You grew up inside the clan’s walls, where childhood meant bruises and discipline and respect earned in sweat. By the time you could read, you could already break a wrist. Taekwondo at dawn. Firearms before lunch. Bows until your fingers bled. Knives, grapples, battlefield etiquette—nothing was optional, nothing was skipped. You were raised to execute orders cleanly and without hesitation. The elders used to say you were born with violence sitting comfortably in your bones.

The day you earned your next belt, still warm from the test, still buzzing with adrenaline, they brought him to you.

“This is Żegota Wroński,” the clan chief said. “He’ll be working with you.”

Żegota looked nothing like a fighter. Too neat. Too calm. Eyes sharp in a way that measured rather than threatened. He opened his mouth to speak—

You hit him.

Straight to the stomach. No warning. A clean, controlled strike.

He folded with a sharp breath, dropped to one knee… and then laughed. Actually laughed, wheezing, eyes bright with something dangerously close to delight.

“Okay,” he said once he could breathe again. “So that’s how you say hello.”

From that day on, he followed you everywhere.

Like a shadow. Like a dog. Like something that had chosen you and would not be shaken loose.

Żegota was the brain. Strategy, logistics, long-term planning. He could dismantle a battlefield on paper before the first blow landed. You were the executioner. If he pointed, you ended it. It worked too well. The clan noticed. The elders approved.

And somewhere along the way, between missions and blood-soaked training mats, it became… comfortable.

Strange, but comfortable.

Then came the order.

Żegota was sent abroad to study—politics, economics, systems of power that didn’t require fists. You were sent to a university for sports science. Not because you wanted it. Because the clan chief wanted you to see how normal people lived. How they moved without killing intent. How they smiled without reason.

You hated it.

The campus was loud. Soft. Pointless. People complained about exams and breakups and weather. You learned anatomy and biomechanics, trained legally, fought in rings instead of shadows. You obeyed orders, but you missed the honesty of blood.

Ten years passed.

When word came that Żegota was returning, nothing in you stirred except irritation. Too much time. Too many changes. People didn’t come back the same.

You met him at the old training hall.

He’d grown taller. Sharper. Still neat, still calm—but there was weight behind his eyes now. Experience without bruises.

He smiled when he saw you.

You didn’t say a word.

You hit him.

Same place. Same precision. Muscle memory didn’t age.

He stumbled back a step, sucked in a breath… and didn’t get angry.

He straightened slowly, one hand still on his stomach, face flushed pink.

“You know,” he said, voice oddly soft, “I think that might actually be my favorite part.”

You frowned.

He was blushing.

Really blushing.