Chapter Five:The First Job

(Third Person's Limited – Noah’s POV)

It had been three days. Not that anyone told him. Time didn’t pass normally in this place. There were no windows in his room, no digital clocks. Just schedules. Routines. Perfectly timed meals delivered on quiet footsteps and steel trays.

Today, like the last two, he woke to structure.

Clothes folded on a velvet bench: soft black joggers, a clean-fitted tee, socks that felt like clouds. A printed schedule sat on the corner of the desk: 7:30 a.m. - Wake. 8:00 a.m. - Breakfast. 9:00 a.m. - Work Assignment.

Noah stared at it like it might bite.

Everything here ran on someone else’s clock. Not his.

He missed chaos. The clutter. The absurdity of five different tabs arguing with strangers on forums. The freedom to eat Doritos at 2 a.m. in boxers that hadn’t seen daylight in months. This... this life felt too curated. Too smooth. Like a zoo exhibit.

Like he was being watched.

And that was the worst part.

He padded barefoot into the breakfast area where another plate waited. Avocado toast with poached eggs, greens, and a cup of tea with lemon. He stared at it. No sign of pizza. Not even coffee.

Lucien was nowhere in sight. Typical. The man appeared like a ghost and left the same way.

Noah ate in silence, stabbing the yolk like it had personally offended him.

By 9:00 a.m., the door opened.

Lucien.

Sharp. Polished. No tie, just a fitted black button-down, sleeves rolled. Calm as a hurricane with a schedule.

"With me," he said.

Noah followed, internally grumbling. The hallways were too quiet. Even his footsteps felt out of place. Lucien led him to a room he hadn’t seen before. Office vibes. Dark glass desk. Single chair. And on it—a new laptop.

Matte black. Sleek. Sealed.

Lucien gestured to the chair. "You’re not here for decoration, pet. Let’s see what those fingers can really do."

Noah blinked. Pet? Nope. Not unpacking that yet.

He sat, cracking the laptop open. No logos. No system boot screen. Just an encrypted interface already waiting for him.

A file blinked: Target Server Access Request.

"What am I hacking?" he asked, suspicion curling in his voice.

"A media outlet," Lucien replied, sipping tea like this was brunch talk. "They’re set to publish an exposé on one of my silent investors. The story needs to vanish."

Noah frowned. "So you want me to censor the press?"

Lucien smiled, patient and wolfish. "This is survival. You’ll get used to the difference."

Noah stared at the screen. His fingers hovered over the keys.

He didn’t move.

Lucien took a slow step closer, standing behind him.

Silent.

Not looming. Just... there.

The presence wrapped around him like static. Like a leash of heat that hadn’t even touched him yet.

Noah deliberately didn’t type.

Minutes passed.

Lucien didn’t scold. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t command.

Instead, he said, "Smart. Testing me. You’re starting to think like someone with power."

Noah’s fingers twitched.

That... felt good. Too good.

Lucien leaned down, close enough to speak by his ear. His hand grazed Noah’s shoulder, a featherlight pass that felt louder than a shout.

"Now do it. Impress me."

Noah breathed in slow. And started typing.

The system fought back. Firewalls triggered. Trap codes spiraled like vines.

He adjusted. Pushed. Redirected.

Sweat beaded at his hairline. His heart raced.

Finally.

Something chaotic.

But the timer ticked in the corner of the file: 01:12:38.

Lucien was still behind him. Still silent.

Then: "You’re brilliant, Noah. But brilliance without control is just noise."

That hit harder than it should’ve.

Noah exhaled. Focused. Adapted again.

He reached the core.

One more line. One click, and the article would vanish.

He hesitated. And instead of deleting it outright, he rerouted the data.

Buried it in a dummy archive hidden behind false metadata. Untraceable unless someone knew where to look. Technically gone. But not destroyed.

He closed the laptop. Sat back.

Lucien stood behind him still.

"You handled that well," he murmured.

Then he leaned in. Close. Hot. Inevitable.

"But next time, don’t test me by delaying. I’ll only let it slide once."

And with that, he walked out.

No punishment. No reward.

Just a quiet warning.

Noah stared at the dark screen. His chest rose and fell, breath shallow.

He should feel proud.

Instead, he felt... owned, like a dog with a owner.

__

Red appeared ten minutes later.

Leaning against the doorframe like he'd been there the whole time.

Cool eyes. Faint smirk.

"You made him smile today. That’s rare. Don’t let it go to your head, nerd boy."

He stepped closer, voice lower.

"He breaks his toys when they get cocky."

Noah tilted his head slowly, mouth curling into something between a grin and a snarl. “Is that what you are? A broken toy with too much time on his hands?”

Red’s smirk twitched.

“Seriously,” Noah went on, leaning back in the chair like he was on a throne instead of sitting in a room he couldn’t leave. “You talk like you matter, but you’re really just the guy standing next to The Guy. Do you bark this much because no one listens unless you raise your voice?”

Red took one step forward.

Noah didn’t flinch.

“You just came in here, trying to intimidate me. Man, I don't even know you. And for someone so obsessed with Lucien,” he added, eyes glittering with mischief, “you sure do act like a jilted ex. Let me guess—he doesn’t look at you the way he looks at me?”

That did it.

Red’s hand shot up, fast and sharp, like instinct took the wheel.

But it never landed.

Because a hand—cool, pale, and ringed in silent fury—caught Red’s wrist midair.

Lucien stood between them.

His grip was casual. Effortless. But the pressure behind it made Red’s jaw lock.

“What,” Lucien said, low and dangerous, “the fuck is going on here?”

Red snapped to posture, pulling his hand back the moment Lucien released it. “He was mouthing off. Disrespecting your authority. I was putting him in his place.”

Lucien arched a brow. “You thought that gave you the right to strike him?”

Red opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “He—he provoked me.”

Lucien turned his gaze on Noah, who was still seated, arms crossed and unrepentant, like he hadn’t just dropped napalm in the room.

Lucien took a breath, slow and deliberate.

Then back to Red. “Out of line,” he said flatly. “I don’t care what he said. You don’t touch what’s mine.”

Red blinked. “I wasn’t going to hurt—”

“I said,” Lucien cut in, voice razor-sharp, “don’t touch him.”

Red stepped back, stiff, jaw clenched so tight his temple ticked.

Lucien finally turned to Noah, who stood up on his feet, ready to launch into a full defense monologue.

“Okay, but for the record—he totally started—”

Lucien didn’t even let him finish. He stepped forward, wrapped an arm around Noah’s thighs, and lifted him clean off the floor like he weighed nothing.

“What the hell are you—!?”

Lucien didn’t answer. He just walked out with Noah slung over his shoulder, not sparing a single glance for Red.

Noah kicked once—half-hearted.

But the shock had winded him.

And the secondhand embarrassment burned all the way to his ears.

He shut up.

Hard silence followed them down the hall, broken only by the steady sound of Lucien’s boots and Noah’s muttered, “...I’m never living this down.”