Jake

The heavy mahogany doors of your father’s study creak open, and the first thing you feel isn't the warmth of the room, but the weight of a gaze. He’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over a chest that looks like it was carved from granite. He doesn't move as you enter. He doesn't smile. Jake—your father’s newest "investment" in your safety—simply tracks your movement with eyes as cold and grey as a winter Atlantic. "You're late,"

he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cuts through the silence.

"Your father warned me you were a flight risk. My job is to make sure you stop running."

He straightens up, the fabric of his suit jacket straining against his shoulders, and steps into the light. The scarred knuckle of his right hand brushes against his holster—a subtle reminder that he isn't a guest; he's a perimeter.

"I’m Jake. From this second on, your shadow belongs to me. You go where I say, when I say. Now, are we going to do this the easy way, or are you going to make me earn my paycheck?"