said otherwise. He had a small hoop earring in one ear—subtle but bold. Something about him said, I've seen some shit, but I'm still standing.
Azazel clicked her tongue and crossed her arms. "I remember when he used to be like this," she said, motioning toward the guy beside her.
He chuckled quietly. "Yeah. You had me crying like a damn baby the first week."
Wait. Him? Cry?
I squinted through my one good eye. "Wait… really?"
Azazel raised a brow at me. "Should I have let you off easy, then?"
Honestly? Yes. Deep down in my fractured little soul—yes.
But then she kept going. "Everyone has to go through this stage. And judging by the fact that you're still alive—and eavesdropping—you might survive it too."
"Wait…" I winced. "What do you mean might survive it? What happened to the last guy?"
She turned to me with a straight face. "He didn't make it."
I froze. "As in… quit?"
Azazel: "No. As in almost died."
The new guy looked away, probably remembering. I gulped.
She stepped closer, crouching slightly. "But you? You're still talking. Still breathing. Which means you've got some kind of stubborn fire in you. But I'm not sure if it's enough to be Mr. Han's personal PA."
I blinked. "Wait, this is about Han?"
"Obviously," she snapped. "He's always surrounded by snakes. People who smile in his face and poison his food the next second. He doesn't need a PA. He needs a soldier."
I scoffed. "I'm not a snake. I saved my life for that bastard—"
CRACK.
Her hand collided with my cheek so fast I didn't even process it. Blood spilled from the corner of my mouth—again.
"Don't you dare call him that," she hissed. Her voice was low, sharp, a dagger dipped in ice.
I stared at her, dazed. "Seriously… are you made of titanium or something?"
Azazel didn't smile. She didn't blink. She didn't flinch.
"From today onward, you will call him Mr. Han or Boss. Got it?" she said. "If you can't, then I recommend you keep your smart mouth shut. Because if not, it won't just be your mouth that's bleeding next time."
I spat a bit more blood onto the towel beside me. "As if you've left any part of my body not bleeding."
She leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then try not to give me a reason to keep going."
The room fell silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the ringing in my ears. The guy beside her placed a quiet hand on her shoulder. A silent reminder to ease up.
She exhaled through her nose and stood up straight.
"Rest up," she said flatly. "Training continues tomorrow."
They turned to leave, but I couldn't stop myself.
"Hey," I croaked.
She paused at the door.
"I'm not a soldier," I whispered. "But I don't lose easy, either."
She smirked—just a little. "We'll see."
The door closed behind them.
And I lay there, battered, broken, but burning with something dangerous.
I need to leave this place.. IMMEDIATELY