Chapter 275. The Bachelor Night

The concept had been Sabatine’s. “You should have a bachelor party,” she’d said one evening, looking up from a Keystone Foundation proposal. “Nothing garish. No strippers named ‘Destiny’ emerging from industrial-sized cakes. Just… a night. With your best man.”

Anton had paused, his pen hovering over a budget line. “My best man?”

She’d given him a look that was pure fond exasperation.“Leon, you ridiculous man. Who else would it be? He’d take a bullet for you. Metaphorically. And literally, if it came to it, though I’d prefer he didn’t.”

So it was settled. Not a raucous night in Vegas or a debauched weekend in Prague, but an evening in. At the townhouse. Leon had arrived promptly at seven, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, holding a bottle of absurdly expensive Japanese whisky in one massive hand and a small, neatly wrapped gift in the other.

“Sir,” he’d rumble, nodding.

“It’s‘Anton’ tonight, Leon,” Anton had said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And that’s too much,” he added, eyeing the whisky.

“No, it isn’t,” Leon said firmly, his usual gruffness returning. He thrust the gift at Anton. “This is from the team. Security division. They pooled.”

Inside the simple paper was a frame. Not a traditional one, but a sleek, modern slice of dark walnut. Within it, pressed under glass, was a single, charred and twisted piece of circuit board. A small, engraved plaque on the frame read: Fragment 7A, Geneva Server Array – Out of Service.

It was a piece of the villa’s server where the stolen prototype data had been briefly housed. A relic of the battle. Anton stared at it, a lump forming in his throat. It wasn’t a celebration of violence, but a monument to survival. To their victory.

“We thought you might want a reminder,” Leon said, uncharacteristically quiet. “Of where you were. And what you protected.”

“Thank you,Leon,” Anton managed, his voice rough. “It’s perfect. Please thank the team.”

The evening unfolded with a surprising, deep ease. They ordered food from the upscale Indian place Sabatine favoured, spreading containers of butter chicken, dal, and fluffy naan across the kitchen island. They drank the exquisite whisky from simple tumblers. There were no forced toasts, no awkward reminiscing about wild youth—neither of them had one to speak of.

Instead, they talked about the future. Leon, emboldened by the whisky and the informality, asked surprisingly insightful questions about the Keystone Foundation’s operational model. Anton found himself outlining not just the vision, but seeking Leon’s ground-level opinion on training protocols and threat prioritization. It was a collaboration, a meeting of strategic and tactical minds, and it felt profoundly right.

At one point, Leon leaned back on his stool, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You know, sir—Anton—when she first walked into the Command Centre, all sharp edges and colder-than-a-winter-op stare, we thought she was just another expensive consultant who’d tell us our firewalls were inadequate and leave.”

Anton smiled. “What changed?”

Leon snorted.“She proved our firewalls were inadequate. In about twelve minutes. Then she showed us how to build better ones. Didn’t talk down. Just… showed. She earned respect the hard way. The only way that matters to us.” He took a sip. “Then we saw how she looked at you. When she thought no one was watching.”

Anton’s breath caught. “How was that?”

“Like you were a puzzle she’d been trying to solve her whole life,and she’d finally found the last piece. But it scared her. Finding it.” Leon met his gaze, his own surprisingly perceptiveness. “We’re glad it doesn’t scare her anymore. We’re glad you don’t scare each other anymore. Makes our job easier. And… nicer.”

It was perhaps the longest, most emotionally articulate speech Anton had ever heard from Leon. It was worth a thousand raucous cheers.

Later, they moved to the living room, abandoning the whisky for coffee. The conversation drifted. Leon confessed a passion for restoring vintage motorcycles, a fact that somehow made perfect sense. Anton talked about his mother, a subject he rarely touched—not the betrayed wife of his father’s narrative, but the pianist who had filled the house with Chopin before the silence descended. He found he could speak of her without the old, associated pain.

There was no drama. No illicit substances, no clandestine trips to seedy clubs. No tears, except for the ones Anton had quietly blinked back over the framed circuit board. It was an evening of quiet revelation, of deepening a bond that had been forged in crisis and was now being tempered in peace.

As the clock neared eleven, Leon heaved himself to his feet. “Right. Better get going. Let you get your beauty sleep for the big day.” He paused at the door, turning back. His usual gruff mask was back, but his eyes were soft. “She’s the best of us, you know. And you… you’re alright. For a civvy.”

It was the highest praise Anton could have imagined from him. He pulled Leon into a brief, back-slapping hug. “Thank you, Leon. For everything. Not just tonight.”

Leon just nodded, clearing his throat roughly. “See you at the church, boss.”

After the door closed, Anton stood in the quiet hallway. The house was still, filled with the lingering scents of spices and good whisky and male camaraderie. He picked up the framed fragment of the circuit board and carried it to his study. He placed it on a shelf, not hidden, but prominently displayed beside a first edition of Byron and a photograph of his mother.

This, he realized, was what a true bachelor night was. Not an escape from responsibility, but a quiet gathering of the tribe that would support you within it. A celebration not of the end of freedom, but of the beginning of a chosen, sacred bond. It was laughter without hysteria, gratitude without sentimentality, and a deep, abiding recognition of the man who would stand beside him as he pledged his life to the woman who had saved it.

He texted Sabatine, who was having her own, equally subdued evening with Jessica and Gina at a spa hotel.

All quiet on the western front. No arrests, no international incidents. Leon says I’m ‘alright for a civvy.’ I consider that a win.

Her reply came a moment later.

High praise indeed. I’m impressed. No strippers?

Only the emotional kind. Far more dangerous.

He sent a photo of the framed circuit board.

That,she replied, is perfect. See you at the altar, my love.

Anton put his phone down and looked around his home. It was ready. He was ready. The bachelor night was over. The rest of his life, the best of it, began tomorrow. And he had never felt more grateful, or more sure, in his life.

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