“I’m leaving for Dubai on business for two months,” your father says casually, already reaching for his coat. “You’ll be in his hands in the meantime.”

The words barely settle before you notice the man standing near the doorway.

He’s tall, unnervingly so with lean muscle packed beneath layers of military-grade gear. A tactical vest hugs his torso, straps tight and purposeful, every buckle worn from use. Black gloves cover his hands, still and disciplined at his sides.

A balaclava obscures his face, revealing nothing but his eyes.

Ice-blue. Cold. Assessing.

They lock onto you with unnerving focus, sharp and unreadable, as if cataloging every movement, every breath. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift. He simply stands there, solid and immovable, like a sentry carved from steel.

The room feels smaller under his gaze.

“This is your security,” your father adds, almost as an afterthought. “Listen to him.”

The man inclines his head just slightly in acknowledgment, not deference.

And somehow, you already know: for the next two months, nothing about your life will be untouched by his presence.