Birth of a Bodyguard

Osmond's first night in the Bernard household was the most comfortable night of his life.

Despite the misplacement—feeling like a fish out of water—he couldn't have asked for a luckier break. Shortly after his time in the bathroom near three in the morning, he'd found himself drifting into the nearest guest room, crawling under a warm nest of blankets and falling asleep instantly, utterly exhausted from the events hours prior.

Now—as the late morning sun bled into the room from the enormous window, streams of sunlight casting weak rays past the white curtains—he lay in his boxers, lost to the comfort of the king-sized bed, wrapped in thick comforters and resting with his face half-buried in a fluffy down pillow, his mouth hanging agape.

Flashes of his prison escape ran through his mind—and he was running through the night again, sprinting into the woods as fast as possible. Only this time, the police dogs were hot on his tail, sirens wailing and cops shouting—and he heard a gunshot and awoke with a start.

Osmond sat bolt upright in the bed, inhaling sharply and glancing around the strange, enormous room. It took him a moment to realize where he was—the Bernard house in Highland Drive.

His nightmare lingered in his mind for a moment, but the calm, peaceful room did well to lull him into a more serene state of mind.

He didn't need to be afraid anymore; this was the safest environment he'd ever been in.

The flat screen TV across from the bed sat powered off and silent on the small entertainment center, an elegant mahogany dresser beside it, the curtains partly open and allowing the sunlight to illuminate the large, spotless room with a calming light. Beside the desk was the closet in the corner, complete with a clean, full-body mirror. His old clothes sat on the recliner beside the window, right where he'd left them before falling asleep, and his pistol was presumably still shoved under the mattress where he'd stored it before sunrise. There were no dogs, no gunshots, no police anywhere nearby. As of now, all was well.

It was time to put that past behind him.

After all, he lived under his birth name now—and today was the first day of his new life.

There were still a few loose ends to tie up; he needed to obtain a security bodyguard license before the day's end, as well as preparing his job reference for the governor. He also needed to decide on a new sense of fashion—a new outfit that Raymond never would've worn.

The first outfit that came to mind was a suit. Yes, he couldn't imagine wearing a clean-cut suit when he worked as a gun-runner. He'd dress himself as someone of importance, someone of a higher class than Raymond or his old friends. Suits and ties would become the norm for Osmond Williams.

He nodded to himself, sitting on the fluffy mattress and not wanting to leave the comfort of the monstrous bed. Osmond glanced down at his aching hands, eyeing the small cuts and bruises on his knuckles, his jaw and ankle both still throbbing with a dull pain. But despite this, he felt refreshed in a way he never had before—and he tossed the blankets aside and summoned all his energy, sauntering toward the full-body.

Osmond's eyes ventured up and down his full reflection, his toned, slender body still harboring a few minor injuries, the skull-and-thorny-vine tattoo infused with a deep cut on his arm. The black bruise on his face had faded into a dying tan color, and he slicked back his now short hair, hair that was a deep brown rather than a bright sandy-blond. He combed his hair back numerous times until it stayed put, revealing his sharply pointed hairline again. Then, he stroked his chin and jaw numerous times. It felt strange to stroke his face without feeling the slight prickle of facial hair. His face was now as smooth as could be.

But the hair and face were only half the appearance. The outfit would take care of the rest.

Osmond opened the closet and surveyed the clothes inside, pushing aside numerous button-up shirts, jackets, and pants on the hangers. He selected a black suit, a white undershirt, and a blue tie, examining them briefly before dressing himself.

He stepped into the pants, buttoned up the white undershirt, and slid into the suit's sleek jacket before buttoning it up as well. He then turned the closet door and studied the mirror again. It was surprising—the suit seemed to slim him even more. The mirror revealed the most stylish person he'd ever seen in a reflection. He'd never worn a suit before—and now, as he smirked at his clean-cut appearance, he couldn't think why. It was a damn good look for him.

Osmond wrestled with the tie for about ten minutes before he worked out how to properly fix it around his neck. He grinned at his reflection again, then peeked into the closet one last time, spotting a roundish black hat on the top shelf.

When he placed it on his head, he gave his reflection a nod, running his hands down his torso and feeling a strange sense of pride in his new appearance.

"Oh yeah… you're fuckin' important now," Osmond muttered with a smirk, tilting the bowler hat slightly and cocking his head at the mirror. "Look who's finally somebody."

"You like my dad's old suits?"

The voice made him leap from his skin—and he spun around and spotted Skylar in the doorway.

She laughed, shaking her head and approaching him.

"Jesus—you scared the hell outta me," Osmond exhaled.

"Why… because I'm scary, or because you like talking to yourself in the mirror?" Skylar snarked in response, stopping before him and scanning him up and down. "You look like a completely different person now."

Osmond opened his mouth to reply, but no response came to him.

As the sunlight shone over the girl, he finally thought to get a better look at her; Skylar's hair was short and dark, almost shoulder-length, but not quite. She had a round, pale face, pronounced cheeks, her eyes a deep and captivating cerulean, her long black lashes seeming to bend to a stylish point at the ends of her eyes, though he couldn't tell if it was natural or a byproduct of mascara. Either way, he found it beautiful. Despite her messy bedhead and her baggy nighttime t-shirt tenting over her body, Skylar—basking in the sunlight, close to him and standing face-to-face, no longer shrouded in darkness or covered by studded jean vests—looked positively gorgeous. He hadn't noticed it the night before, but now, it seemed difficult to ignore.

"What're you staring at?" she barked.

"Nothing," he muttered. "You just look different."

"Yeah. I'm not in my party-girl clothes anymore," Skylar remarked. "But you look way more different than I do. Ooo—I know what's missing! Hang on a second."

She clasped her hands and pointed at him excitedly, then whirled around and rushed out of the room. Osmond stared after her strangely, and moments later, she returned with a pair of big reflective sunglasses, holding them upright and approaching him again.

Osmond took back, and Skylar continued to draw closer. She gently slid the glasses onto his face, then waved at the mirror.

"Oh, you look awesome," she beamed.

Osmond surveyed his reflection yet again. Yes—the sunglasses seemed to be the final piece of the puzzle, a way of disguising his face even more. Not to mention, it made him look like exactly what he intended to become—someone serious, mysterious, and important. Plus, he never wore sunglasses back when he used his other name.

Osmond flashed a sly half-smile at the mirror. "Love it."

"Good! Now where do you wanna go today?" Skylar asked him, grinning with excitement.

Osmond slipped the glasses off and clipped them to the front of his suit, eyeing her oddly. "Don't you have a job or something?"

"No. I do a lot of volunteer work," Skylar told him.

Osmond narrowed his eyes at her questioningly. "Why?"

"Because I like helping people," she replied simply. "I don't know what kind of job I want yet. All I know is that I want a job helping people—and doing volunteer work is the best way to figure out which one I like the best."

"Doesn't your father own the Kevron Company? Why can't he just get you a job there?"

"Because I don't 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 a job there. Those people don't help anybody. It's a giant conglomerate manufacturing business, and it produces all kinds of stuff. That's super great and important and all, but it's just not my thing."

"Oh, I getcha."

"So? Where do you wanna go? My schedule's all clear today."

Osmond glanced at the mirror, his expression distant. "I wanna swing by a pawn shop to see an old friend real quick. After that… we can go wherever you want."

"You got it. I've gotta go get dressed—meet you downstairs in a little bit."

"All right."

Skylar gave him a two-fingered salute before sauntering out of the room.

Osmond watched her go, his eyes traveling up and down her body mindlessly before he shook his head and allowed his thoughts to return. His gaze bled into his reflection, into the suited man in the bowler hat, the man unrecognizable as Raymond Salem. Governor Bernard would be returning to his home tonight—and when he did, Osmond had to be as prepared as possible.

He had the appearance down now, but there were still a few other issues he needed to rectify before any interview took place tonight.

Hopefully, he'd have it all resolved before sundown. After the final loose ends were tied up, he'd finally be able to start completely anew—in this, his new job, his new life, free from all his past mistakes.

Perhaps he'd make something decent of himself this time.

Osmond gave his reflection a last smirk before sliding his hands into his pockets and strolling out of the room, walking more upright, a smoother and more confident walk than his old self.

He truly felt like someone else entirely. Perhaps it was the new hair, or the suit, or the ridiculously expensive and gigantic home around him, all of it welcoming him in, almost as if he was someone of great import. Whatever it was, it felt more cleansing and refreshing than ever, and Osmond marched down the hall with a new swagger he'd never had before.

He'd certainly come a long way from that old yellow trailer out in the country, the trailer with the peeling yellow paint and the diamond-windowed door. He'd come a long way from working with illegal cartels and living in a run-down apartment as well—but this was only the beginning. He had to get everything resolved—every loose end—and from then on, he'd have to work hard for the governor and his daughter, assuming Governor Bernard would bless him with approval tonight.

Osmond flicked his collar and meandered down the stairs with ease, feeling confident that he could tackle the task ahead of him. He headed down the rounded stairway and into the giant entry room—the one with the massive red rug—marching over the crimson carpet before stepping into the dining area.

Then, he gazed over the back of the giant leather couch, seeing that the enormous flat-screen TV was turned on, even though no one was in the living room.

His smile faded, his heart sinking into his stomach and his newfound confidence draining out of him all at once.

The television was playing a local news station, and his face—the face of Raymond Salem, the narrow face with the angry eyes and goatee—was plastered on the screen. A blonde newswoman in a red suit-dress was speaking above a news headline, which read: ESCAPED CONVICT STILL AT LARGE.

Osmond felt an icy sensation crawl over every inch of his skin, gazing into the television in horror. He quickly glanced around, praying that Skylar and her butler were nowhere in earshot.

"… was last seen entering his apartment complex on Western Avenue," the newswoman was saying. "Possibly armed and dangerous—and, in a twisted turn of events, the escaped convict is none other than Raymond Salem, the very same man convicted of manslaughter, as well as a few additional charges, only seven months ago in the controversial case that dominated the news in the weeks following. Many argued that the death was accidental while many others insisted that Raymond Salem was a notorious gangbanger, and that murder was not beyond his capabilities."

Osmond's hand covered his mouth, fingernails digging into his cheeks as his breaths grew thin. He snapped himself out of the shock, stepping around the couch and snatching up the remote from the coffee table, hurriedly powering the TV off before clasping his mouth again. For a few long seconds, he glared into the dark screen with a silent dread.

His heart knocked at the back of his ribs with a repetitive and forceful pulsation, his thoughts beginning to whirl around with the velocity of a tornado.

He had no idea. A controversial case that dominated the media for weeks? He had no clue his conviction had become a number-one topic on the news.

How long had his face been revealed to the public? How long had people been watching this story, gossiping about the convicted killer and trading ideas of how guilty or innocent he might've been?

And even more concerning—did the governor watch these news broadcasts during Osmond's incarceration? Would Governor Bernard recognize him as the infamous killer who'd been all over the news since New Year's Day?

No—he couldn't panic, not now.

Osmond took a deep breath and gnawed his lip, forcing himself calm. He looked completely different now, with a whole new face and a whole new attire; he was busting his ass to change himself completely, and before the day's end, he would have everything he needed to present himself as an effective and responsible bodyguard under the name Osmond Williams.

This story—like all news stories—would fade into memory when another hot topic arose in the media. It had been less than a day since his escape, after all. He should've expected the media to cover a recent prison break—but the story would pass, and he'd just have to lay low until then.

Still—he knew he had to visit Sam today in order to get everything prepared for the interview tonight. Visiting his old friends was a bad idea, especially now, with police sniffing around all his old hangout spots—but he didn't have a choice. Sam was the only person who could provide him with everything he needed. After he visited Sam's shop today, he'd have to stay far away from his old neighborhood for a good long while—but he couldn't avoid or postpone that fateful pawn shop visit. No, visiting Sam today was an absolute necessity.

But now, there was another problem. The news would be covering this story for a few more days, at least—and every room in this giant house seemed to have a television. How could he possibly prevent Skylar or Sullivan from seeing these news broadcasts for the next few days?

Sullivan didn't seem to like him at all, and Skylar was the only reason he had a chance at a new life. No—Osmond couldn't risk either of them seeing that face on the news.

Without thinking, he marched out of the living room with a brisk stride, pushing the white double-doors open and stepping out into the sunlight.

Dew sparkled on the grass blades of the expansive front lawn, but he didn't spare it a glance. Osmond stormed down the wide sidewalk leading to the driveway, stepping into the garage and marching past the blue Mustang.

He scanned every shelf and every tool that hung on the garage's wall, then stepped out of the garage again, adjusting his hat and staring up at the sky. He spotted the power lines hanging above the houses—the nearest one at the sidewalk near the edge of the lawn, and the cable line seemed to stretch above the garage's roof.

Osmond followed it with his eyes, then glared into the garage again. He approached the wall of tools, collected a branch cutter from the wall, and spread its handles wide, opening the two curved blades at its end. He glimpsed around again, searching for the black cord—and his eyes landed on the corner of the garage, where a familiar black cord was just barely visible behind a plastic trash can.

Osmond bent over the trash can, placed the branch cutter against the concrete ground, and trapped the cord in its sharp grip. He squeezed both handles together with all his might, and the cord snapped cleanly in half.

Swallowing anxiously, he placed the branch cutters back on the garage wall and returned to the house, glancing around inside and releasing a relieved cloud of breath, seeing that he was still alone downstairs.

When he entered the living room and turned the television back on, the screen now showed only static, just as he'd hoped.

Osmond let out another relieved breath, turning the TV off and sinking into the couch, cradling his head as he did.

When everyone in the Bernard household realized that the cable was no longer working, they'd likely call someone to fix it—but, hopefully, a couple of days will have passed by then, and the topic of Raymond Salem would no longer be dominating the local news.

He took a few minutes to compose himself, silently rationalizing his thoughts and assuring himself that his plan would work out.

After calming himself, he outstretched on the couch and folded his arms behind his head, patiently waiting for Skylar to come downstairs.

Skylar didn't seem the type to watch the news on a regular basis, and Sullivan couldn't prove that Osmond Williams was also Raymond Salem. Even if the butler grew suspicious, he certainly wouldn't be able to prove anything to anyone. And sure, Governor Bernard was privy to any and all information regarding the state he ran—but he was a very busy man, and he still had his own business to run, as well as plenty of political matters to deal with. Would he realistically pay any special attention to a minor news story about a lowly Ireville criminal, especially with all the more important matters he had to attend to on a regular basis? Osmond thought not.

"Coffee today, sir?"

Osmond blinked and sat halfway upright, squinting over the back of the couch and seeing the butler standing close by.

Sullivan held a pot of fresh coffee, two coffee mugs placed on the edge of the dining table, the butler raising his brows expectantly at him and awaiting an answer.

"Oh—man, you don't have to do that," Osmond told him. "I can make my own coffee."

Sullivan narrowed his eyes pensively at him. "You're not from around here, clearly."

"No, I'm not," Osmond grumped, reaching his feet and taking the coffee pot. "I come from a place where people aren't too lazy to make their own coffee… unless you have enough spare change to buy one from the nearest gas station. But even then, you gotta put it together yourself."

Sullivan cocked his brow strangely.

Osmond chuckled, scooting one of the coffee mugs closer before pouring his morning beverage.

"I see you've found the closet in the guest room," Sullivan observed, surveying Osmond's new clothes. "That hat belongs to me, you know."

"You want it back?" Osmond offered, but Sullivan shook his head.

"No, it's all yours. I stopped wearing that bloody thing the moment I realized I wasn't a gangster from the nineteen-forties," the butler quipped sarcastically.

"Haaah, I get it. You're funny." Osmond snapped and pointed at him. "Funny guy."

Sullivan cracked a snide smirk.

Osmond took a sip of the black coffee, placing the mug on the table and noticing that Sullivan's eyes were lingering rather intently on him. Osmond returned the stare oddly for a moment, then smirked, leaning on the table and shooting the butler a peculiar look.

"Is there some reason you're watching me like a hawk?" Osmond asked. "No offense."

"None taken. Since you asked, yes, there is," Sullivan replied, his tone darkening.

Osmond inhaled heavily, spotting the look of severity in the butler's eyes and praying that he wasn't thinking of the Raymond Salem news stories.

But Sullivan's concern was something else. He took in a breath and sighed, hesitating for a moment before replying.

"I've been working for Curtis Bernard since before Skylar was born," Sullivan told him. "I was there the day his wife died during childbirth—and I did my best to fill the void left by the passing of Skylar's mother. She's become family to me."

Osmond nodded quietly, saying nothing.

"And I've made it a point to ensure her safety," Sullivan stated, his visage serious and intense. "And to keep her away from people she cannot trust. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes," Osmond mumbled.

"She's brought home a lot of new friends before. Strangers. People who flocked to the governor's house just for the sheer thrill of it, or with the intention of stealing from her and her father," Sullivan explained. "People sometimes use her. Skylar has more money and more opportunities than the average young woman, and people try to take advantage of her because of that. I want to make sure that you're not one of those people—especially if you intend to work for the Bernard family alongside me."

Osmond nodded again, pausing and thinking on this. ]

In reality, he did plan to use Skylar, but not in the way Sullivan anticipated. Osmond struck gold when he met the governor's daughter, and Skylar was the sole source of his newfound freedom. He needed to stick close to that girl, and he needed this job in order to start anew and leave the trials and tribulations of Raymond Salem behind. But, he certainly didn't plan to hurt or steal from her. He didn't need to steal anything now—not with this new job lined up.

"I understand," Osmond told the butler. "Trust me—when I helped her out last night, I didn't even know she was the governor's daughter. I certainly don't plan to take advantage of that."

Sullivan's eyes narrowed into slits. "I thought you said you knew her for years?"

"Yeah, I have… but I knew her as the party girl who'd show up and play pool with us at the bar," Osmond lied cleverly, quickly covering for his slip. "She never told me she was Curtis Bernard's daughter. Not until last night."

"Oh, I see."

"Listen, I don't have any ill intentions here. I just really needed a new job, and she's helping me out a lot in giving me this bodyguard position. I wouldn't do anything to squander that. You have my word."

Osmond offered his hand.

Sullivan stared at it.

Seconds later, he gave it a firm shake.

"I suppose we'll see," the butler uttered.

"Okay—ready to go," Skylar's voice entered the room.

Osmond and Sullivan turned to see her standing in the dining doorway, now wearing a skin-tight black t-shirt decorated with a silvery gothic skull design, as well as a pair of dark jeans and a leather belt fitted with metal studs. Her black hair had been combed down smoothly and stylishly, shining in the room's lighting, her face half-covered in a large pair of blue reflective sunglasses. She was chewing gum, planting her hand on her hip and blowing a bubble as she waited for Osmond to join her.

"Seeya, Sully," Skylar said with a lazy salute, offering her butler a farewell wave as Osmond joined by her side.

Sullivan waved them off, and Osmond and Skylar headed for the door, Osmond sliding his own sunglasses on as they stepped outside.

Unlike his brief trip to the garage earlier—this time, Osmond paused on the large stoop, inhaling deeply and taking a moment to absorb the new and unfamiliar environment.

The front yard stretched forever, a tall wall surrounding the property, the road far ahead of his sight, the gateway sitting at the driveway's edge, more visible in the daylight. The nearest house was another gigantic and elegant one off to the right, sitting on a small hill and barely within eyeshot, trees shifting in the late summer breeze, a sweet scent of dew in the air.

Osmond smiled.

He sauntered off the stoop and followed Skylar to the car.

She tossed him the keys and sank into the passenger seat, and Osmond started the engine of the overpriced car, feeling as if he'd died and been reborn into a life completely unlike his previous one—a life of fancy suits and mansions, a life of Mustangs and money, prosperity and promise for the future. He'd never felt more out of place—and more comfortable—before in his life.

When he backed down the driveway, Skylar hopped out and slid her keycard again, allowing the gates to roll open.

She did the same when Osmond drove across the extensive neighborhood and reached the gateway that blocked Highland Drive from the rest of the world—and after that, Osmond found himself smirking as he drove through the city, the buildings sparkling in the midday sun as he coasted through north Ireville, approaching the slummy side of the city he once called home.

"Hey—I wanna go to the arcade," Skylar said suddenly, turning to him and grinning.

Osmond perked an eyebrow at her from behind his lenses. "Really? You don't have a game console in your house anywhere?"

"No—I mean, yeah, I do," Skylar replied. "But I like arcades better. There's a social experience there, y'know?"

"All right. Arcade it is," Osmond nodded. "Right after I make a brief pit-stop."

There was a small silence, Skylar fidgeting with the radio and turning up the volume, nodding along with the music and mouthing the lyrics as the song played through the whipping winds that swept over the roofless vehicle.

Skylar began moving in rhythm, practically dancing in her seat and facing Osmond whenever the song hit its main chorus, chanting the lyrics and gesturing at him during. Osmond simply chuckled and shook his head.

When the song was over, Skylar turned the volume down and swiped her dark bangs aside, giving him a curious stare.

Osmond glanced over at her. "What?"

Skylar smirked. "Nothing. I'm just happy. I have a bodyguard, which means my dad will get off my case, but I don't have to be shadowed by his friends anymore. It's a win-win."

"Yeah, well… he hasn't actually hired me yet," Osmond reminded her. "We still have to cross that bridge tonight."

"I hired you," Skylar stated, jabbing a finger at him. "Which means you're not going anywhere."

"God willing," Osmond murmured.

A bit more time passed as Osmond drove, surveying every building and vehicle in passing, still keeping a wary eye out for police. He only passed by one police car before reaching south Ireville, and the officer didn't seem interested in him at all, thankfully.

Osmond guided the glistening blue car down a narrow road called Eastern Avenue, a block away from his old apartment complex. It was uncomfortably close to the area that was swarming with police the night prior—but he couldn't avoid this visit. After today, he'd make sure to avoid this neighborhood for a while.

He parked beside the sidewalk in front of a small pawn shop, one with gray brick walls and spray-painted signs plastered in the windows, indicating the shop's clearance and half-off sales. As usual, kids and teens were playing basketball at the court down the street and riding bikes up and down the road, just as Osmond remembered. It was a common sight on Eastern Avenue, particularly in the summertime, but he didn't pay the neighborhood kids much mind. As he stepped out of the car, he gazed up at the sloppy red sign at the top of the building, which read ONE-STOP PAWN.

Osmond felt as if he hadn't seen this familiar building in years, and he also felt as if Raymond was no longer capable of laying eyes on the place—because a new man stood before the pawn shop, and Osmond Williams was the one observing it now.

It seemed as if an impossible amount of things had changed since his last visit to this pawn shop, a strange sensation of deja-vu overcoming him as if he was looking back on memories so far back, they might as well have been from childhood.

"We're back in the slums again, I see," Skylar remarked, leaping out of the car and joining him on the sidewalk. "You wanna go to The Door's Knob tonight?"

"What? No, no—not particularly," Osmond told her, adjusting his hat and glancing warily up and down the sidewalk. "I don't wanna be here long. I just need to stop in and talk to someone real quick."

The two of them opened the glass double-doors, making a faint ching-a-ling as they stepped inside. The interior was complete with three long aisles of random items, and on the far end directly opposite him, the front counter was composed of numerous glass cases, which contained mostly various forms of jewelry and small firearms.

Skylar moved to the side and began examining everything on the wall of electronics, and as she did, Osmond marched across the building, approaching the counter at the far end and eyeballing everything in the glass cases, his face mostly hidden behind his hat and sunglasses.

The man behind the counter—yet another familiar sight—was a slender twenty-something in a black button-up, with short blond hair that was fashioned into its usual spiky style. The man had a wider face than Osmond, with curious and mischievous blue eyes that seemed to read Osmond's every movement.

The man behind the counter—an old friend of Raymond's—raised an interested eyebrow at the new suited arrival. He never got any customers in suits, not in this shop.

Sam leaned to the side slightly, squinting out the front windows of his shop and spotting the blue Mustang parked outside. Then, he gave Osmond another strange look.

"Okay… I don't know if you're a cop or a drug dealer, but you're definitely not a regular," Sam uttered quietly, leaning on the counter and glaring at Osmond. "I'm just gonna tell you right now—just like I told them last night—nobody's searching my shop without a warrant. So, if you're playing mister under-cover, you can drop the friggin' act. You hear, Mr. Suit?"

Osmond glimpsed over his shoulder, seeing that Skylar was still examining the video games in the far corner of the building.

Then, he slowly faced Sam again, gently sliding the sunglasses off and raising his head—meeting Sam's eyes and finally revealing his face in full.

Sam's mouth drifted open, his eyes shining with a sudden recognition.

Osmond subtly placed a finger to his lips, giving Sam an intense look.

"I figured you'd be nicer to an old friend," Osmond mumbled with a sly smirk. "Especially when they come to shop from the special inventory."

Sam took back, gnawing on his bottom lip and giving Osmond a long, thoughtful stare.

Then, he stepped aside and motioned for his friend to join him behind the counter.

Osmond gave Skylar another quick glance before following Sam toward the employee door, both of them vanishing from the main room of the shop.

Sam led him into the back—a place Osmond had been many times in the past—the dark, barely-lit section of the shop, where the underground business of the One-Stop Pawn took place. Just across from the employee door was a massive stack of wooden crates—crates Osmond knew were filled with firearms—and to the right was a set of lockers, all of them full of ammunition. To the left were numerous random boxes and crates, which usually held the miscellaneous items, like holsters, magazines, more weaponry accessories, and items meant for the shelves in the pawn shop. In the center of this large dark room was an old round lawn table, where Osmond, Sam, and many of their other friends had played numerous games of poker in the past.

"Okay…" Sam muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and meandering across the room.

He stopped at the table and leaned on it, shooting Osmond a strange and questioning look.

"Explain this to me, Ray—you break out of prison, and somehow, you end up with a new look and a Mustang overnight? What the hell did you do? Make a deal with the devil?"

"I'm going by Osmond now," Osmond told him with a firm nod. "I can't have anyone calling me Ray anymore."

"𝘖𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥…?" Sam scrunched up his face and laughed absurdly. "Who in the hell picked 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 name for you?"

"My mother."

"What—that's your real name?"

"Yes. Orlando set me up with the Raymond Salem identity right around the time you and I started doing business together. If figured I'd need a fall name—and look what happened."

"Well, aren't you just the smartest motherfucker that ever lived."

"Damn right."

"Ra—I mean—Osmond," Sam corrected himself, scoffing at the name and shaking his head. "Fuck, I'm 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 gonna get used to that…"

"You don't have to. I'm not gonna be around long," Osmond said. "I just need a few favors."

Sam cocked his head, giving Osmond a bizarre stare. "Oh, do you, now? Man, I had cops up my ass all night long because of the shit you pulled—"

"And if you do me these favors, it's gonna solve that problem for both of us," Osmond cut him off. "Raymond is gonna disappear, and Osmond is gonna live in north Ireville from now on."

Sam made a caustic face. "Really, now? How the hell's that gonna work?"

"Because I've already got the job lined up—I just need the paperwork," Osmond stated. "That's where you come in. Here."

Osmond stepped forward and pulled out his ID, placing it on the table and sliding it toward Sam.

"I need a security bodyguard license in this name with all this info," Osmond informed him. "Go ahead and make me a driver's license in that name, too. I've already got the carry permit taken care of."

Sam squinted at him. "And? What else? A gold toilet?"

"I'm serious," Osmond said severely. "Tell Orlando I need them made ASAP. I'll be back before sundown to get them."

"What—you want me to get all this shit done right 𝘯𝘰𝘸?" Sam snarked with a scoff. "Anything else you want while you're here?"

"Yeah, actually. Two baby uzis and a strap-on holster—the kind of holsters bodyguards wear," Osmond added on. "Plus some spare mags and ammo. And Kevlar. I need Kevlar, too."

Sam gave him a long, baffled stare. "This is gonna cost a small fortune—you know that, right?"

"I'll pay you when I get paid," Osmond told him.

"Oh, no—no, no, no. That's not how this works, and you know it," Sam retorted, leaning back and shaking his head. "Everyone pays up front before any of my shit goes anywhere."

"Sam," Osmond glowered, drawing closer and glaring daggers into him. "I ran this business before Benny fucked everything up—and every time I ever needed anything from you, or Orlando, or Carlos, or anyone else, I always made damn sure that you all got paid somehow. Have I 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 screwed any of you over before?"

Sam returned the glare for a few long, tense seconds.

The two shared a heated stare for a moment.

Then, Sam lowered his head, releasing a stressed sigh.

"What the hell do you need baby uzis for, anyway?" he grumbled.

"Because I'm playing bodyguard, and I'm protecting someone very valuable and important," Osmond answered, pointing at the employee door over his shoulder. "That girl out there—I can't afford to let anything happen to her. She's the reason I'm able to start over, and I need to do this job to the absolute best of my ability. That's my ticket to freedom. And, if anything happens, I wanna make damn sure that whoever targets that girl gets put down in a second flat. So, I wanna have a couple of decent guns that can really get the job done."

"Jesus… what is she, the princess of Dollywood?" Sam griped sarcastically. "What the hell makes you think you're gonna get paid well enough to pay all this off?"

"Because that girl is the governor's daughter," Osmond told him flatly. "Governor Bernard—the millionaire business owner-turned-politician—that's her father. I've seen what their money can buy. Trust me. I'll be able to pay you in full sometime soon."

Sam reared back, his eyes resting on Osmond and shining with skepticism. Then, he leaned forward and gave him a questioning look.

"She's not tied to the Acardi family, is she?" Sam muttered.

Osmond shot him an odd stare. "No. Why would she be mixed up with those people?"

"Listen, man." Sam lowered his voice almost to a whisper, giving a cautious glance to the employee door. "The Acardis are still in town, and from what I've heard, they don't plan to leave anytime soon. They're nesting, which isn't normal for any of our buyers. I heard from Orlando that the Acardis threatened to put him out of business if he didn't chop his prices—"

"None of that has anything to do with this," Osmond interrupted. "I've got no reason to care about that anymore. That's the old me."

"Just shut up and let me finish," Sam snarled. "The Acardis have someone working in the Kevron Company."

Osmond stared at him, his expression fading into one of confusion. "What…?"

"The Kevron Company manufactures more than any other company in the state—and what's their biggest product? What's the one thing that the Kevron Company produces and tries their best to keep out of the public eye?" Sam ranted.

Osmond looked down, glaring at his shoes and feeling troubled. "Ammunition…"

"Exactly." Sam snapped and pointed at him. "The word on the street now is that the Acardis are trying to strong-arm the Kevron Company into cutting a regular ammo deal. The Acardis are trying to get into the gun game—which is 𝘰𝘶𝘳 game—and they're trying to squeeze a regular flow of ammunition out of the Kevron Company, which is the 𝘨𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘳'𝘴 game. See—the gun business is ours, and the ammo business is the governor's. It all ties together. And, I just thought that was a little ironic, seeing as how you're miraculously working for the governor's daughter now."

"No, that's… just a coincidence," Osmond murmured thoughtfully, remembering the chance encounter last night that resulted in him meeting Skylar. "I just used her as cover to get out of the neighborhood last night. That's how I met her. I had no idea…"

"Well… it's all coming together now," Sam told him definitively. "We haven't had any other Italians come through Ireville since the Acardis got here—which means the rest of their Mafioso buddies are cut off from the Acardis, and they don't want 'em coming home. The Acardis are outcasts up there now, and they're not allowed to join up with the rest of their mafia buddies up north again."

"How do you know all that?"

"Because my Russian buddy from New York gave me some northern gossip last month. From what I understand, the reason the Acardis are camping out in Tennessee is because they're not welcome at home anymore. I think they screwed up somehow. They must've flumped a hit or a court case, and the rest of their Mafioso friends banished them from the game after the fact."

"And they think they'll get on the mafia's good side again if they take over all the business down south," Osmond synopsized. "Which means they're gonna try to strong-arm you, too."

"Probably," Sam groaned irritably. "Me and the boys have had a hell of a time talking about how we'd deal with that situation."

"All right, listen… I'll keep my ear to the ground for you," Osmond said. "If I hear anything interesting about the Kevron Company or the Acardis, I'll let you know. But I need you to hook me up today. I need to solidify this job. I'm gonna meet the governor tonight, and I need all that paperwork and supplies beforehand. I need to look like a professional if I'm gonna get his definite approval—and as soon as they pay me, I'll pay you. All right?"

Sam glared at him again, remaining silent for nearly a full minute before releasing another distressed sigh.

"I hope you know… I wouldn't do this for anyone else," Sam said, thrusting a finger at him.

"I know," Osmond replied. "I appreciate it."

Sam turned away, popped one of the wooden crates open, and unlocked one of the lockers. He pulled out numerous items—a thick black vest, a few various firearms, and some boxes of ammunition, placing them all on the table in an unorganized manner. Osmond began surveying the goods while Sam moved to the right side of the room, digging through the miscellaneous items until he found the proper set of holsters.

Osmond unbuttoned his jacket and undershirt, peeling them off before lifting the vest over his head. He slid his arms and torso into it, giving it a pat on the chest before draping his white undershirt on over it. He fidgeted with the tie for a while before managing to tie it properly, then took the harness-like holster set from Sam, scanning it up and down.

"It goes around your arms and your back, I think," Sam told him. "The guns sit under your arms so you can reach into your jacket and whip them out whenever you need to."

"Yeah… I've just never worn one before."

"Me either. Too professional for the shit we do."

Osmond strapped the two-piece holster on over his white button-up, then grabbed two of the handguns from the table, sliding them into each of the holsters under his arms. He raised his brows, moving around and seeing that the guns were held firmly in place.

"Huh," Osmond muttered. "That's cool."

"Yeah—those are the wrong guns," Sam responded. "The mags in the baby uzis are gonna stick out a lot more than those. Those are nines."

"Yeah, I know. I know how guns work."

"All right, all right…"

Sam handed him two baby uzis, and Osmond slid them into his holsters. He twisted around again, and this time, the clips dug into his sides slightly, but the guns still remained fixed inside their holsters as they should. So, he redressed in his suit jacket, not bothering to button it this time. After pocketing two spare mags for his new guns, he then knocked on his chest, feeling the thick Kevlar material underneath, running his hands under his arms and gliding his fingers over the concealed handguns and holsters.

Sam let out a breathless laugh. "You look way too goddamn happy."

Osmond was smirking, scanning himself up and down and repeatedly feeling the vest and the firearms on his person. "It feels nice. Feels professional."

"New man," Sam said with a nod.

"New man," Osmond agreed. "I need those papers soon. Don't forget."

"Yeah, I hear you."

"I need it done today. It absolutely has to get done before sundown."

"All right, calm your titties. I'll get it done. Come back around seven, and I should have 'em by then, provided Orlando cooperates without getting cash right away."

"Pay him off if you have to. I'll pay you back every cent in full when I can. I need this to get done right away—I can't stress that enough."

"Okay, okay."

"Oh—by the way, you might get a call from the governor sometime soon."

"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵…?"

"Yeah, I put you down as a reference. If he asks, you used to be an underground musician a few years ago, and I worked as your bodyguard for about two years. If he asks why I left the job, tell him it's because your musical career sank."

"P'shit." Sam scoffed and shot him a caustic smirk. "Bitch, please. If I was a rock star, I would've 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 it."

Osmond returned the snarky half-smile. "Yeah right."

At that, he turned and approached the door.

Sam followed him, now looking slightly disturbed, a dark thought dawning on him.

"Hey," Sam said. "Tell me something."

Osmond peered over his shoulder at him.

Sam gave him a serious stare. "Did you 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 to kill Benny?"

Osmond gazed into him silently for a moment, trying to think of a response and drawing a blank. He merely sighed, pushing the door open and stepping out of the room.

The two of them emerged behind the pawn shop's counter, and Osmond glanced around, feeling a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his gut. There were now a few video games sitting on the counter beside the register, and the pawn shop was empty.

"Shit—where did she go?" Osmond hissed, stepping out from behind the counter and marching briskly toward the exit, Sam following closely behind.

Osmond shoved the glass doors open and stepped outside, his eyes darting in every direction, searching the street and sidewalks for the governor's daughter.

Then, Sam patted him calmly on the shoulder, drawing his attention and pointing down at the end of the street.

Osmond followed Sam's trail of vision; at the end of Eastern Avenue, the teenagers were still playing basketball at the court, and now, Osmond was able to see Skylar's sunglasses and head of dark hair shining reflectively in the sunlight. She was running up and down the basketball court alongside the teenaged boys, trying to swipe the ball from one of them and shouting and laughing along with her apparent teammates.

"She's a hell of a free spirit," Sam observed, pocketing his hands and observing the girl from afar. "Good luck keeping an eye on that."

Osmond said nothing, simply narrowing his eyes down the street and watching as Skylar played basketball with the teenagers.

Yes, Skylar certainly did seem like a free spirit—a strange girl born into a ridiculous amount of money, but she didn't seem the rich type at all. From volunteer work to late-night bar visits, Skylar seemed the exact opposite of what he imagined a governor's daughter to be. She didn't have any regard for anything expected of her; she was simply determined to have fun and find her own path in life, nothing more or less.

Sam slowly moved toward the front doors of his pawn shop again, placing a hand on the door's handle and hesitating, his eyes still fixed on Osmond.

"Hey," Sam said seriously. "You better keep a damn close eye on that girl."

Osmond turned and gave him a strange squint.

Sam sighed. "If the Acardis get desperate enough… they might do something drastic to put the Kevron Company in their pocket."

Then, Sam swung the doors open and marched back into his shop, leaving his friend alone on the sidewalk.

Osmond wore a troubled visage, facing away from the building and staring down the street again, observing as Skylar slapped the ball away from one of the boys and made a two-pointer shot, the ball sinking perfectly into the basket. Half of the boys cheered while the others groaned and cursed, and Skylar began laughing victoriously, sticking out her tongue and holding up two middle fingers to the boys she'd defeated.

Osmond let slip a smirk, breathing out a faint laugh as he watched.

Skylar perked up, spotting Osmond in the distance and waving goodbye to the teenagers. "Seeya later, you little cheaters!"

She jogged across the street and reached the sidewalk, marching up to Osmond briskly, panting and combing her bangs aside.

He eyed her intently, still wearing a subtle smirk.

"You're weird," Osmond remarked.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 weird," Skylar quipped in response, walking past him and heading for the pawn shop's entrance. "You disappeared for like twenty minutes, and I was bored, so I went out and played. Sue me. I wanna buy a few games before we go—do you want anything?"

She stood and held the door for him as they both stepped inside.

"From here?" Osmond asked, glancing around the aisles. "Not really... not right now…"

Skylar sauntered up to the counter and pushed the video games toward Sam.

"Do you take credit cards?" Skylar asked, pulling out her black leather wallet.

"Why hell yes I do, sweetheart," Sam replied charmingly, cocking his head and scanning each of the games. "And you know what—I could just forget to ring these up. You and I could go out to dinner and call it even."

"Hey." Osmond loomed over Skylar's shoulder, glaring hotly into Sam. "Back off."

"What? She's not your 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥," Sam laughed, placing each of the discs into their respective game cases. He lifted the video games and gave them a once-over. "Damn, girl. These are all shooters and crime games. You've got a violent streak, don't 'cha?"

"Shooting people is fun," Skylar shrugged. "And stealing cars, and moving guns—it's a fun little world to live in. Way more exciting than normal life."

"Well… ain't 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 the truth," Sam smiled curtly, sparing his old friend a sly glance.

Osmond leered at him, his jaw making a twitch.

Skylar paid for her games and took the plastic bag from Sam, giving him her thanks and goodbyes before strolling toward the door. The two old friends shared a final glance before Osmond followed Skylar outside.

"I have to come back here again later," Osmond told her, walking around the car and sinking into the driver seat. "I wanted to buy something specific from him, but he won't have it in stock until later this afternoon."

"That's cool," Skylar replied, leaping over the passenger door and plopping into the passenger side. "Let's go play some games."

Osmond nodded and started the engine, slowly pulling the Mustang back onto the road and driving away from the pawn shop.

He knew of a good arcade—it was right across the street from Mack's deli shop three blocks away—but he felt unsettled in his old neighborhood, and he knew the police were still likely searching the area for Raymond Salem. So, he chose the safe route instead, driving out of south Ireville and heading for the west side of the city.

West Ireville wasn't a slummy part of the city like the south, nor was it a ritzy area like the north—it was something in between, a middle-class area full of relatively ordinary people, with no particularly dangerous streets and no gun-trafficking that Osmond was aware of. It was his safest option as of now, unless he decided to drive into east Ireville—but the east side of the city was nothing but cheap wannabe tourist places, places often visited by folks who couldn't afford to vacation in Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge where the real tourist attractions resided. He never cared for east Ireville—the west side of the city was the best option for now.

Osmond drove her to a movie theater he'd visited a couple of times in the past. During his late teens, he and his friends often got kicked out of their local movie theater, and they'd resort to driving to west Ireville instead; it was a large yellow building right beside a local arcade and a pizzeria.

Once the two of them were inside the arcade, Skylar was beaming at all the games and colorful lights, moving from machine to machine and playing nearly every game in the building.

Osmond stood with his arms folded, his back against the wall as he merely watched over her from a short distance away, waiting for time to pass.

As Skylar enjoyed herself, Osmond's eyes followed her from game to game while she solicited nearby gamers into two-player challenges.

As the day carried on, and as Osmond observed the girl, his mind wandered.

He thought of everything Sam said before—that the Acardi family wanted some level of control over the Kevron Company, the very company owned by Skylar's father.

If the Acardi family wanted control of the company badly enough, they might resort to something drastic—that was Sam's synopsis, but Osmond wasn't sure. Personally, he'd never even met anyone from the Acardi family. Back in the old days, Sam usually dealt with the Italians from up north, not Osmond. Certain families and gangs were more familiar with Osmond while others were more familiar with Sam, or Carlos, or Mack, or Anton. It all depended on who knew who, and Osmond simply wasn't connected to the mysterious Italian family at all.

He wondered if the Acardi family ever tried to retaliate after learning that something had been stolen from them.

Benny stole from the Acardis and blamed it on Osmond—or, rather, on Raymond. But, Raymond Salem was arrested and removed from the game before the Acardis could ever retaliate. So, Osmond had no idea of how forgiving or merciless these mysterious people might've been. He had no prior experiences with them, no clue of what they might do in retaliation to the Ireville gun-runners.

And as his eyes followed Skylar around the arcade, he felt an uneasy knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

Perhaps he was being paranoid—after all, this girl seemed to get by just fine even without a bodyguard. Surely, no one was planning to sway the governor's actions by targeting his daughter. No banished Mafiosos had tried to kidnap her. If they had, she would've vanished without a trace by now.

But, Osmond knew this game was often a patient one, and making the wrong move at the wrong time was an easy way to derail any complicated crime plan. If the Acardis were willing to do something drastic, then perhaps they simply hadn't come to that resolution yet. They were probably trying to use quieter means first—diplomatic methods, methods that wouldn't involve ransoming or kidnapping. That would've been the smarter move. Targeting the governor's daughter should be a last resort for any crime family with half a brain.

Still—if anyone did eventually come for her, Osmond was most assuredly prepared for that now. Two heavy handguns rested on either side of him, tucked beneath his arms and hidden from sight, a protective vest embracing him beneath his clean-cut attire. He'd been dealt an excellent hand for once, and he wasn't about to lose all of that just because some crime family was breaking the rules of criminal conduct in Ireville.

"Hey!" Skylar shouted, waving at Osmond and snapping him out of his thoughts. "Come'ere!"

Osmond straightened up and unfolded his arms, moving across the building and approaching her. Skylar stood beside a large hunting game, which was equipped with two orange shotguns and a large screen depicting a wide variety of digital deer running back and forth. A few people stood around her moments ago, but they all wandered away after Skylar defeated them.

"You don't have to just stand there doing nothing," Skylar said, lifting one of the plastic orange shotguns and placing it in his hands. "Here, play with me."

Osmond stared down at it blankly, then at the machine.

Skylar inserted another dollar into the machine and held up her plastic shotgun.

When the deer appeared on the screen, she and Osmond pumped their fake guns and opened fire. Skylar was a surprisingly good shot, but Osmond was even better, moving with ease and killing every virtual deer he aimed at.

When the game finished, he won by two hundred points, and he was the first person in the arcade to beat her.

"Holy crap," Skylar muttered, gaping at the screen and turning to him. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

Osmond lowered the gun, pondering on a familiar old wooded area in the mountains, where he and his friends used to practice shooting their firearms for fun.

Sometimes, they would bring old slabs of plywood with spray-painted targets on them—but other times, when they felt more adventurous, they'd shoot at gas canisters, laughing and high-fiving whenever they erupted in flames. It was more for fun than anything, but he and his friends always talked big about the day they'd have to take up arms and fight off anyone who threatened their business. It was a stupid and wild thought—and, of course, it was something that never happened—but back then, he and his friends felt as if they were gearing up for some big imaginary war in their future. During that time, Osmond became a crack shot through all that practice. He was no stranger to guns, whether it came to selling them, dismantling them, or shooting them.

He dwelled in the memory for a moment, then sighed and placed the fake gun onto its stand.

"Bodyguards gotta know their guns," Osmond said with a shrug. "Part of the job."

Skylar nodded, glancing around and eyeballing the other games. "Hey… you wanna play Streetfighter now?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you want."

"Let's go!"

For the remainder of the afternoon, Skylar dragged him from machine to machine—and, as time passed, and as Osmond fought against her at every two-player game in the arcade, he was surprised to find that he was actually enjoying himself.

For a short while, he laughed alongside her, and he wasn't thinking at all about the interview tonight, the mysterious Acardi family, or the police searching ravenously for Raymond Salem.

It wasn't until the sun began to set when his rationale finally returned to him.

Osmond looked up from the WW2 game he and Skylar had been playing for fifteen minutes, squinting at the window and realizing that the sunlight was beginning to dim into a faint orange glow. The day was nearing its end, and he checked his watch, seeing that it was nearly six-thirty. He needed to return to the pawn shop before driving back to Highland Drive.

"Oh, shit—we need to go," Osmond said, turning to Skylar and tapping his watch. "I have to swing by the pawn shop again before I meet your father."

"Oh—come on, we can play one more game," Skylar replied dismissively. "Dad can wait."

"Yeah, well, listen—I wanna make a good first impression," Osmond said flatly. "You don't show up to an interview late. That's rule number one. Come on. We can come back here tomorrow, if you want."

"I have to work at the food bank tomorrow…"

"We'll come back after that, then. Just come on, please."

"Ugh, fine… but I wanna stop at Taco Bell."

"Okay, okay…"

Osmond and Skylar stepped outside and climbed into the Mustang, and Osmond drove out of the parking lot rather quickly.

He managed to reach south Ireville before the sun began to vanish from the sky, parking in front of the pawn shop again and feeling considerably more anxious than his previous visit; he knew the neighborhood would be crawling with police again once nightfall came, and sunset wasn't long to come.

Not to mention, the time was drawing near for his interview with the governor of Tennessee, and that alone was enough to put a sickened lump in his throat.

Skylar waited in the car while Osmond marched into Sam's pawn shop. This time, the shop was filled with customers.

Osmond waited impatiently until Sam was finished ringing up all their goods, and once the customers left the building, Sam motioned for him to come into the back room again.

The two of them vanished behind the employee door and isolated themselves in the back room, Sam marching over to the round table and lifting up a few small, fateful documents.

"Here's your guard card under the name Osmond Williams," Sam informed, handing him the blue card first. "Here's your new driver's license, and here's a few more cards and certificates you need to cover your ass—it's all the legal proof that you're allowed to do what you're doing, and you're allowed to use lethal force against anyone threatening you or the girl. Oh, this one is a certificate of proof that you underwent bodyguard training—pff, yeah right—oh yeah, and I threw in a license to kill on the house. Just in case. Gotta cover your ass out there, legally speaking. You can't afford to end up with a record on this name, too."

"Holy shit—you went all out. Thank you, seriously," Osmond said gratefully, skimming over all the cards. "Tell Orlando thanks, too. You're both gonna get paid with interest, I swear to God. This is a fucking Godsend. You have no idea."

"Hold on." Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a large brown wallet, a leather one that looked rather expensive. "Put the cards in here. It's gonna look weird if you just have them all loose in your pockets."

"Right, right…"

As Osmond inserted his new forms of identification neatly into the wallet, Sam spun around and began collecting boxes of ammo from the nearest locker, filling a few magazines with bullets before sliding them into Osmond's suit pockets.

"Hey—what're you doing?" Osmond asked.

"You need all the ammo you can get, Mr. Bodyguard," Sam replied, stuffing the pockets as much as possible without overfilling them.

"I'm protecting a single girl," Osmond mumbled. "Not going to war."

"Yeah—but you might end up protecting her from the Acardi family, and that 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 be a war," Sam told him flatly. "You don't know them, but I do. They're a big family, and they don't take shit from anyone. Trust me—if this whole thing goes south later down the road, we're all gonna have a serious fight on our hands."

Osmond stared at him silently for a moment. "You're being paranoid…"

"I hope so, Mr. Bodyguard," Sam replied conclusively, straightening up and patting him on the shoulder. "I hope to God so."

Osmond spared him another stare before facing the door, scanning over all the cards in his new wallet and reading them intently.

"Hey—don't take this personally," Sam said. "But you can't come around here again. Not right now, anyway. Wait for the police presence to die down before you come back here. If the cops catch you in here with me, there's gonna be hell to pay."

"I know." Osmond's voice was distant, his eyes darting between every word, number, and picture on the cards, absorbing every ounce of information about his new identity.

"Oh—shit—one more thing," Sam said suddenly, rifling through his pockets and pulling out something shiny and golden. "Here—and this was 𝘯𝘰𝘵 an easy thing to get my hands on, especially on such short notice. You better pay for my damn vacation for this."

Sam placed it in Osmond's hands.

Osmond stared down at it, the glistening badge in the shape of a rounded shield, a star on its front and decorated with an imprint of an American eagle. Above and beneath the eagle was a carved design of a few banners, which depicted a title in blue capital letters. It read REGISTERED EXECUTIVE BODYGUARD.

Osmond's gaze traveled between the badge and the blue card in his wallet, which read REGISTERED BODYGUARD, an image of an eleven-year-younger Osmond Williams depicted beside the words, a portrait taken before he ever carried the name Raymond or grew a goatee, back when his hair was darker and his face was clean-shaven, much like it was now. It all seemed to tie together perfectly, from his appearance to his credentials.

Osmond held his new life in the palms of his hands, and he lost himself in the sight of the cards and the badge, taking a deep breath and silently vowing to uphold the responsibilities that came with these credentials to the best of his ability.

"This is unreal," Osmond breathed.

"This is 𝘺𝘰𝘶 now," Sam told him. "Turns out Orlando's father actually 𝘸𝘢𝘴 a registered bodyguard, and he used to work with the government back in the day. Orlando really didn't wanna turn his father's badge loose, so you better make damn good use of it. Don't screw this up, man. Most people don't get a second chance. Especially not one like this."

Osmond slowly nodded in agreement, but he didn't need telling. He knew this streak of good fortune was definitely not something he could afford to waste. His entire life rested on his competence with this job, and now, a girl's life depended on it as well. He could never afford to make another mistake like the one he'd made on that fateful New Year's Eve. He never imagined his prison escape would be so successful—and he certainly never imagined coming to this new and prosperous path in life so shortly afterward. He'd be a fool to let anything ruin this now.

"I guess… this is it," he murmured, slowly raising his head and finally tearing his gaze from the badge and the cards. "I'm… a real bodyguard now."