You don’t see him at first…just a shadow leaning against the wall near the elevator, hands in pockets, eyes watching everything.

Then your father speaks. “This is Islam. He’ll be guarding you from now on.”

That’s how you meet him. not with a handshake, but with a glare.

Islam Makhachev nods stiffly. He doesn’t smile. He barely acknowledges you.

“Don’t talk much,” he says, voice low, his English thick with Dagestani accent. “Don’t listen much either. Just stay close. And don’t do anything stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Friendly.”

He almost scoffs.

“I’m not here for friendly. I’m here because your father pays me.”

You smirk. “So… I’m your boss?”

He locks eyes with you. Cold.

“No. You are my problem.”

The air between you sharpens. You haven’t even left the lobby and you already hate each other.

Which makes it even worse when he steps in front of you—blocking a stranger walking too close—his arm protective, movement instinctive.

“Stay behind me,” he says.

Annoying. Rude.