Page 8 of Protect Thy Enemy

I land another punch, harder this time, pretending it’s his face instead. The bag swings on its chain, creaking softly.

“Ignoring me, huh?” He moves closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate. They scream with a confidence that comes from thinking they’re untouchable. “Guess that’s one way to deal with criticism.”

“I’m busy. Go bother someone else, Corbin,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

He laughs, sharp and hollow. “Busy proving you deserve to be here?”

My hands still, but I don’t look at him. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Maybe not to me,” he says, circling to the other side of the bag so I can’t ignore him. “But you sure as hell have a lot to prove to Grant. To Harris. To Tate. And to everyone else wondering how someone like you skipped the line. Must be nice.”

I turn to face him then, keeping my expression neutral even as my chest burns with a hatred so deep. “I earned my spot here, just like everyone else.”

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Sure you did. You know, some of us actually had to work for this. Some of us weren’t handed opportunities on a silver platter just because we had—” He stops himself, but the insinuation is clear.

“Just because we had what?” I ask.

He smiles, slow and mocking. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I tighten my fists and return the gloves to the bag, throwing a hard right hook that rattles the chains.

Corbin lingers for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing as if waiting for me to snap. It takes every bone in my body not to actually throw a quick right into his face. When I don’t say anything, he huffs and walks off, muttering something under his breath that I can't quite hear.

When the door swings shut behind him, I let out a slow breath. I’ve dealt with guys like him most of my life—jealous, insecure, and desperate to prove they have a bigger wanker. The best remedy is to ignore them and keep moving forward.

But as I land another punch on the bag, harder this time, I can’t help but feel the weight of his words.Must be nice.It isn’t nice. It’s exhausting. Every glance, every whisper, every expectation feels like a collar tied around my neck.

But I didn’t come this far to let anyone make me doubt myself, and I wasn’t about to start today.

Screw him, screweveryone.

I hit the bag again, and my muscles scream in protest, but I don’t stop. Not until the ache in my body drowns out the noise in my head.

***

After a quick shower in a matching luxurious bathroom, I go to the employee cafeteria I spotted during the tour. But I immediately regret it after paying for my lunch when I notice that the cafeteria is packed.

I try not to pay it any mind as I walk in, tray in hand.

I’m not in the mood to sit alone, but I’m not in the mood to make small talk either.

Before I could decide where to sit, I catch a familiar head in the distance.

Park.

He’s by the windows, leaning back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His eyes scan the room lazily, but there’s nothing casual in the perusal. He’s watching.

Still and precise, it’s the one thing that always sets him apart. Unlike everyone else here, Park doesn’t try to dominate the room. He doesn’t need to. His presence is more than enough, just like Agent Grant.

He catches my eye and tips his head toward the seat across from him, face void of all emotion. Not even a smirk. I hesitate for a moment before heading over.

“Williams.” He surprises me by speaking first as I sit down. His voice is its usual calm and low timbre. “You look… annoyed.”

“That’s because I am,” I reply, picking at my Caesar salad.

He says nothing, just raises an eyebrow and waits.

“It’s nothing. It’s just Corbin,” I admit finally, my voice tight. “He’s—”

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