On the weekend, Jennifer and I registered for our marriage preparation class. After that, we spent our time searching for her wedding dress and finding an event organizer to help us plan the ceremony.
Our classes were supposed to start this weekend, but we had to postpone them—because I have a job.
I don't think I've mentioned it yet, but since quitting as an assassin, I've registered as a freelance bodyguard under a few agencies. This time, under my real identity.
Unlike my past jobs as Tim Chang, I'm only taking incidental jobs—not full-time protection work.
Freelance bodyguard work in NY city is plentiful, ranging from escorting valuable assets between locations, providing extra security for celebrities, or protecting high-profile clients with life-threatening issues.
But since I have no formal certification and no experience I can list on paper, I've gotten zero job offers.
Until a few days ago.
The job? Not glamorous. But I wouldn't call it degrading, either.
Along with a female bodyguard named Carol, I've been hired to protect and take care of a dog.
Not just any dog.
A 12-year-old, 100-pound bulldog named Fat Jim—the beloved pet of viral rapper Slim "Dirty Mouth" Joe.
This guy is the biggest hype in the rap scene right now. His music is basically just a stream of filthy words describing sex. For some reason, men find confidence in his songs, and women… well, they melt over them.
He's in town to attend his mother's third wedding.
And our real job?
Keep Fat Jim safe.
Since the dog is so overweight he can barely walk, I've been hired to carry him.
Carol's job? Feed him and clean him.
That's it.
Tonight, our motorcade pulls up in front of the five-star hotel where Slim Joe is staying.
We've just come back from the wedding rehearsal dinner, where I had to carry a 100-pound bulldog for over three hours—all because the restaurant wouldn't let pets inside.
Slim Joe? Not happy.
He had bought Fat Jim a custom-fitted tux so the dog could be part of the ceremony. But the restaurant manager refused to budge.
Even when Slim Joe threatened to cancel the event, the manager didn't blink.
Joe was bluffing, and everyone knew it. Less than 24 hours before the wedding? He wasn't moving venues now.
So instead, he made me carry Fat Jim all night long—just so the dog could see his face through the glass doors.
Now, I'm just about to lift Fat Jim out of the car when—
A commotion.
Yelling.
The sound of gun safeties clicking off.
"Drop your gun!"
"I will kill you, you bastard!"
I shove Fat Jim back into the car and move toward the chaos.
A black middle-aged man is standing in the middle of the crowd—his gun aimed directly at Slim Joe's chest.
Four bodyguards surround them, weapons drawn.
Then—I see his face.
I know this man.
Jerome Johnson.
Before I can process it, a woman's furious scream pierces the air.
"You son of a bitch!"
I freeze.
That voice.
"You rapist!"
A small, elderly woman pushes through the crowd.
My eyes widen in shock.
Mrs. Johnson.
I recognize her instantly.
She's the woman who gave me shelter years ago. The woman who let me stay in her house when I had nowhere to go.
And Jerome Johnson?
He's her only son.
I've never met him before, but I remember his face from her photographs.
When I lived in her house, he was in prison.
And Princess?
His daughter.
Everything happens at once.
I push through the crowd, moving fast.
Jerome—startled—turns his gun toward me.
I don't give him the chance to act.
I grab his wrist and twist it behind his back.
He screams in pain—his grip loosening.
The gun drops—
BANG!
The misfire rings through the air.
"Aaaaah!!"
One of the bodyguards stumbles back, gripping his leg—blood spilling onto the pavement.
"Scott?!"
Mrs. Johnson's shocked voice pulls my attention for a split second.
Jerome twists his head toward her, disbelief and fury burning in his eyes.
"You know him, Mom?!" His voice is sharp, accusatory.
Then his rage shifts to me.
"You!"
More clicks of shifting weapons.
All guns are now pointed at Jerome.
"Hold it!"
I shout, raising a hand to stop the bodyguards from firing.
And then—I slam my fist into Jerome's jaw.
His head snaps back.
His body crumples to the ground.
Unconscious.
Mrs. Johnson screams, trying to reach him.
I grab her arm, holding her back.
"Scott! You—!"
"Calm down, ma'am," I say in a low voice.
But Mrs. Johnson is furious.
Her entire body shakes—not with fear, but with rage.
Not at me.
At him.
"You bastard!" she spits, thrashing in my hold. "You raped my baby! I won't let you—!"
All eyes turn to Slim Joe.
Even with sweat clinging to his forehead, his smirk doesn't falter.
"Hey, old lady, don't accuse me of things that aren't true," he says, voice mockingly calm. "The court ruled me innocent. It was all consensual."
Mrs. Johnson's face twists in fury.
"You drugged her!" she screams, voice breaking, body shaking with grief.
She lunges toward him, but there's nothing she can do.
She's in my grip.
The guns shift.
Now, they're pointed at her.
Damn it.
I don't hesitate.
I press my fingers to her pressure point.
Her body slumps against me—unconscious.
I catch her gently, lowering her to the ground.
Slim Joe clicks his tongue. "Tsk. Get rid of them."
One of the bodyguards moves forward.
I step in.
"I'll take care of it."
Slim Joe eyes me, calculating.
Then, with a smirk, he nods.
"Fine. Make sure they don't bother me again."
I say nothing.
I just nod back.
-
While carrying Mrs. Johnson, I drag Jerome's unconscious body until we disappear into a blind alley near the hotel. Once we're safely out of sight, I pull my gun and fire two rounds into the air.
The sharp cracks echo down the alley.
I wait, listening.
A few seconds later, the crowd outside scatters, and Slim Joe's bodyguards take the bait, leaving the area.
The second they're gone, I step onto the curb and stop a taxi, shoving both bodies inside before sliding in myself.
The ride is silent except for the hum of the engine and Mrs. Johnson's steady breathing.
I reach out and stroke her pressure point, waking her gently. Her eyelids flutter before she blinks awake, momentarily disoriented.
"I'm sorry. I had to do that to you so they wouldn't shoot you or Jerome."
She turns her head, her movements sluggish, but the moment her gaze lands on her son, panic flashes across her face.
"Jerome…"
"He's fine," I reassure her before she can spiral into fear. "His face might swell later, but I made sure not to break anything."
She stares at him for a long moment, as if memorizing every detail, before a deep, shaky breath escapes her lips. Then, without warning, her hands fly to her face, and she starts to cry.
My stomach tightens.
"Tell me what happened," I urge gently.
Her sobs shake her frail frame, but she forces out the words, her voice raw with pain.
"That man… that bastard… raped Princess."
The words hit me like a gut punch.
"What??! How??!" Princess is barely fifteen. How the hell did she even get close to someone like Slim Joe?
Mrs. Johnson clutches the fabric of her dress like she's trying to hold herself together.
"She idolized that bastard. Six months ago, she begged me to let her meet him. She said her friend knew him and could introduce her. Her father and I forbade it… but she went anyway."
Her fingers tremble as she grips her lap, her knuckles going white. "And then our worst nightmare came true," she whispers. My jaw clenches.
"She didn't come home that night," she continues, her voice breaking.
"She only came back the next day… clothes torn, body covered in bruises… and she wouldn't stop crying." The air in the taxi feels suffocating.
Princess.
The girl who once filled the room with laughter, who dreamed of college, who had an entire future ahead of her.
Gone.
Destroyed by a man who would walk away untouched.
Mrs. Johnson's body trembles as fresh sobs shake her frame.
Without thinking, I pull her close, letting her cry into my chest.
"We… we didn't have money, but we still had faith in the law," she murmurs against me.
I listen, my grip tightening.
"We gathered everything we had and filed a lawsuit. We pressed charges." Her voice is so soft, so fragile, I almost miss the next part.
"After so much convincing… Princess agreed to testify in court." I inhale sharply.
That alone was a miracle.
Most victims never get that far. The shame, the fear, the trauma—it's enough to silence them before they ever see a courtroom. But Princess fought.
Mrs. Johnson sniffles, wiping her face with shaking hands. "Our lawyer said it was a good thing. Said it meant we had a strong case. Said we might actually win."
She pauses, her breath hitching. "But… but…"
Her entire body goes rigid.
I already know.
I feel it in the way her fingers curl against my shirt.
The system failed them.
Again.