Lazar had been born in a place where childhood innocence wasn't a luxury, but a liability. Naivety? Ignorance? Those were sins, not traits. From day one, life served him chaos on a silver platter with a side of toxicity, and nobody bothered to offer a fork.
But then came the old man. Cold, blunt, and the kind of strict that came with open-palm slaps for punctuation. At first glance, he looked like a relic from a time when emotional intelligence was considered witchcraft, all sharp edges and zero softness. A walking, breathing don't-fuck-it-up alarm.
And yet... he was the first person who gave Lazar a real shot.
There were no bedtime stories, no warm hugs, no "I'm proud of you" moments. What he offered instead was a kind of honesty so brutal it scraped your insides raw, and a loyalty that didn't need to be declared out loud to be felt. He was fair, in the old-school, rough-around-the-edges way that made Lazar feel like he had a voice. Like his opinions mattered.
And most of all, he was the first person Lazar ever truly believed loved him, not because he said it, but because it was buried in the way he let Lazar speak during decisions that weren't supposed to involve the child he was. Because he saw through the blank stares and rage-fueled silences to the hurricane underneath, and didn't flinch.
So yeah, others came after. But none of them got it. Not like the old man.
Even now, years later, the ghost of that old bastard clung to Lazar's memory like the lingering sting of a slap that might've been half-earned. Somehow, that memory made today — already exceptional — feel almost sacred.
Because, really, what better time to remember his morally-gray, apocalypse-prepping grandpa than on the day he prepared to turn the U.S. Navy into his personal training arc?
The man had a saying. One Lazar hated. One that had wormed its way into his head anyway: "Use what you must to get where you need to be."
Lazar had always scoffed at that. He liked earning things with his own grit. But recently, he'd stopped having the luxury of principle. And so — fine. If the system wanted to be used, he'd oblige.
"Twenty years old, from nowhere important, valedictorian of a prep school nobody had ever topped before. Graduated with honors. Crushed the Navy SEAL entry exam. Patriot, prodigy, poster boy for a flag he couldn't care less about."
He snorted to himself, the sarcasm thick enough to choke on.
Sure, he'd make the perfect face for a military recruitment ad — if you ignored the part where he wasn't American, hated the system, and should've had a rap sheet longer than the damn Constitution if not for some... creative paperwork.
Today, though? Today felt good. He wasn't smiling exactly — he didn't do that — but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth that counted.
He stepped out of his barracks, civilian-clothed and unbothered, slinging a massive duffel bag over one shoulder. Blue jeans. Clean sneakers. A white tank beneath a black hoodie — casual enough to blend in, sharp enough to turn heads.
And then there was the face.
High cheekbones, marble-sculpted symmetry, eyes so green they looked edited, and a stare that could melt steel. Add that to the body built like a knife and the walk of someone who knew he was being watched and didn't care — yeah, Lazar Walker could've had a modeling contract instead of a military file.
Too bad the Navy didn't measure beauty. Or height.
His buzzcut didn't help. Army regs. Not his style. But whatever. The look was temporary. The plan was permanent.
As he passed the gate that had kept him caged for far too long, a thought hit him like a drumbeat:Boston next. Then the real fun begins.
He didn't join for glory or country. He joined to become the kind of dangerous he couldn't be ignored. And he'd sell his soul for that edge — even if it meant becoming a deserter. Because he never planned to stay.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud, obnoxious car horn. He turned — slow, bored — just in time to see a military-issue Jeep barreling toward him like it had something to prove.
He didn't need to see the face behind the wheel. The car told him enough. That specific kind of stupid had a scent.
Idiots, he thought flatly, stepping onto the sidewalk as the Jeep slowed beside him.
The windows rolled down. On his side: two hairy, naked asses sticking out like they were auditioning for "Jackass: Military Edition."
Classy.
Then came the voice. "Suck my dick, Walker! See you next week!"
The Jeep roared off in a cloud of testosterone and unearned confidence.
Lazar didn't flinch. Didn't even acknowledge it. He'd already put in earbuds the second he heard the engine. His music was loud — blaring metal that would've earned a public scolding from his instructor.
But if the purpose of banning music was to protect his hearing, Lazar figured listening to that moron talk would be far more damaging.
The elite of the Navy... dear god, he thought bitterly. They passed the final just like me. If brains had been on the test instead of bench press reps, half those apes would've failed preschool.
Didn't matter. He wouldn't end up in the same unit as them. He'd make sure of it.
At the bus stop, he immediately spotted the vehicle. The company name plastered on the side told him everything — overpriced. Which meant Lana had paid for it.
Figures. Start throwing money around the second I'm not there to stop you.
Lana Walker. FBI agent. Guardian. Dysfunctional fairy godmother. Eight years ago, she'd adopted him — for reasons still unclear. Overprotective? Definitely. Emotional mess? Also yes. But important? Absolutely.
He checked his watch. 1:14 PM. Early.
The bus ride would be over 30 hours — plenty of time to strategize. If only Lana could've picked a cheaper company, maybe he'd have had the money for gear. But she was Lana. Spend first, think never.
Two minutes before departure, the driver barked for tickets and luggage. Lazar slung his bag into the hold — just as someone 'accidentally' collided with him.
Right. "Accidentally."
He didn't need to turn to see it coming. He could smell the desperate flirtation from ten feet away. And he had to admit — it was laughably bad. Lana's pathetic attempts still had more finesse.
He side-stepped like she was air, letting her crash into the pavement behind him with all the grace of a beached jellyfish. Didn't look back. Didn't help her. Just walked onto the bus like she didn't exist.
Because to him?
She didn't.
And that — that was Lazar's version of mercy.
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