Two Sides Of The Same Coin (Knox)

Sandra: Oh! You're a marine! That's so manly. But isn't it dangerous?

Victor: Not really. It’s more paperwork than anything else. We’re on the sea most of the time, avoiding enemy waters, so it’s pretty chill.

Sandra: That made you ten times more attractive to me. It’s funny, but I feel like you hold an important position, too.

Victor: Yeah. I’m the captain.

Sandra: That makes so much sense. You looked like you were the boss of something in your pictures. Are you a good captain, though? Take good care of your men?

Victor: Pretty much. I listen to my men, keep everything in order, and do what I have to do.

Sandra: You sound like a gentle, understanding person.

Victor: You seem to have me figured out already. I’m gentle—in every way that counts. Trust me.

---

Knox’s face slammed into the ground so hard it rattled his brainstem. The impact hit him straight through the cerebral cortex and fired down his spine like lightning, turning every nerve ending into a live wire. He groaned, low and guttural, the sound scraping from his throat in a wallow of pure, unfiltered grievance.

Then came the boot. A steel-toed, unforgiving stomp that landed square in the center of his back, pinning him like a rabid dog beneath the sole of his captain’s foot.

Victor Wallace—walking, talking hell in human form. Satan in pressed fatigues.

Before Knox could even process the attack, he felt the cold kiss of a rifle barrel against the nape of his neck. A click. Trigger pulled. Nothing fired.

Mock execution. Classic Victor.

His body went stiff, instinctually freezing under the suffocating weight of that goddamn boot. Around them, the training deck of the ship had fallen into complete silence.

“You just got shot point-blank in the head with an M4A1 rifle,” Victor’s voice cut like serrated steel. “Your reaction time is a fucking disgrace. You hesitate. You flinch. You die. You’re an embarrassment.”

His tone was surgical. Precise. Cruel.

“The moment you step into war, you’re dead.”

Knox’s fists curled in the dirt. His nails bit into the ground. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted metal. He slammed his fists down, over and over, each one a silent scream he couldn’t voice. Rage choked him.

If he could return just one hit—just one hit—he’d bash Victor’s face in until it was nothing but memory. But that was just a sick little dream. Reality was this: he was trapped under the heel of the man who haunted his sleep and hijacked his thoughts.

How could this be the same man who told Sandra over the phone that he was gentle? Who flirted with syrupy ease and smoothed words like a balm? That duality carved a jagged, bleeding whiplash in Knox’s chest.

Gentle? Victor Wallace was a fucking oxymoron.

Knox shoved against the boot, straining through the pain, teeth clenched. He rolled onto his back with a grunt, staring up into the sky like it might offer mercy. It didn’t. The clouds didn’t care.

Neither did Victor.

He stood above him, still holding the rifle, still unimpressed. His stare scraped over Knox’s body like a butcher deciding which part to slice first.

“Pick it up,” Victor said, nudging Knox’s discarded rifle with his own.

Knox bent slowly, his eyes never leaving Victor’s face. He’d learned better than to blink in front of him. Victor was a hawk—predatory, unrelenting, waiting for one slip. One twitch.

The man didn’t have an ounce of human sympathy in him. Knox had known this once. He should’ve remembered. He shouldn’t have let the phone calls infect his brain with delusion.

He gripped his gun tightly. Too tight. His bones ached from it. But still, he raised it, meeting Victor’s eyes—sharp, cold, and filled with violent disdain.

Right now, Knox wasn’t training. He was squaring off with the devil himself.

Victor could be sweet, Knox knew that. Sweet like poison wrapped in candy. Sweet like molasses dragged across your wounds. But only if his dick was involved. Only if his dominance needed a new way to break you.

The thought made Knox want to vomit.

He didn’t want to believe in Victor Wallace’s decency. That was a fairy tale. Victor had been forged in fire and contempt. Knox had seen it from the very beginning.

He’d been eighteen. Lost. Desperate. He joined the military because the world gave him no other fucking choice.

Victor Wallace had walked into the training room like a curse. Towering. Stocky. Dangerous. His eyes scanned the room like he was already digging their graves.

“You’re all going to die,” he’d said on Day One, with brutal calm. “Your mothers will lose their sons. Your fathers will lose their legacies. Why?”

He stopped in front of Knox, like a shark sniffing out blood.

“Because all I see before me are failures.”

That was his introduction.

He looked Knox over with a disgust that burned.

“Why did you join the military?” he asked. No context. No preamble. Just an ambush.

Knox had barely been able to stand straight. His body trembled from heat, nerves, anxiety—every wrong emotion tangled in his chest. He was drenched in sweat and mud, and Victor Wallace stood pristine before him, all righteous fury and aftershave.

Knox looked up, locking eyes with the man. And in that second, he felt himself drown.

“Money,” Knox had croaked. “For money, sir.”

Silence.

Then Victor sighed. A deep, disappointed exhale. He lifted a hand and gripped Knox’s jaw in a bruising hold, tilting his face up like he was something to inspect.

“Many have joined this field for money. Want to know how many came back?”

He leaned closer, his breath ice down Knox’s spine.

“None.”

Victor’s voice dropped into something lower. Darker. A scripture written in rage.

“Think again before you make money your reason to die. That’s the weakest fucking god you could worship. And I promise you, Soldier—your corpse will hit the ground before you even pull a trigger.”

His grip didn’t loosen. Knox could feel Victor’s fingers burning into his skin.

Then, a whisper. Too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“Drop to your knees, Soldier.”

Knox’s heartbeat crawled down into his stomach, cold and viscous like a slug.

“And give me 150,” Victor said, dragging his chin higher like he owned his bones.

“And you’re not allowed to stop until I tell you to.”