CHAPTER 473: CHAPTER 473: WHAT DID I SIGN UP FOR (PART 3)

Don stayed still as Red Star rose. His eyes scanned her frame, searching for the micro-flickers of muscle that would signal an attack. Nothing came.

Instead, she lifted one hand to her hip, posture loose, then snapped her head to the side. Her dark hair, undone from its once strict tie, whipped outward with such force it cracked against the air.

Snap~

The sound echoed like a wire pulled taut and broken. A faint wave rippled outward, brushing Don’s skin as though her hair was less fiber and more alloy.

Her gaze cut to him, measuring. "Not bad, malchik. You have good potential."

Her mouth pulled slightly, not a smile but an annoyance as she spat to the side. "Tsk. Is shame you want to waste it in America."

Don said nothing. He rolled one shoulder, then stretched his arms across his chest, loosening muscles gone tight from the exchange. Part of him hoped that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Red Star’s eyes remained fixed on him. "With your structure and output, three paths stand open." She began walked forward and began to circle him, bare feet steady on the alloy floor.

"One," she raised a finger as she passed his side, "is to become a Shadow. A killer who strikes from behind and ends fights before they start." Her tone flattened further. "Coward’s path. For weak men who fear real contest."

Don’s brow twitched faintly, but he kept his stance balanced, watching her shift behind him.

"Two," she continued, her voice cutting closer to his ear, "is tactician. Pure fighter in tandem with your telekinesis. Use mind and body together to trap, disarm, and crush. Effective. But not here." She flicked her hand dismissively, though her eyes didn’t leave him. "That training belongs in labs, not my floor."

Don tracked her with the edge of his sight as she came full circle, now standing in front of him again. Her hand came down lightly against his abdomen, palm pressing against the ridged muscle. She didn’t linger, didn’t break her tone.

"Three," she said, voice firm, "is vanguard. Brutal, direct, efficient. You take pain, you return worse. You split enemy lines, you crush resistance. This is where you belong."

Her hand fell back to her side as she stepped away, pacing again. "Training will be fierce. You will learn martial arts until your body knows them as breathing. More than that—you will chase attuned mastery."

Don’s eyes narrowed faintly. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She stopped then, gaze hard. "As superhuman, fight long enough, skill becomes instinct. But attuned mastery is beyond that. When enemy moves in style you know, your body answers before thought. You counter, you crush."

Her voice dropped to a near-growl. "Every time you look at someone, you already see ways to kill them. Not one way. Countless."

Her steps carried her behind him again. He shifted his weight subtly, not relaxing. His eyes followed every hint of her movement, his muscles tight.

"You can become titan among men," she said, reappearing in front of him, arms folding across her chest. "A real man."

Don didn’t flinch when she leaned closer, her eyes locking directly into his. "You still have your guard up?" She tilted her head, expression unreadable. Then, quietly—"Good."

Not even a second after speaking, Red Star’s face shifted back into a grin. She pulled away, and Don felt it—the faintest shift in the air around her. His body reacted before his mind caught up.

pa~

A vicious upward kick ripped the space between them.

bam—!

His arms came up just in time, the blow slamming against his guard. The force tore him off his feet, sending him skidding backward across the alloyed floor. His heels dug trenches of condensation before he ground to a stop.

Don lowered his arms slowly, gaze fixed on her. She hadn’t even shifted her stance much—just one hand resting lazily on her hip, her chest still rising in calm rhythm.

"We shall continue training when you know the path you want to take." Her voice was flat, decisive. "For now, get dressed and leave. We meet again here, in the morning. Two days from now."

She didn’t even face him as she spoke. Her back was already half-turned, stretching her limbs like the whole exchange had been nothing more than a warm-up.

Don finally let out the breath he’d been holding. His eyes dropped—his clothes lay on the ground where he’d landed. Coincidence? No. She’d kicked him into them deliberately. A reminder of the gap between them.

He sighed once more and raised a hand.

The garments lifted from the alloy floor, drawn by his telekinetic will. The fabric was a wreck—damp, stiffened by heat, patches singed faintly at the edges.

His shirt was limp, its seams warped from rapid temperature swings. His jeans looked worse, creases hardened as though ironed in by a merciless hand.

’Perfect. Training attire next time.’

He gathered the bundle against his chest and turned toward the door. One last look at Red Star—still stretching, already treating him as dismissed.

"Open doors," she commanded without effort.

"Conditions within acceptable range," the digital tone responded overhead. "Releasing."

The alloy groaned, parting. Don stepped out, no fanfare. The instant he cleared the frame, her eyes cut sideways at him, just once. A scoff left her lips—half amusement, half dismissal—before she turned back, lifting her hands to fix her hair into some form of order.

The doors closed behind him with a resounding chnnk~, sealing her away.

Don looked around, letting the corridor’s quiet press into him. The metal, the endless cameras, the distant muffled booms from somewhere deeper in the compound. He let out another sigh.

’Better get used to this sight, too.’

He didn’t bother pulling on the ruined clothes. Instead, he followed the overhead signs until he reached a locker room marked with utilitarian lettering.

Several minutes later, steam drifted from the showers. Don stood with a towel around his waist, phone in one hand, the other working a towel through his damp hair. Drops pattered against the tile, echoing faintly.

The bathroom was nothing like the campus above. Everything was squared and harsh—gray partitions, metal benches, drains wide enough to swallow a limb. Practical. Unwelcoming.

On his screen, Gary’s name lit across a string of unread messages. Don thumbed through them as he dried his hair.

Good afternoon, sir. One of our surveillance teams has uncovered something rather interesting.

Attached files followed.

The first: a woman in a high-end coat, sunglasses drawn low, posture composed.

The second: the front of a hotel—Cityscape Regency—glass façade, all angles and shine.

The third: a zoomed capture of a unit balcony. The woman from before. With her—a man, features partly obscured.

The next image: her leaving alone.

Then, another shot—an SUV pulling in, shadowed heavily by bodyguards.

Don swiped, the towel dragging across his head.

The video feed that followed was grainier. A parking garage. The SUV doors opened, guards scanning the area, one speaking into an earpiece. A moment later, the passenger emerged.

Shades pulled free.

Harold Barclay.

He spoke briefly to one of the men before striding toward a Maybach S-Class. The footage cut as the car pulled away.

Don’s brows furrowed deep. His thumb swiped to the next message.

Surveillance team is tracking the woman now. Will have an update soon.

He typed back quickly. Alright. Thanks for the update.

The phone dimmed as he let it drop to his side. His other hand dragged the towel slow through his hair. The room hummed faintly with the sound of pipes, water still dripping from the showers, pooling at his bare feet.

Don stood in the space silently, phone in hand, thoughts heavier than the steam that clung to the mirrors.