The Bodyguard [2]

In the imposing White House, a room had become the epicenter of a critical discussion that would shape the future of the heroes in the United States. Gathered there were some of the most influential individuals in the country, all dressed in suits that seemed to cost more than the average annual salary of a common citizen.

In the center of the room, commanding the attention of everyone, was President Ethan Grace. At 50 years old, he carried the authority of his office with a mix of dignity and weight, his dark hair beginning to give way to the signs of wisdom of age, and his blue eyes fixed with an intensity that demanded respect. "We must better regulate the heroes, especially the class S ones," he declared, interlocking the fingers of his hands thoughtfully.

"Yes, but how could we do that? We would have to use another class S for that purpose," argued a man, whose concern was evident in his tone of voice.

It was then that the Colonel, a man whose determined expression was enhanced by the white hair that spoke of years of service and challenges faced, intervened. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again, we must continue the GX project."

"That's not," warned President Grace quickly, cutting off the Colonel's suggestion with a firm decision.

A heavy silence took over the room, each one pondering over the words of the President, until he himself proposed a new direction for the conversation. "Heroes nowadays are driven by money and fame. They never were by ethics and responsibility. If we can control that, we can control them."

This sparked a new round of debates. "That's impossible. In that case, we would have to control the guilds, because they, in fact, can control those aspects that affect the lives of the heroes," argued the same man from before, his hair meticulously combed to the side and his glasses reflecting the brightness of the room.

The conversation revolved around a central dilemma: how to regulate the performance of the heroes without compromising the freedom and autonomy that many believed to be essential for their effectiveness?

Controlling a guild has always been considered an impossible mission. The guilds are not just groups or organizations; they represent a "second family" for their members. Within their structures, the motto "one for all and all for one" prevails, with the leader being the heart and soul of the group, holder of the unconditional trust and admiration of his companions. The strength and influence of a guild, therefore, rest not only on their combined powers, but also on the iron loyalty that their members dedicate to their leaders.

The suggestion of controlling such entities was quickly dismissed by most of the people in the room, recognizing the complexity and risk involved. However, there was an exception: President Ethan Grace. By mentioning "Scarlet Jones", he captured the attention of everyone present, causing a wave of surprise that swept the room.

Ethan, taking advantage of the moment, continued, outlining his vision. "Scarlet is an Awakened Class S, leader of the Stone Guild. We have exchanged a few words, and she seems to be someone who cares about the non-awakened, even more than her own race." The description painted a portrait of Scarlet not only as a powerful leader, but as a potentially valuable ally, someone whose influence could be the key to the regulation of the heroes in the United States.

"I see, your idea is to use her power and that of her guild to control the Awakened of the United States of America?" The man with glasses, perceptive, was able to quickly decipher the intentions of the President.

Scarlet Jones, a woman of impressive appearance, with short black hair and red eyes that promised both danger and promises, was a prominent figure not only for her power, but also for her charisma and dominant presence. The president, remembering her, could not help thinking about her sensual and captivating image.

"Yes, by the way, I invited her to the banquet tonight," Ethan revealed, adding another layer of interest to the strategy under discussion. This invitation was not just a courtesy; it was a calculated move, an attempt to align the nation's goals with those of one of the most powerful Awakened in the country.

The atmosphere in the room, until then charged with tension and political strategies, underwent an abrupt change with the mention of Lila's birthday. The colonel, whose expression until then reflected the seriousness of his duties, softened, introducing an element of humanity to the strategic conversation. "Today is Lila's birthday, right?"

"Yes, yes, she will be 16 years old today," replied President Ethan Grace, unable to hide the glow of paternal pride in his voice. "I made sure to increase security and hire a personal bodyguard for her, just for tonight."

The mention of the personal bodyguard and the enhanced security for the celebration of Lila's birthday introduced a new aspect to the discussion, one that touched directly on the protection and well-being of the president's daughter. "I understand," pondered the colonel, before exploring another strand of Lila's personal life that could have strategic implications. "Your daughter is dating the son of the Class S hero Blade, isn't she? Wouldn't that also open an opportunity for us?"

"Yes, it would. That's why I'm totally in favor of their relationship," Ethan said, revealing an additional layer of complexity to the dynamics of power and influence at play.

At the moment when the discussion seemed to deepen even more into the possible ramifications of this relationship, the door opened abruptly. The president's secretary, a woman of advanced age, but whose posture and graceful attire exuded experience and authority, entered with a news that immediately captured the attention of everyone. "Sorry for the intrusion. The bodyguard sent from the High Court has arrived at the White House."

---

Walking through the imposing corridors of the White House, following a man in a suit who seemed to know every inch of that historic place, I caught myself reflecting on the irony of the situation. "If it were in my past life, I would never be able to enter here," I thought, almost hoping that the portraits of the former presidents hanging on the walls could hear my thoughts. The feeling was strangely similar to that of a child in a candy store, but, instead of treats, I was surrounded by a history that I never imagined being part of.

Dressed in my black overcoat, which I had meticulously chosen to match my pants and boots of the same color, and a white shirt underneath, I was the personification of discreet. Oh, and we can't forget the mask that was completely white and without holes that covered my face. "You never know, maybe someone recognizes me and remembers: 'Hey, isn't that guy the one who died in an explosion at the Pentagon?'" Better safe than sorry, right?

The sound of our footsteps was the only noise that disturbed the silence of those corridors, until we reached our final stop. The man who guided me opened the door and, with a gesture, indicated that I should enter. My eyes immediately found a girl with a charming and young appearance, with black hair and blue eyes, who was talking closely with a boy with red hair and eyes. By the proximity and familiarity between them, anyone could guess the nature of their relationship.

Ignoring the possibility that she was the person I was destined to protect, I entered the room. My steps echoed in the environment, capturing the attention of the couple, who interrupted their conversation to stare at me. I kept my gaze firm on them, even though my vision was limited by the white mask that hid any expression of mine.

The silence that settled between us was almost tangible, heavy with the tension of an unexpected and, frankly, unwanted encounter. The announcement of the man who accompanied me seemed like a sentence, pronounced with the purpose of a judge's hammer hitting. "Miss Lila, this is your new bodyguard. He, from now on, will take care of protecting you until the elections are over."

The reactions of Lila and her boyfriend, a simultaneous raising of eyebrows, were the perfect prelude to the discontent that was to come. And as predicted, before Lila could vent her displeasure, the man cut off any attempt of protest with the coldness of someone who is used to giving unquestionable orders. "These are orders from your father. You will remain with a bodyguard until the elections are over. He will be watching you 24 hours a day, ensuring your safety."

Lila, in her casual outfit that denoted both style and challenge, seemed the personification of rebellious youth. Her white cropped and loose black pants spoke of a strong, independent personality. When she stood up, already prepared to express all her frustration, I couldn't help but sympathize with her. "What? Since when did I ask for a bodyguard? I don't need this, damn it!"

Internally, I had to agree with her. The idea of a bodyguard seemed a bit exaggerated because of elections. It's not like we live in a thriller movie where the president's political rival decides to eliminate his daughter. Or is it?

"That has already been decided," the man replied, his voice making it clear that there was no room for discussion or negotiation.

Lila snorted, a storm about to unleash, but before she could release all her teenage fury, her boyfriend intervened. With a confidence that would make legendary heroes look shy, he said, "Relax, we'll find a way to shake him off, okay?"

Ah, the boyfriend. A character who, in my eyes, seemed to come straight out of one of those movies where teenagers make questionable choices that lead to unhappy endings. He had that vibe of a teenage horror movie protagonist - the kind who insists on investigating the strange noise in the basement without a flashlight. Yes, I was judging, but let's be honest, the situation practically asked for it.

Lila, appeased by her boyfriend's unfounded confidence, swallowed her remaining complaints and, with a smile that seemed to hide more plans than she could imagine, said, "It's all right, you can go. I'll accept this wonderful masked bodyguard."

The man in the suit, whose narrowed eyes revealed a well-founded distrust of the young couple's plans, chose to leave the room without further contestation. His expression and tone of voice as he said goodbye carried the gravity of someone who was leaving behind not just a mission, but a gigantic weight. "I'll leave you in the care of Miss Lila now. I'm counting on you to keep her safe."

"Sure, sure," I replied, trying to convey more confidence than I really felt. Watching the man as he walked away, I noticed his youth, probably in his twenties, but with the posture and seriousness of a veteran. His short hair and well-trimmed goatee suggested discipline, perhaps military. He clearly cared about Lila, or maybe it was just the pressure of his job speaking loud.

The door closed with a soft click, marking the beginning of our session of forced coexistence. Lila and her boyfriend, without wasting time, launched into an interrogation that looked more like a pre-game of a sport that I definitely didn't want to play. "What's your name?" Lila asked me, the smile on her lips carrying a mix of provocation and challenge. For a moment, I wondered if she was just trying to annoy me or if she was already plotting some plan to escape my surveillance.

Alva, with his direct approach, would have opted for a simpler solution: confine Lila somewhere isolated until the end of the elections. The idea didn't seem bad at all, considering the alternative of being a babysitter for a teenager who clearly preferred to be anywhere but under my guard. "I'm your bodyguard," I answered, keeping my identity under a cloak of mystery.

"Hm, don't you have a real name, bodyguard?" Her boyfriend joined the conversation, clearly not satisfied with my laconic answer. "No," I retorted, firm in my decision not to prolong our dialogue.

Without giving more rope to the conversation, I sat down and crossed my legs, deciding that it was a good time to practice the meditation that I learned from Draco. It was a complex process that involved the release and control of my mana, moving it methodically through my body, starting from the feet and circulating to the brain. It was a technique that not only increased the control over my mana, but also my concentration.

"Hey, are you ignoring me?" Lila didn't take long to question, her voice tinged with irritation.

It was the reaction of her boyfriend, however, that captured our attention. His eyes widened in shock, as if he was seeing something unbelievable. Lila, noticing the abrupt change in his expression, asked, "What's with that face? It looks like you saw a ghost."

The boyfriend, still mesmerized by what he witnessed, swallowed hard before murmuring, "This meditation, how are you doing it?"

The question was not only about the technique itself, but what it represented. My ability to dive so deeply into meditation, to the point of perceptibly affecting the environment around me, was something that not all the awakened could achieve, especially in such a visible way.

"This meditation is something that requires extreme concentration and patience, so, if you please, be quiet or go do things that boyfriends do, I would appreciate it." My words came out with my eyes still closed, trying to keep the focus on the technique despite the interruption. Quickly, I realized that I might have gone too far with my suggestion, correcting myself: "The last thing no. Just, go over there."

"Hm, what a peculiar bodyguard you are, huh?" Lila grumbled, clearly not used to being treated with such indifference. However, a clever thought crossed her mind, accompanied by a mischievous smile on her lips. "It must be easy to disappear without him noticing."

Her boyfriend, still impacted by the demonstration of meditation, took a while to return to normal. "This must be something that my father knows how to do. Later I'll ask him to teach me," he pondered, glimpsing an opportunity to learn something new and powerful.

By a stroke of luck - or perhaps a moment of truce granted by the universe - the two settled down and began to talk about other subjects. The sound of lips meeting briefly filled the environment, creating an atmosphere that, for me, was a mix of relief that they were distracted and discomfort by the intimacy shared in my presence.

Soon after, they decided to leave the place for lunch, and I followed them in silence, a silent spectator of their youthful and carefree movements. When Lila decided to go to the bathroom, I found myself alone again, waiting outside, a constant reminder of my mission. And then, with the departure of the boyfriend and the arrival of her friends, the dynamics changed once again. The conversations and laughter that came from inside Lila's room, while I remained outside, highlighted my position not only as a protector, but also as a stranger on the margin of her social life.

Lila, the central figure of this intricate narrative, was, in my eyes, a constant source of irritation. However, for those who gravitated in her orbit, she assumed the role of a muse, someone whose presence was enough to brighten the environment, despite her often spoiled attitudes.

After a succession of conversations that ranged from the banal to the laughable, Lila finally found herself alone in her room, her friends having said goodbye with the promise of future meetings. As an Awakened, my senses were always on high alert, a blessing that allowed me to monitor the surroundings and, specifically, Lila's activities without having to be physically present in the same space as her. This ability was not only a tool for my survival; it was a protection mechanism, designed to predict and prevent any threat that might arise.

---

I also found out that tonight, Lila's birthday would be celebrated. But know this, Lila's birthday was not just a birthday. It was also a political party, one of those events where the line between "happy birthday" and "let's see what you can do for me" is as thin as my patience. Lila's friends, those who really care if she likes chocolate or vanilla cake, would be mixed with those guests whose interest was more in connections than in confectionery.

The party promised to be a parade of powerful people and well-known heroes. Great. Because, clearly, what every bodyguard wants is an environment full of individuals who can lift cars with a finger or read minds. But, honestly, I was as affected by that as a duck by a meteor shower.

Outside Lila's room, I kept my vigil, practicing my best "I'm bored, but deadly serious" look. And then, the door opened, and Lila appeared, transformed for the event. She was wearing a black dress that, I suppose, was chosen to kill - figuratively, I hope - complemented by a heel that looked like both a weapon and a fashion accessory. The makeup was on point, and her blue eyes… well, they sparkled with the promise of being the soul of the party, or at least the reason for some headache the next day.

"Wow, Lila Grace, ready to break hearts or just to exercise teenage diplomacy?" I couldn't help but comment internally, keeping an impassive exterior under my white mask.

She passed by me, probably ready to dive into the pool of compliments that awaited her outside, and I, the eternal dark companion, reinforced my commitment to keep her safe. After all, no matter who was going to show up at that party, my job was to ensure that the only dramatic thing of the night was Lila's dress choice, not any Machiavellian scheme of villains or politicians.

As we entered the ballroom, which apparently had been conjured out of nowhere just for the occasion, I could perceive the transformation of Lila from rebellious teenager to birthday girl of the year. I, in my eternal role of shadow, followed right behind, dressed to not impress, but rather to intimidate - or at least to go unnoticed, which, considering my wardrobe, was quite a feat.

Crossing the threshold of the hall, my peripheral vision, always on alert (a kind of superpower granted by years of practice and a healthy dose of paranoia), caught the presence of Ethan Grace, the president of the United States. He was involved in a conversation that seemed as intense as a presidential debate, only with a suited man who, for some reason, exuded the aura of "I am important". Maybe it was the cut of the suit or the way he held his champagne glass - with the confidence of someone who knows he won't spill it.

Now, what does a simple bodyguard do in a situation like this? If you thought "stay quiet and look menacing", congratulations, you got it right. But, I confess, part of me wanted to interrupt that dialogue just to see the expression of surprise on their faces. "Sorry, gentlemen, but Miss Lila needs to cross the hall without being bothered by conversations about economy or whatever."

Obviously, I resisted the impulse. Instead, I kept my focus on Lila, ensuring that her entrance into the hall was as smooth as the arrival of a celebrity on the red carpet. Because, in the end, this was her night - a mix of personal celebration and political event that could only happen in the bizarre world we live in.

As we advanced, it was impossible not to notice the looks that turned to us - or rather, to her. Lila, in all her glory as the birthday girl, shone more than any decoration in the hall. And me? Well, I was just the masked bodyguard, whose presence provoked both curiosity and a slight feeling of discomfort.

And then, as if the party needed more color, behold, a gang of teenagers came in our direction, the perfect contrast to the rigid and formal scenario of the hall.

"Her friends, I guess," I thought, as I watched the group approach, led by Lila's boyfriend. Until then, I didn't know his name and, honestly, I had no interest in finding out. Something told me that "the guy who kisses the president's daughter" was all the identification I needed for him.

Lila's reunion with her boyfriend was marked by a kiss that, I suppose, should be the romantic climax of the night for them. After the exchange of affections, Lila greeted the rest of the group with the familiarity of someone who shares secrets and stories that I probably wouldn't want to know.

And then, as if I wasn't already enough of a fish out of water, one of Lila's friends, with the subtlety of an elephant in a crystal shop, turned to me and asked: "Who is this masked guy here?"

"Who am I? Listen here, missy…" The words almost escaped before Lila intervened, clarifying with pride: "He is my personal bodyguard."

This revelation was like dropping a smoke bomb in a closed room, leaving everyone speechless. The curious friend who had started the interrogation approached with wide eyes, her surprise as palpable as the texture of my mask under her exploring fingers. "Is he a robot or something?" she asked, clearly fascinated by my enigmatic presence.

"Yes, you can touch him as much as you want," Lila encouraged, a mischievous smile adorning her lips. Ah, the fun she found in turning me into a circus attraction for her friends! But, determined not to be the toy of the night, I engaged my "bodyguard who is also human" mode and let out a series of light coughs. The reaction was immediate: Lila's friend jumped back, scared, while a wave of laughter took over the group. There I was, keeping my indifference as a shield, while inside, a part of me couldn't help but find the situation absurdly comical.

"Okay, let's go," Lila declared, and the group, still smiling from my little act, headed to a part of the hall where a table full of food awaited them. Oh, and what a sight that was! Among the many delicacies, the mini burgers caught my attention, and, taking advantage of the general distraction, I started to grab them stealthily, savoring them while keeping an eye on my protege and another on the snacks. Who said bodyguards can't enjoy the small pleasures of a political birthday party?

As Lila and her friends got lost in conversations, I divided my focus between ensuring her safety and discreetly enjoying the gastronomy of the event. After all, it's not every day that you get the chance to taste mini burgers at a party in the White House. And, even in the midst of a job as serious as protecting the president's daughter, I didn't see any harm in finding some joy in the simplest details - even if that meant eating hidden while watching teenagers. What a night, ladies and gentlemen, what a night.