#hbk

A week had passed since the disastrous poetry incident, and Prince Shawn’s cold war against the Barbarian King had only intensified. Shawn systematically avoided every grand hallway, timed his meals to the exact minute of the court's transitions, and if forced to sit beside Hunter at the high table, he treated the King of Kings like a ghost. His signature rose scent remained sharp and unyielding, a fragrant fortress that refused to let anyone in. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with Hunter.

This icy indifference left Hunter completely and utterly baffled.

In the King's mind, he had done exactly what a civilized southern Omega was supposed to want. He had listened to Ric Flair’s endless lectures, traded his blunt mountain instincts for parchment, and tried to speak of "soft petals" and "fragile birds." Weren't Omegas from the West supposed to swoon over sweet words? Why was Shawn looking at him as if he wanted to plunge a dagger into his ribs?

The heavy, thunderous scent of freshly fallen rain followed Hunter everywhere, thick with a frustrated, confused Alpha energy that kept the entire fortress walking on eggshells.

Determined to break the silence, Hunter intercepted Shawn early one morning in a quiet, stone corridor leading away from the royal quarters. The King stood towering and massive, blocking the path, but he wasn't holding his warhammer. Instead, his large, calloused right hand was awkwardly thrust forward, gripping a tightly bound bunch of mountain wildflowers.

Shawn stopped dead in his tracks. He braced himself for a confrontation, his blue eyes narrowing as he prepared to deliver another icy remark.

"Take them," Hunter rumbled, his deep voice carrying a rough, defensive edge. He looked anywhere but at Shawn's face, his jaw clenched tightly behind his blonde beard. "Flair said southern royalty prefers cultivated gardens, but we don't have those here. These grow on the highest ridges. Chyna said... Chyna said they match your eyes."

Shawn looked down at the bouquet. They weren't the perfectly manicured, flawlessly arranged roses of the McMahon palace. They were wild, stubborn mountain blossoms, stems cut unevenly, some even crushed by the sheer force of Hunter's massive grip. The poor King had clearly tried his best to handle them gently, but his large, warrior hands simply didn't know how to deal with something so small.

Shawn stared at the mangled stems, then at Hunter's flushing cheeks, the mighty conqueror looking genuinely mortified as he held out the clumsy offering.

Before he could stop himself, a soft, involuntary huff of amusement escaped Shawn's lips. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he let out a clear, genuine laugh that echoed softly against the damp stone walls.

Hunter’s green eyes snapped to Shawn, wide with a mixture of shock and intense embarrassment. His Alpha pride took a devastating blow. Believing the prince was openly mocking his pathetic attempt at romance, Hunter fiercely yanked his hand back.

"Forget it," Hunter muttered darkly, his rain scent turning instantly sour with humiliation. Without another word, he turned on his heel and marched down the corridor, his heavy boots slamming against the floorboards as he left Shawn standing entirely alone.

Shawn’s laugh faded, replaced by a sudden, unexpected pang of guilt. He looked at the floor, realizing he had genuinely hurt the man's feelings. He hadn't been mocking him; he had found the sheer clumsiness of the gesture... endearing. It was the first time Hunter hadn't looked like a terrifying conqueror, but rather like a man completely out of his depth.

It was sort of cute, Shawn thought, his inner Omega giving a quiet, traitorous hum of agreement. He quickly shook his head, refusing to admit it out loud. No. He's still an arrogant brute.

Picking up the few dropped blossoms from the stone floor, Shawn carried the clumsy bouquet down to the forgotten wing of the castle, heading straight for the glass-domed winter garden.

Over the last few days, the greenhouse had undergone a beautiful transformation. With Shawn’s structural ideas and Goldust’s tireless, artistic dedication, the abandoned sanctuary was thriving. The thick layer of frost had been scraped from the glass panels, letting the pale mountain sunlight flood the room, and the air now smelled sweetly of damp earth and blooming green vines.

"Ah... the prince returns, carrying the clumsy offerings of the King," Goldust purred from near a large stone basin, a soft, knowing smirk cutting through his gold and black face paint.

"He dropped them," Shawn said defensively, quickly setting the wild blossoms into a vase filled with fresh water. "They're uneven and mostly crushed."

"But they are alive," Goldust noted softly, walking over with a dramatic, fluid grace and gently touching one of the blue petals. "A warrior's hands can only break things, Shawn. For a King to pull life from the high rocks just to see a smile on your face... that is a different kind of conquest. The garden is growing more beautiful every day, my prince. Perhaps you should let your own walls thaw just a little."

Shawn looked away, staring at the wild blue flowers. His mind was a chaotic mess, trapped between the fierce pride that protected his deepest wounds and the undeniable, growing warmth of a rain-scented storm he wasn't sure he could fight much longer.

Later that night, the cold stone storage wing was filled with a different kind of energy. The single iron candelabra still cast long, dancing shadows, but the heavy silence of the previous nights was replaced by soft, anxious whispers and the rustle of loose clothing.

Sean stood in the center of the room, looking significantly more confident than he had a week ago. He had his wooden training dagger tucked into his belt, his posture straight. Beside him stood three other Omegas from the castle's lower ranks, looking absolutely terrified but desperately hopeful.

There was Jeff Hardy, a young stablehand with wild, colorful paint smudged around his eyes and a nervous, chaotic energy; Daniel Bryan, a quiet, highly technical kitchen helper who kept his gaze focused on the floor; and Bryan Kendrick, a sneaky, quick-eyed page who kept looking at the door to ensure they hadn't been followed.

When Shawn and Kevin Nash entered the room, the three new Omegas instantly dropped to their knees, preparing to bow to the southern prince.

"Stand up," Shawn commanded gently, a warm, proud smile breaking across his face as his rose scent filled the room with a welcoming, comforting aura. "In this room, there are no princes and no servants. We are only Omegas learning how to survive."

Kevin Nash leaned against a stone pillar, a low rumble of approval vibrating in his chest as his cedar wood scent mixed with Shawn's, creating a thick barrier of protection. "The Kid here tells me you guys want to learn how to drop an Alpha twice your size. Well, you came to the right place."

The class began immediately. Sean acted as Shawn's primary assistant, demonstrating the wrist-locks and leverage throws he had mastered over the past few days. To Shawn and Kevin's delight, the new students were incredibly eager. Jeff possessed a wild, untamed agility that allowed him to drop into unpredictable counters; Daniel Bryan had a brilliant, analytical mind that picked up on the technical angles of joints immediately; and Kendrick was incredibly fast, slipping out of holds like water. Shawn felt a deep, profound sense of fulfillment watching them. They weren't glass dolls anymore. They were learning to fight back.

Unbeknownst to the secret class, two shadows were perched perfectly still on a wooden beam high above the storage room, completely hidden by the darkness of the rafters.

It was Road Dogg and Billy Gunn. Because they were Betas, they released absolutely no pheromones, making them completely indetectable to Kevin Nash’s sharp Alpha senses and Shawn's Omega instincts. They were ghosts in the night, watching the entire training session with wide, analytical eyes.

Earlier that evening, the strange, secretive movements of the castle's Omegas had caught the attention of Batista and Randy Orton. Suspicious of a potential southern coup or spies lurking within the fortress, the two elite warriors had ordered the King's finest scouts to investigate the matter and report back immediately.

Up on the beam, Road Dogg nudged Billy with his elbow, a massive, silent grin spreading across his face as he watched Prince Shawn effortlessly flip the massive Kevin Nash onto a pile of hay mats to demonstrate a counter-move.

"Oh, you didn't know?" Road Dogg mouthed silently to Billy, his eyes twinkling with pure, chaotic amusement.

Billy Gunn merely shook his head, a deeply impressed smirk cutting through his rugged features. He had expected to find a nest of spies or an assassination plot. Instead, they had found a literal, clandestine combat school for the castle's most vulnerable inhabitants. The sheer technique the southern prince was demonstrating was breathtaking, clean, lethal, and perfectly designed to exploit an Alpha's arrogance.

When the class finally concluded and the Omegas began to slip away in pairs, the two Beta scouts dropped silently from the rafters into the corridor outside, completely unbothered by the dust.

"We ain't telling Hunter, right?" Road Dogg whispered, crossing his arms as they walked back toward the main barracks. "The boss is already losing his mind over a bouquet of crushed weeds. If he finds out his future husband is training an underground army of maids and stableboys, he’ll blow a fuse."

"Are you kidding?" Billy chuckled softly, his eyes scanning the torchlit hallway. "The prince has got serious talent. If those kids learn how to defend themselves, it means fewer broken bones in the lower courtyard for us to deal with. We keep this a secret. It's a Beta privilege."

An hour later, the New Age Outlaws entered the private war room where Batista and Randy Orton were waiting, drinking dark ale by the hearth.

"Well?" Orton sibilated, his viper-like green eyes narrowing as he tracked the scouts' entrance. He leaned forward, his sharp Alpha scent flaring with a demanding curiosity. "What did you find? Are the southerners plotting something behind the King's back?"

"Nah, completely dry, Lord Orton," Road Dogg said smoothly, waving a dismissive hand with his usual rhythmic swagger. "Just a bunch of fragile southern servants crying about the cold and hoarding extra wool blankets in the old cellar. Completely harmless. No spies, no daggers, just a lot of shivering."

Batista grunted, his massive shoulders relaxing slightly as he leaned back into his furs. "Good. The King has enough on his plate without having to execute his own staff."

Orton, however, didn't look entirely convinced. His eyes lingered on Billy Gunn, searching for a twitch, a lie, or a tell, but the Beta scouts were masters of deception, their faces remaining completely unreadable.

Sitting in the darker corner of the war room, seemingly focused on sharpening a hunting dagger, was Scott Hall. The tall, dark-haired warrior hadn't said a word during the interrogation, but as the Outlaws delivered their fake report, a slow, highly amused smirk played on his lips.

Scott had been watching the castle's movements too. He knew exactly how thick Kevin Nash’s cedar wood scent had been around that particular wing of the castle over the last few nights, and he knew Shawn Michaels wasn't the type of Omega to sit around and cry about a drafty room. He had a very clear, dangerous idea of what was actually happening down in those cellars.

As the Outlaws excused themselves, Scott stood up, sheathing his dagger with a sharp, metallic clink. The heavy golden chains around his neck jingled softly as he stretched his long arms.

"Well, if the little birds are just cold, I suppose I should go ensure the perimeter is secure," Scott drawled, casting a lazy, knowing wink at the New Age Outlaws as he passed them.

The morning sun had barely managed to pierce through the heavy summer haze when Bret made his way down the grand staircase. He was already fully dressed in his crisp, black bodyguard suit, the fabric feeling stiff and warm against his skin despite the mansion's powerful air conditioning.

When he entered the kitchen, Bret froze, momentarily caught off guard by the scene before him.

Shawn was sitting at the stainless-steel island, but he looked nothing like the ethereal Greek god by the pool or the sharp-tongued socialite from the dining room. He was wearing an incredibly simple, worn-out pair of flannel shorts and an oversized, faded Dallas Cowboys t-shirt that had clearly seen better decades. His long hair was messy, and his striking blue eyes looked heavy, blinking slowly in a state of deep, sluggish lethargy. He looked painfully young, almost small, in the cavernous kitchen. Rey was standing near him, speaking in a low, quiet murmur, and for a fleeting second, the atmosphere felt strangely cozy—like a real home.

The simplicity of the moment felt entirely wrong for the Layfield estate. Bret didn't know it yet, but these oversized shirts and quiet kitchen moments were Shawn’s only way of holding onto the ghost of the boy he used to be before JBL bought him.

The moment Bret’s heavy dress shoes clicked against the tile, the domestic warmth vanished. Rey instantly stopped talking, smoothing down his apron and shifting back into his formal posture. Shawn didn't look up, his fingers merely tracing the rim of his ceramic mug with a slow, mechanical rhythm. Bret figured the younger man was just bitter about having to wake up so early for work.

Before Bret could even pull out a chair, the heavy double doors swung open, and John Bradshaw Layfield strode into the room. He was already immaculate in a light gray suit, radiating the aggressive energy of a man ready to conquer a boardroom.

JBL didn't say good morning. Instead, he walked straight to Shawn, planting a heavy, possessive hand on the back of Shawn's neck. He leaned down, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to the side of Shawn's jaw.

"Behave yourself today," JBL whispered. His voice was quiet, but it rang out loud enough in the silent kitchen for everyone to hear it clearly. It wasn't a loving reminder; it was a command issued to a piece of property.

Shawn’s shoulders went rigid beneath the old Cowboys shirt, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't.

JBL straightened up, giving Bret a sharp, approving nod. "Mr. Hart. Keep a tight leash on him." With that, the billionaire checked his watch and marched out of the kitchen, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway until the front door slammed shut.The silence that followed was suffocating.

Suddenly, Shawn pushed himself up from the stool so abruptly that his knees rattled against the counter. He hadn't even touched his eggs, and his toast was barely nibbled on. He turned toward the door, his movements still carrying that strange, drug-induced heaviness.

"Shawn," Rey called out, his voice dropping into a soft, deeply worried, almost paternal tone. "You need to finish your breakfast. You barely ate anything last night."

Shawn didn't look back. He just threw a careless wave over his shoulder, his voice slipping back into that practiced, superficial drawl. "Can't, Rey. I have a major shoot today. You know how John gets if the merchandise isn't completely perfect. I need to keep the lines clean."

Bret watched Shawn disappear down the corridor, and a sharp prickle of irritation flared up in his chest. Growing up in the Hart household with eleven siblings, food was a luxury, and survival meant never leaving a single crumb on your plate. To Bret, wasting a perfectly good, freshly cooked meal because of vanity, because of a modeling shoot, felt like the epitome of a spoiled, ungrateful brat. He couldn't see the tragedy behind the words keep the lines clean. He only saw a rich kid playing games.

Rey let out a quiet, defeated sigh, reaching for Shawn's untouched plate to scrap the food into the trash.

"Don't throw it out, Rey," Bret said, stepping forward and stopping the butler with a gentle but firm look. "In my house, we don't believe in wasting food. If he's too good for it, I'll finish what he started."

As soon as Bret finished the last bite of Shawn’s discarded breakfast, Eddie appeared at the kitchen threshold. His posture was as fluid as ever, but the warm, conversational spark from the previous night's dinner was completely gone. He merely gave Bret a short nod, gesturing toward the front entrance.

Bret followed the chauffeur out to the grand foyer, the silence between them feeling heavy and uncomfortably tense. The easy camaraderie they had shared over homemade food just hours ago had vanished, replaced by an icy professionalism. Eddie looked relaxed on the surface, but his jaw was tight. Bret couldn’t begin to fathom what he had done to deserve the cold shoulder. After all, he had only done his job and ensured the household stayed orderly.

They stood by the heavy double doors for a few minutes until the click of designer boots echoed down the marble hallway.

When Shawn finally came into view, Bret felt his analytical security brain stall for the second time that day. The worn-out flannel shorts and faded Cowboys t-shirt were gone. In their place, Shawn was wearing an incredibly tight, revealing black mesh shirt that left little to the imagination, displaying his sculpted chest and arms for the world to see. It was paired with dark denim jeans, a heavy leather belt, and silver bracelets that caught the morning light. His long, honey-blond hair was brushed back, framing a face that was now completely blank, devoid of any of the playful, teasing energy from the pool.

He looked spectacular, a high-fashion model ready for the cameras, but to Bret, the outfit felt like an unnecessary, blatant provocation.

The journey to the photo studio was suffocating. Bret sat in the front passenger seat, while Shawn claimed the back, staring fixatedly out the tinted window. Shawn completely refused to look at Bret, treating his new shadow as if he were nothing more than a piece of empty furniture. Eddie kept his eyes glued to the road, his knuckles slightly white against the steering wheel, completely abandoning the upbeat radio tunes from the day before.

Through the front windshield, the shimmering summer heat made the asphalt look like liquid, but inside the car, the air was freezing.

As Bret adjusted his rearview mirror, he caught Eddie’s eyes. The chauffeur wasn't looking at him; he was throwing quick, deeply anxious, protective glances toward the backseat, monitoring Shawn through the glass. Every time the car hit a minor bump on the highway and Shawn subtly winced, shifting his weight to alleviate the pressure on his bad back, Eddie’s expression darkened with quiet, helpless worry.

Bret watched the interaction, his confusion deepening into a frustrated knot. If Shawn Michaels was truly the manipulative, reckless nightmare JBL claimed him to be, why was the driver looking at him with such profound, quiet sympathy? And why did Bret feel like the villain in a story he was only hired to secure?

He adjusted his sunglasses, staring straight ahead as the high-rise buildings of the city center began to loom in the distance. The gilded walls of the mansion were behind them, but the secrets inside this family were starting to feel like a trap.

The elevator ride up to the penthouse studio was brief, but it was all the time Shawn needed to shift gears. As the doors slid open, Bret watched the remaining traces of morning lethargy and quiet exhaustion vanish from the younger man. In a blink, the bold, untouchable posture of the Heartbreak Kid returned. Shawn threw his shoulders back, tilted his chin up, and slipped into the skin of the high-fashion commodity everyone expected him to be.

The studio itself was a chaotic world of white backdrops, flashing strobe lights, and clothes racks. Standing right in the center of it all was Ric Flair.

The billionaire designer was exactly as Bret remembered him from past security assignments: loud, flamboyant, and dripping with excessive wealth. He wore an expensive, custom silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and a pair of polished loafers that looked like they cost more than Bret’s entire protection agency.

"Shawn! My boy! The jewel of the campaign!" Flair’s booming voice echoed over the upbeat pop music playing in the background. He threw his arms wide, striding over to wrap a heavy, theatrical arm around Shawn’s shoulders. "Look at you! Absolute perfection!"

Bret’s analytical eyes caught the microscopic detail that everyone else missed. The very instant Flair’s hand clamped down onto his shoulder, Shawn’s body flinched. It was a minimal, almost invisible recoil, a tightening of his neck muscles, before he quickly forced a brilliant, blinding smile onto his face.

"Good to see you, Ric," Shawn purred, his voice carrying that practiced, effortless charm.

Flair didn't even blink in Bret’s direction. He guided Shawn toward the dressing rooms, completely ignoring the broad-shouldered man in the black suit walking a step behind them. Bret didn't care; he was entirely used to it. To men like Ric Flair, security guards were just expensive pieces of furniture. Part of the decor.

Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere was a whirlwind of hairspray and makeup brushes. Shawn was immediately guided into a leather chair in front of a massive, illuminated mirror. The man waiting for him was almost as eccentric as Flair himself.

He was tall, slender, and wore a sharp black outfit, but what caught Bret's attention was his face. The makeup artist had striking, metallic gold paint applied perfectly over his lips and around his eyes, shimmering under the vanity bulbs.

"Ah, Goldie," Shawn sighed, leaning his head back against the headrest and letting his fake smile soften into something a bit more familiar. "Tell me you can fix the dark circles today. John had me up early."

"For you, starlet? Always," the makeup artist replied, his voice carrying a theatrical, almost whispery cadence as he deftly picked up a concealer brush. "We’ll make you look like you slept on a bed of roses."

Bret stood silently near the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest as he adjusted his sunglasses. Goldie, he thought, staring at the glittering gold paint on the man's face. The nickname certainly made sense.

As he watched the golden brush stroke across Shawn's pale skin, Bret's mind drifted back to the tiny flinch Shawn had when Flair touched him. Combined with the memory of the spilled wine from last night, a cold, annoying sense of doubt began to creep back into Bret's mind. Shawn Michaels was a master at putting on a show, but Bret was starting to realize that the show was the only thing keeping him alive.

Once Goldie finished the meticulous retouches, Shawn disappeared behind the changing screens to slip into the actual collection. When he stepped back out, Bret had to admit the aesthetic was entirely different from the dark, tight mesh shirt. This was a high-end summer line, airy linen dress pants in crisp whites and earth tones, paired with loose, vibrantly patterned silk button-downs left open just enough to capture the breeze of the studio’s massive wind machines.

As the cameras began to flash, a sudden transformation overtook Shawn. Unlike the cold, brooding, or intensely dramatic stares Bret usually saw on magazine covers, Shawn flashed a brilliant, easy smile. It looked completely natural, radiating a magnetic warmth that instantly captured the entire room. Standing by the edge of the set, Bret finally understood: it wasn’t just Shawn’s breathtaking symmetry or his perfect jawline that kept him at the top of the modeling industry. It was his raw, unadulterated charisma. He knew exactly how to make a single frame feel alive.

However, Bret had never realized just how grueling a professional photoshoot actually was. He had assumed it would be a matter of minutes, snap a few pictures and go home. He was dead wrong.

For every single setup, Shawn had to freeze, holding highly specific, dynamic poses for what felt like agonizing stretches of time while the photographer circled him, adjusting angles and shouting instructions over the music. Bret, who spent hours in the gym lifting heavy iron and building dense muscle, found himself watching in absolute shock at the sheer physicality of the work.

Bret knew his own body inside and out, but he couldn't fathom holding half of the positions Shawn was effortlessly maintaining. Shawn stood with his arms stretched high over his head, muscles taut without an ounce of support, or twisted his torso at angles that would have instantly given Bret a crippling cramp. He went from posing on his knees on the hard floor, to standing perfectly balanced on a raised platform, to lounging in arched, unnatural shapes that made Bret’s own joints ache just by watching. It required a terrifying amount of core strength and endurance, especially under the brutal, heavy heat of the studio’s massive spotlights.

The kid is stronger than he looks, Bret thought, a quiet, begrudging sense of respect filtering through his usual stoicism. To do all of this with a bad back and knee... it’s insane.

Finally, after three hours of non-stop shooting under the blinding, suffocating glare of the lights, Flair raised his hands in the air, his booming voice cutting through the studio. "Alright, everyone! Take fifteen! Excellent work, starlet! Unbelievable!"

The moment the cameras stopped clicking, the dazzling, effortless smile vanished from Shawn's face like a ghost. His body practically collapsed onto the nearest cushioned chair, his shoulders slumping heavily as he let out a long, ragged exhale.

Goldie was on him in an instant, a soft powder puff in hand to deftly touch up the sweat beads glistening on Shawn's forehead and around his striking blue eyes, whispering quiet, soothing words that Bret couldn't quite catch over the ambient noise of the studio.

Seeing the sheer, draining exhaustion rolling off Shawn's shoulders, a rare impulse of sympathy tugged at Bret. He uncrossed his arms, intending to walk over to the cooler at the back of the room and grab a cold bottle of water for the younger man. But before he could even take a single step, the photographer was already beside Shawn’s chair, extending a condensation-covered bottle toward him.

Shawn looked up, and a genuine, soft smile broke through his tightly guarded expression. It wasn't the blinding, theatrical grin he gave the cameras, nor the biting, arrogant smirk he reserved for Bret. It was entirely real.

"Thanks, Mick," Shawn murmured, taking a slow sip.

Mick Foley smiled back, his warm, approachable nature acting like a shield against the artificial glamour of the studio. Shawn continued to chat in low, comfortable tones with Goldie and Mick, their voices a quiet hum beneath the loud studio music. Bret stood his ground near the shadow of the doorway, refusing to draw any closer. The memory of how Rey had instantly silenced himself in the kitchen when Bret walked in was still fresh in his mind. He knew his presence was an uninvited wall, a constant reminder of the leash around Shawn’s neck. He didn't want to ruin the only genuine comfort the kid seemed to have today.

When the fifteen minutes were up, Shawn pushed himself to his feet. Bret’s sharp eyes immediately caught the way Shawn’s bad knee caught, forcing him to limp slightly as he made his way back to the center of the pristine white backdrop. But the exact microsecond he crossed into the line of fire of the camera lens, the limp disappeared. The Heartbreak Kid persona was back online, seamless and untouchable.

Before Mick could look through the viewfinder, however, Ric Flair disrupted the rhythm.

The designer strode back onto the set, a wine glass clutched in his hand and an intensely suffocating, predatory energy radiating off him. "Wait, wait, Mick. Let's pivot," Flair commanded, his voice sliding into a sleazy, smooth purr that made the hairs on the back of Bret's neck stand up. "Lose the shirt, Shawn. Let’s focus entirely on the line of the linen pants. The silk is beautiful, but a bare chest sells summer like nothing else."

An immediate, icy chill swept through the room. Bret shifted on his feet, his jaw tightening as an intense wave of discomfort washed over him at Flair’s lingering, hungry gaze. He wasn't the only one who felt it. Shawn went completely rigid, his shoulders locking up in a micro-movement that only a seasoned bodyguard would catch. Across the set, Goldie’s hands clenched tightly around his powder brush, his glittering eyes boring a hole into Flair’s skull.

"I don't know, Ric," Mick Foley interjected, his tone dropping its usual warmth, sounding firm and highly protective as he stepped back from the camera. "We've got the clean lines we need with the silk open. Taking it off feels entirely unnecessary for this layout."

"I run the layout, Mick," Flair dismissed with a sharp, arrogant laugh. He stepped directly into Shawn’s personal space, completely erasing any boundary of professional courtesy. "Come on, starlet. Don't be shy. Let's give them what they want."

Flair reached out, his thick fingers grabbing the delicate silk of Shawn’s collar, starting to aggressively rip open the buttons.

Shawn froze entirely, his breathing shallow, his striking blue eyes widening in a sudden, terrifying paralyzing panic.

Bret didn't think. He didn't calculate the cost of his contract, nor did he remember JBL's orders about keeping a tight leash. Before his conscious mind could even process that he had moved, Bret was across the floor. His calloused, iron grip clamped down around Ric Flair’s wrist, stopping the designer's hand dead in its tracks just inches from Shawn’s bare chest.

For a brutal, agonizing moment, the two older men locked eyes. Bret’s gaze was an unyielding wall of stone, his expression murderous beneath his dark sunglasses. Flair’s bravado faltered, a flash of genuine, cowardly fear crossing his face before he forced out a nervous, strained laugh and pulled his hand back from Shawn's collar.

"Don't worry, pal," Flair said, adjusting his custom silk shirt, his voice tight and trembling slightly as he looked away from Bret’s imposing frame. "I wasn't going to hurt him."

Bret wanted to call him a liar. He wanted to drag the flamboyant billionaire off the set by his expensive collar. Shawn had been visibly, painfully uncomfortable, and Bret could smell a predator from a mile away. But as he instinctively turned to check on Shawn, the mask was already firmly locked back in place. Shawn’s face was smooth, his eyes clear of the panic from a second ago, though his fingers were still subtly trembling against the seam of his pants.

Bret didn't know the dark truth. He had no idea that Ric Flair and Vince McMahon were among the powerful, elite clients from Shawn’s past, the very men who had used his body as an exchangeable commodity before Flair eventually introduced the young, desperate escort to John Bradshaw Layfield. To Bret, it just looked like a rich boss pushing an employee too far.

Shawn took a slow, calculated breath, leaning back against a white pillar with a lazy, teasing tilt of his head to break the paralyzing tension. "Tell you what, Ric," Shawn drawled, his voice a perfect facsimile of his cocky persona. "Instead of losing the shirt entirely, let's just leave it completely unbuttoned. Gives them the tease without giving away the whole farm. What do you think?"

Flair’s eyes lit up, his ego instantly soothed by the suggestion. "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Let's do that! Mick, set it up!"

As Flair turned back to yell instructions at the crew, Shawn’s gaze flicked over to Bret. It lasted for less than a heartbeat, but beneath the heavy studio lights, Shawn threw a quiet, profoundly grateful look directly at his new shadow.

Bret didn't smile back. He merely stepped back into the shadows of the studio, his hands clasped behind his back, a bitter, rancid taste settling in his mouth. He could see right through the compromise. Shawn hadn't made that suggestion because he wanted to be playful; he had bartered a piece of himself just to maintain the absolute bare minimum of his human dignity.

Night had finally fallen over the estate, bringing a cool, quiet stillness that contrasted sharply with the oppressive heat of the day. John Bradshaw Layfield had returned from his corporate meetings an hour ago, promptly dismissing Bret from his immediate duties for the evening.

Taking the opportunity to get his bearings, Bret made his way down to the spacious, stainless-steel kitchen. There, he found Eddie and Rey preparing a quiet dinner for themselves. The atmosphere in the kitchen was warm and vastly more welcoming than the rest of the cold mansion. The three men sat down together, sharing a simple meal and exchanging light conversation about their backgrounds. Bret found himself relaxing a little, though he could still sense a careful boundary between the chauffeur and the butler. They were warm, but guarded.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the heavy oak doors, the grand dining room was suffocatingly tense.

Shawn sat across from JBL at the massive mahogany table, the distance between them feeling more like a chasm. He could practically feel the waves of tightly coiled rage radiating from his husband. Unable to stomach the oppressive silence any longer, Shawn set his fork down, leaning back with a mask of cool indifference.

"Is something the matter, John?" Shawn asked, his voice ringing out relatively loud in the cavernous room.

In a flash, JBL lunged across the corner of the table, his thick fingers wrapping around Shawn’s wrist with bruising force. Shawn flinched, a cold spike of fear shooting through him, but years of survival instinct kicked in instantly. He forced his trademark bravado into his eyes, tilting his chin up defiantly.

"Careful, John," Shawn whispered, his voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "I have a photoshoot tomorrow. You wouldn't want to damage the merchandise."

JBL’s face contorted with fury. He slammed his free fist onto the table with a deafening crack, sending his wine glass toppling over. Dark red liquid spilled across the white linen cloth like blood.

"I think it's time for your medicine," JBL snarled, letting go of Shawn's wrist only to stand up and pull the orange pill bottle from his pocket. He rattled it aggressively before slamming a single pill onto Shawn's plate.

Shawn was feeling a dangerous spark of defiance tonight. He knew JBL’s patterns; he knew the billionaire couldn't afford to leave visible marks on him before a major modeling campaign. Feeling a rare, fleeting sense of leverage, Shawn snatched the pill, threw it directly onto the hardwood floor, and stood up to storm out of the room.

"You ungrateful little piece of trash!" JBL roared. He grabbed Shawn by the shoulder and shoved him hard.

Shawn’s bad knee buckled beneath him, and he hit the floor with a sharp, choked cry of pain, his hands scrambling against the polished wood.

The commotion echoed down the hallway, instantly putting Bret on high alert back in the kitchen. Dropping his fork, Bret reacted on pure instinct, pushing through the dining room doors with his hand instinctively reaching for the inside of his jacket.

But when he burst into the room, the scene before him had already shifted.

Shawn was on his knees, looking flushed and breathing heavily, while JBL stood over him, holding another pill tightly between his fingers. To an outside observer who didn't know the truth, it didn't look like an assault. It looked exactly like what JBL had warned him about: a volatile young man throwing a dangerous tantrum over his medication.

The moment JBL noticed Bret’s presence, the billionaire’s posture softened seamlessly. He let out a heavy, theatrical sigh of exhaustion, adjusting his cuffs as he looked down at Shawn with an expression of manufactured, paternal worry.

"Ah, Mr. Hart. I'm sorry you had to witness this," JBL said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "As I told you, Shawn can become incredibly erratic when he refuses his treatments. He just threw his dosage on the floor."

Bret looked from JBL's calm facade down to Shawn, who was still on the floor, his blue eyes wide and burning with a mixture of rage and humiliation. Remembering the strict orders JBL had given him in the office, and the memory of how his father used a firm hand to keep order, Bret stepped forward. He truly believed he was helping keep a self-destructive man safe.

"Mr. Michaels," Bret said, his voice dropping into a firm, unyielding tone as he stood beside JBL. "Your husband is only trying to look out for your health. You need to take the medication. Let's not make this harder than it needs to be."

Shawn looked up at Bret, and for a fraction of a second, the cocky persona completely shattered. A look of profound, agonizing betrayal crossed Shawn's face. He realized right then that his new bodyguard was just another wall closing in on him.

With Bret’s imposing, broad-shouldered frame blocking his only exit, Shawn knew he had lost. His shoulders slumped in defeat. Without a word, he snatched the pill from JBL’s fingers, threw it into the back of his throat, and swallowed it dry.

He didn't wait for either of them to speak. Shawn pushed himself up from the floor, ignoring the sharp ache in his knee, and stormed out of the room, slamming the heavy oak doors behind him.

Once the heavy oak doors stopped rattling from Shawn’s exit, the suffocating silence of the dining room returned. JBL let out a long, theatrical breath, running a hand over his face to smooth down his features before turning back to Bret.

"Thank you, Mr. Hart," JBL said, his voice returning to that calculated, jovial corporate tone. He stepped closer and gave Bret’s shoulder a firm, appreciative squeeze. "That is exactly why I hired the Hitman. Firm, professional, and no nonsense. I’m glad to know I can count on you to keep this household stable."

With a final, satisfied nod, the tycoon turned and left the room, his heavy steps fading down the hall.

Bret stood alone by the ruined dining table, his eyes instinctively dropping to the dark red wine stain bleeding into the white tablecloth. As he turned around to head back to his quarters, he froze. Rey and Eddie were standing near the kitchen entrance. They hadn't stepped inside the room, but they had clearly seen everything. Their expressions were tight, their eyes carrying a heavy, unreadable weight that made Bret’s chest tighten. Before Bret could say a word, Rey quietly looked down, grabbing a clean cloth to tend to the spilled wine, while Eddie offered Bret a short, uncharacteristically cold nod before turning away.

Feeling a strange, unplaceable discomfort, Bret made his way up the grand staircase to the eastern wing.

Inside his new bedroom, he finally forced himself to unpack. He focused on the quiet, repetitive rhythm of the task to calm his racing mind. He folded his shirts with military precision, hung his jackets in the massive cedar closet, and neatly aligned his boots. Finally, he reached into the bottom of his duffel bag and pulled out a framed, slightly worn photograph. It was a picture of the whole Hart family from happier times, his mother smiling softly, his father looking proud, and Owen grinning like a kid. Bret placed it carefully on the nightstand right beside the bed, anchoring himself back to his reality. He was doing this for them.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Bret opened the laminated folder JBL had given him to review tomorrow's schedule.

Shawn had an early photoshoot. Bret instantly recognized the name of the high-end luxury fashion brand running the campaign: The Nature Boy Line. The owner was Ric Flair, a flamboyant billionaire businessman whose security detail Bret’s agency had handled a couple of times in the past. Bret had never particularly liked Flair, the man was far too loud, arrogant, and lived a life of excessive, theatrical opulence, but Bret shook his head. Flair's personality wasn't his problem. His only problem was keeping Shawn Michaels secure.

Bret turned off the bedside lamp and pulled the heavy sheets over his shoulders, closing his eyes. He expected sleep to come easy after such a grueling day, but the darkness of the room offered no respite.

Every time he closed his eyes, Shawn's face appeared in his mind.

It wasn't the arrogant, mocking smile he saw, but the fractured look that followed. 

The way Shawn’s blue eyes had widened, looking genuinely shattered and deeply hurt when Bret stepped in to enforce JBL's orders. It hadn't looked like the anger of a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum. It had looked like the quiet, agonizing betrayal of someone who realized they were utterly alone.

The sterile smell of antiseptic and the rhythmic, hollow beep of the heart monitor always made Bret’s chest tighten. He sat on a stiff plastic chair next to Owen’s hospital bed, watching his younger brother shift uncomfortably beneath the thin white sheets. Owen looked paler than usual, the shadow of pain still lingering around his eyes, but his gaze remained sharp as Bret finished explaining the terms of his new contract.

Owen fell silent for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling tiles. "Layfield Enterprises," he murmured, his voice slightly raspy. "I don’t know, Bret. A guy like John Bradshaw Layfield doesn't just throw that kind of money around out of the goodness of his heart. Paying for dad’s hospice and my entire recovery? It sounds... wrong. Too easy."

"There's nothing easy about it," Bret answered, keeping his voice low and steady. "I’ll be moving into his estate. Twenty-four-seven protection for his husband."

Owen turned his head, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "For Shawn? But Vince always said Shawn Michaels was just a high-maintenance socialite. A troublemaker, sure, but why does he need a full-time shadow like you? JBL has enough security guards to secure a small country. Why come to the Hitman Protection Agency?"

"Because he knows we’re discreet," Bret said, though deep down, the same questions had been keeping him awake all night. He forced a reassuring smile, leaning forward to pat Owen’s uninjured shoulder. "Don't overthink it, Owen. The money is real. The first check already cleared, and Martha doesn't have to worry about the hospital bills anymore. That's all that matters right now. I need you to focus on getting better."

Owen searched Bret’s face, looking for any sign of hesitation. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping. "Alright. But promise me you’ll watch your back, Bret. Millionaires like Layfield... they usually own the law around here. If something goes sideways, you won't have a safety net."

"I’m the Hitman, remember?" Bret replied dryly, standing up as the visiting hours came to a close. "Safety nets are for the other guys."

An hour later, Bret stood in the driveway of Owen’s suburban home, the heavy summer air pressing down on him once again. His two weathered duffel bags, containing the sparse remains of his thirty-six years of life, sat on the pavement next to a sleek, immaculate black car.

Martha stood beside him on the porch, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, a mixture of profound relief and quiet sadness. "You don't have to be a stranger just because you're living behind those fancy gates, Bret," she said, her voice catching slightly. "You come visit us the second you get a day off. This guest room isn't going anywhere."

"I will, Martha. Thank you. For everything," Bret said softly.

Before he could say anything else, two small streaks of energy erupted from the front door. His niece and nephew threw themselves at his legs, burying their faces into his heavy denim jeans. Bret melted instantly, dropping to his knees to wrap his strong arms around them, holding them tight. He breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of laundry detergent and home, a sharp contrast to the cold corporate world he was about to enter.

"Take care of your mom," Bret whispered into his nephew's hair, giving them both one last squeeze before standing back up.

A throat cleared politely behind him. Bret turned to see Eddie Guerrero standing by the trunk of the car. The chauffeur wore a crisp, dark uniform, but his posture was relaxed, a silver cross glinting against his open collar. He gave Bret a sympathetic, knowing look as he hoisted the heavy duffel bags into the trunk with practiced ease.

"Take your time," Eddie said, his voice carrying a soft, warm cadence. "The boss is a stickler for the clock, but family is family. I can stretch the speed limit a little on the way back."

Bret nodded, offering a grateful look. He turned back to give Martha one final nod, then slid into the cool, air-conditioned leather interior of the backseat. As Eddie closed the door with a solid, definitive thud, Bret looked out the tinted window, watching his family wave from the porch.

He took a deep breath, adjusting the collar of his black jacket, and watched the only home he had left disappear in the rearview mirror.

As the car glided onto the highway, the steady hum of the tires against the asphalt and the cool blast of the air conditioner provided a welcome relief from the oppressive summer heat. Through the rearview mirror, Bret noticed Eddie’s relaxed posture. He held the steering wheel loosely with one hand, occasionally tapping his fingers to a faint, upbeat rhythm coming from the radio.

There was an easy, approachable charm to the chauffeur. Bret, who had spent a lifetime reading people’s body language for security purposes, instantly recognized that Eddie lacked the stiff, artificial coldness usually found in the staff of ultra-wealthy executives. For a brief second, Bret found himself thinking that under different, less desperate circumstances, the two of them could have actually been good friends.

Hoping to gather some intel before arriving at his new post, Bret leaned forward slightly. "So, Eddie... how long have you been driving for Mr. Layfield?"

"A few years now," Eddie answered smoothly, checking his blind spot. "It’s a steady gig. Keeps the roof over my family’s head, you know? Can’t complain."

Bret nodded, pausing for a moment before pushing a bit further. "And what about his husband? Mr. Layfield mentioned Shawn can be... a handful."

Bret braced himself, expecting Eddie to roll his eyes or let out a frustrated sigh. In Bret's experience, when a powerful boss complained about a spoiled, high-maintenance spouse, the domestic staff was usually more than eager to quietly validate those complaints to a newcomer. Bret had already formed a very specific picture of Shawn Michaels in his mind: a pampered, erratic twenty-eight-year-old who probably threw tantrums over the slightest inconvenience and ran crying to his billionaire husband whenever something didn't go his way.

But Eddie didn't take the bait. His expression didn't change, and his tone remained entirely neutral, almost carefully guarded.

"Mr. Shawn keeps to himself mostly," Eddie replied quietly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "He’s got his own routine. Rey and I, we just do our jobs and make sure he gets where he needs to go safely. It’s better that way."

Bret leaned back against the leather seat, his eyebrows knitting together in subtle confusion. It was strange. Eddie didn't sound resentful or annoyed; if anything, there was a faint trace of caution in the way he spoke about Shawn. Bret wondered if Eddie was simply terrified of JBL's reach. After all, if the boss had enough influence to put a previous bodyguard in prison, any employee with half a brain would know better than to gossip about the family to a new hire.

He’s probably just covering his own track, Bret thought, letting the silence settle back into the car.

He closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself for what lay ahead. If Shawn Michaels truly was the spoiled, dramatic nightmare JBL claimed him to be, Bret would just have to grit his teeth, play the role of the unyielding shadow, and count the days until his family was fully recovered. He could handle a bratty trophy husband. He had handled worse.

But as the car finally slowed down, turning off the main highway and toward the exclusive, private hills where the Layfield estate sat, the uneasy knot in Bret’s stomach returned, refusing to be ignored.

The limousine finally came to a halt in the grand, cobblestone driveway of the Layfield estate. The sheer scale of the mansion was dizzying, a towering monument of pristine white stone, well maintained hedges, and security cameras tracking every movement.

As Eddie opened the door, Bret stepped out into the humid air, adjusting his dark jacket. Before him stood Rey, the butler. Rey wore a crisp, tailored suit and greeted Bret with a polite, formal nod. He wasn’t as overtly relaxed as Eddie, but he lacked the cold, robotic rigidity that Bret usually associated with the staff of ultra-wealthy executives. As Eddie walked around to grab the duffel bags from the trunk, Bret noticed a brief, subtle look exchanged between the two men. Bret couldn't quite put his finger on it yet, but there was a deep sense of trust between the chauffeur and the butler.

"Welcome to the Layfield estate, Mr. Hart," Rey said, his voice polite and smooth. "I can show you to your quarters in the eastern wing so you can unpack your belongings, and then…"

A booming, commanding voice cut through the driveway, instantly shifting the atmosphere. John Bradshaw Layfield strode through the grand double doors of the mansion. His navy blue suit jacket was unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened, and his face carried the tight, flushed tension of a man who had spent the last hour screaming at someone over a phone. The moment his eyes landed on Bret, however, the mask slid back into place. His posture straightened, and a sharp, businesslike grin cut through his features.

"Leave the bags with Eddie, Rey. The tour can wait," JBL ordered, gesturing for Bret to follow him. "Hitman, with me. We need to go over the final details."

Bret offered a quick, apologetic nod to Rey, who merely gave a quiet, understanding bow of his head, before following the billionaire into the cavernous, air-conditioned foyer.

JBL led him past soaring ceilings and gold-leafed arches, straight into a massive, mahogany-paneled home office. The air inside was freezing, smelling of expensive cigars and old leather. JBL walked straight to his heavy desk, gesturing for Bret to stand across from him as he pulled a crisp laminated folder and a translucent orange pill bottle from a drawer.

"Let’s get straight to the point, Hart," JBL said, tossing the folder onto the desk. "Inside, you’ll find Shawn's complete schedule. Despite my better judgment, he still does some modeling work. You will accompany him to every single photoshoot. You will also find a list of my corporate and social events. Shawn’s presence is required at all of them. He is my husband, and I expect him to look the part."

Bret glanced at the schedule, noting the tight timeline. "And when he doesn't have an official engagement?"

"You keep him inside this house," JBL snapped, his tone sharp and unyielding, though he quickly masked it with a heavy sigh of theatrical exhaustion. "It’s for his own safety, you understand. The boy is impulsive. He doesn't understand the dangers of the world out there, especially not now."

JBL picked up the pill bottle, setting it down heavily on top of the schedule. "Which brings us to this. Shawn’s medication. He takes these throughout the day, on a strict schedule. If he skips a dose, his anxiety flares up, and he becomes completely erratic. You ensure he swallows them. No exceptions."

Bret stared at the bottle, his brow furrowing slightly. "Is he ill?"

JBL’s face darkened, a flash of genuine anger crossing his eyes before he settled into a calculated look of grim resentment. "He’s traumatized, Mr. Hart. And he’s volatile. I believe in full transparency. If you're going to protect my home, you need to know about Kevin Nash."

Bret straightened, his internal radar instantly pinging at the name of the previous bodyguard.

"Nash was a wolf in sheep's clothing," JBL hissed, leaning his heavy hands on the desk. "I trusted that bastard with my husband's life. Instead, the piece of trash kidnapped Shawn. Held him for ransom. And when Nash realized the police had him cornered and that he wasn't going to get away with a single dime, he beat Shawn. Almost crippled the poor boy before they dragged him away." JBL let out a bitter, disgusted laugh. "The justice system in this country is a joke, Hart. Nash only got a fraction of the sentence he deserved, and I just found out he’s being released from prison. That's why I hired your agency so desperately. The thought of that monster being out there has left Shawn a nervous wreck. It ruined his head. He was never an easy man to deal with, but after the kidnapping, he's gotten ten times worse."

Bret listened intently, his professional stoicism keeping his face completely blank. The story made sense on paper: a rich man protecting his fragile, traumatized spouse from a vengeful ex-convict. It explained the heavy security, the lockdown, and the medication. Yet, something about the sheer venom in JBL's voice, the way he spoke of Shawn’s trauma less with sympathy and more with profound annoyance, made the hairs on the back of Bret's neck stand up.

"I understand, Mr. Layfield," Bret said quietly. "Kevin Nash won't get anywhere near him. I can promise you that."

"Good," JBL said, the tight tension finally leaving his shoulders as he checked his gold Rolex. "Now that we have the rules established, it's time you actually meet the headache you'll be dealing with. He’s out by the pool."

JBL turned, leading Bret through a set of French doors at the back of the office. They stepped out onto a massive marble patio that overlooked a shimmering, Olympic-sized infinity pool.

As they walked down the marble steps toward the sun-drenched patio, Bret’s eyes locked onto the figure lounging by the water. He had seen a few headshots of Shawn in the file JBL provided, but he hadn't paid them much attention, focusing strictly on the logistics.

Now, he realized that a simple photograph couldn't possibly do the man justice.

As Shawn stood up from the lounge chair, stretching like a cat under the blazing sun, Bret felt the air leave his lungs for a split second. Shawn looked less like a corporate spouse and more like a Greek god sculpted from marble and golden tan. His long, honey-blond hair fell effortlessly around his shoulders, and his lean, cut physique explained exactly why Layfield was so obsessively protective, and why the modeling industry refused to let him go.

"Shawn," JBL’s booming voice broke the silence, though his tone had a tight, warning edge to it. "This is Bret Hart. He is the new head of your protection detail. He will be…"

Before JBL could even finish the sentence a lazy, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of Shawn’s lips as his blue eyes swept over Bret’s heavy jeans and stoic expression.

"So," Shawn purred, his voice dripping with smooth, calculated sarcasm. "This is the new babysitter."

"Shawn," JBL reprimanded, his voice dropping into a low, quiet hiss that promised retribution later.

Shawn didn't seem to care. Instead, he took a step forward, completely erasing the distance between them and invading Bret’s personal space. Bret stood frozen, his professional training warring with the sudden, overwhelming proximity of the younger man. Shawn reached out, his long fingers pressing firmly against the center of Bret’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the damp blue shirt. Then, slowly, almost clinically, Shawn’s hand slid down, his fingers gripping and squeezing Bret’s bicep, testing the hard muscle beneath the fabric.

Shawn let out a soft, amused hum, locking eyes with Bret. "You'll do," he murmured, before stepping back with a playful wink.

Behind them, JBL looked as if he were about to burn Shawn alive with his gaze. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles jumped, but he forced his public mask back on, clearing his throat loudly.

"Now that you two are acquainted, I have business to attend to in the city," JBL said, his voice stiff. He gave Bret a pointed, heavy look. "Remember your duties, Mr. Hart."

Without another word, the billionaire turned on his heel and strode back into the mansion.

Once Layfield was gone, Rey stepped onto the patio, offering Bret a sympathetic, quiet nod. The butler gave Bret a quick, functional tour of the sprawling estate, showing him the security monitors, the kitchen, and finally, his bedroom in the eastern wing. It was a spacious, luxurious room, but Bret barely looked at it. Deciding he would unpack his duffel bags later tonight, he immediately shifted into business mode.

He stripped out of his sweat-stained clothes, took a rushed cold shower, and put on the dark, tailored bodyguard suit that felt like an armor of professionalism.

Ten minutes later, Bret walked back out onto the pool patio. The sun was starting to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the water. Shawn was in the pool now, his smooth strokes cutting through the crystal-clear water with effortless grace.

Bret stood at the edge of the patio, his hands clasped behind his back, his sunglasses hiding his eyes as he watched his new assignment. The physical attraction had been an unexpected shock, but Bret forced it down, burying it deep beneath his years of discipline. He was here to save his father and brother. That was it.