Beverly Hills, Los Angeles, California
The sun burned high over Beverly Hills, washing the palm-lined streets in gold. At the end of a quiet cul-de-sac stood a mansion that didn't flaunt its wealth — it embodied it. Its architecture was restrained, deliberate. Wealth whispered here. It never shouted.
A three-vehicle convoy moved in tight formation along the silent street: a police cruiser in front, followed by a Chevrolet Tahoe and a Crown Victoria. Engines hummed low against the calm afternoon. The neighborhood wasn't crowded, but the convoy's precision drew quiet attention.
The black gates at the end of the cul-de-sac swung open.
The Tahoe and Crown Victoria slipped inside. The cruiser remained outside.
Inside the estate, affluence revealed itself in silence. Clean lines. Neutral stone. Glass and steel balanced with warm wood. Nothing excessive — only intentional. In the driveway, four machines gleamed beneath the sun: a black McLaren F1, a Lamborghini Aventador, a polished Rolls-Royce, and a Range Rover built for presence rather than display.
Birds chirped faintly. Distant traffic murmured beyond the walls. Serenity — curated and controlled.
"Oh… this is cool," Zion muttered from the Tahoe.
Miguel parked with steady precision. The Crown Victoria followed and settled beside them.
Gary stepped out, Celine just behind him. His eyes swept the perimeter automatically — walls, cameras, blind spots, distance to the gate.
Allysa has upgraded her life.
But this place is a liability.
Too big. Too open.
I'll need exit routes.
His gaze shifted briefly toward the Tahoe before returning to the mansion.
A maid approached and opened the rear door for Allysa, Bernard, and Nathalie, bowing slightly.
"Good afternoon, ma'am Allysa, ma'am Nathalie, sir Bernard. Welcome home."
"Thank you," Allysa replied, stepping onto the polished driveway with quiet grace.
Miguel and Zion exited their vehicle and were greeted by another maid.
"Welcome to Ms. Allysa's residence."
"Thank you," Miguel said with a polite nod.
Moments later, Allysa approached them, her expression warm but composed.
"Alejandro, Jonathan — make yourselves at home. And let Scarlet and Patrick know too."
"Thank you, Ms. Allysa. It's an honor," Zion said with a slight bow.
She laughed softly.
"Please stop calling me Ms. Allysa. Just Allysa. We're all human here."
Zion smiled playfully. "Then, for your honor, Allysa, we'll call you that from now on."
She chuckled softly, crossing her arms. "You're funny."
Her smile lingered as she glanced around at the team. "Anyway, make yourselves at home," she said cheerfully before heading inside.
A few steps away, Gary stood apart, scanning the perimeter with quiet precision.
It's a secure mansion, he thought, his eyes flicking from the walls to the windows. Still… someone could break in. I need to find the weakest point.
He exhaled slowly. Focus. Don't let anything distract you. One slip and this mission is compromised.
Images flickered in his mind — Allysa's smile, the way she held Bernard's hand earlier.
Damn it… stay focused.
Footsteps approached, and Gary noticed Miguel at his side. "Hey, you alright?" Miguel asked, concern in his tone, giving a light tap on his shoulder.
"I'm fine," Gary said evenly. "Just checking the area for exits and entry points — quick escape routes if we get attacked." His tone was calm, professional.
Miguel nodded. "Right. But seriously, get that wound treated before it gets infected. And hey — Allysa said we can make ourselves at home." He patted Gary on the shoulder reassuringly and walked off.
Gary stayed still for a moment, watching him leave. There's no rest in espionage. I'll finish this mission… and get out. Because every time I see her…
He glanced down at his side, the cloth wrapping his wound dampening with blood. It throbbed sharply.
It hurts more than the bullet ever could.
Straightening, he muttered under his breath, "Back to the mission," and walked toward the mansion.
Inside, Nathalie greeted him with her usual playful energy. Behind her, Celine stayed quiet, and Zion trailed close. Allysa was speaking with the maids, her smile warm.
"How are you all?" she asked kindly.
"It's been alright, Allysa," one of the maids replied with a polite smile. She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Oh — who are those new people?"
"They're the new bodyguards I hired from Shield Services," Allysa said, smiling softly.
The maid's gaze shifted to Gary, noticing the blood-stained cloth at his side. "I see… but why is one of them bleeding?"
Allysa's smile faded slightly, her voice dropping. "We were attacked a few hours ago."
The maid gasped, her composure breaking. "What? Ms. Allysa, are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Allysa reassured her, exhaling deeply as the memory flickered. "Thanks to that bodyguard — he saved me."
The maid nodded, still concerned. "Does he need medical attention? We can take care of it, as our way of thanking him."
Allysa's expression softened, gentle but firm. "That's kind of you, but don't worry — I'll handle it myself. I want to thank him personally."
Just then, Bernard walked over, adjusting his cufflinks. "Hey, love. I'm heading out — I've got a meeting with the French investors for the hotel project," he said, calm and affectionate.
"Oh, I see. Alright, baby. Good luck," she replied with a soft smile, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
"Thanks, babe," Bernard said, returning the kiss briefly before heading out to his black McLaren F1. The gates opened, and the engine roared to life as he drove away.
The maid watched with a faint smile. "What a charming man you have, Ms. Allysa."
Allysa laughed lightly. "Yeah, he's wonderful. Anyway, could you and the others prepare something for our new guests? Maybe cook them a warm meal… and get the med kits ready too."
"Of course, Ms. Allysa. Leave it to us — we'll take care of everything," the maid said warmly.
Allysa nodded, her tone soft but tinged with weariness. "Thank you."
With that, everyone stepped further inside the mansion — unaware that beneath its calm luxury, tension still lingered quietly in the air.
The space was vast and elegant. Interiors gleamed in pristine white, wooden floors polished until they shone, and grand chandeliers hung from high ceilings, scattering soft light across the rooms. Celine, Gary, Miguel, and Zion followed Allysa and Nathalie inside, with the maids trailing behind.
Zion's eyes widened as he scanned the space. "Yo… this is awesome," he muttered, just loud enough for himself to hear.
"Sis! I'm heading upstairs first. Gonna take a break — it's so hot in here," Nathalie called, sassy and playful, already moving toward the stairs.
"Alright, Nat, head upstairs," Allysa said warmly, her voice calm and commanding. Nathalie climbed gracefully, leaving the maids to head into the kitchen to start cooking.
Miguel, Celine, and Gary quietly looked around, taking in the mansion's scale and elegance.
"Alejandro, Jonathan, Patrick, Scarlet… welcome to my humble home," Allysa said, her smile small, polite, and sweet.
"Allysa, your house is huge! You could fit a family of twenty in here," Zion teased.
"Twenty is enough, Jonathan," she replied with a chuckle, smiling. Miguel, Zion, and Celine let out soft laughs — all except Gary. He stood slightly apart, one hand clutching the cloth wrapping his wound, enduring the pain without a sound.
"Everyone, follow me. I'll show you your rooms," Allysa continued. "This mansion has nine bedrooms — might as well make yourselves comfortable. Right now, it's mostly empty. It's just Nat, three maids, the driver Bernard, and me sharing a room."
As they walked down the hallway, paintings and awards lined the walls. Miguel and Zion whispered to each other.
"Dude… Ms. Allysa is straight-up rich. And successful too. No wonder she has enemies," Zion murmured.
"Yeah… probably why her life's in danger. Rivalries in the industry, maybe," Miguel replied quietly.
Behind them, Gary paused briefly, his eyes falling on a framed photograph of Allysa and Bernard together. Pain flickered across his face — physical from his wound, emotional from the memory. Celine stood silently beside him, unsettled, her gaze wandering across the luxurious surroundings.
Finally, they reached their room. Allysa opened the door and smiled. "Here you go — organized and clean, since no one uses it."
"Sweet! Thanks, Allysa. You're the best boss we've ever had," Zion said, winking. Allysa and he laughed. Miguel smiled quietly, while Celine's chuckle was subdued, and Gary remained expressionless.
"I'll leave it up to you which room you want," Allysa said politely.
"Dibs on this one," Zion said, touching the doorknob.
"Fine, keep it," Miguel replied casually. Celine looked around quietly.
Allysa approached her. "Hey, Scarlet."
"Yes, Allysa?" she asked politely, attentive.
"You have a room of your own upstairs. That one has no key," Allysa explained calmly.
"Oh, I see. Should we check it out now or later?" Celine asked.
"I'll call you when it's ready. Me and the maids are going to treat Patrick's wounds first — the LAMT didn't do a proper job," Allysa said with a polite smile.
"Alright, Allysa. I'll wait," Celine replied, smiling.
Allysa turned toward her and laughed softly. "Hey, don't call me 'Ms.' here, okay? I don't want to seem bossy around you guys."
"Okay, Allysa," Celine said playfully, and they both laughed.
Allysa then looked at Gary, her tone calm and sincere. "Hey, Pat… follow me. I'll treat your wounds."
"No need, Allysa. I can handle it," Gary said dryly.
"I know you can," she said gently, stepping closer. "But it's okay. Let me help. It's my way of saying thank you for saving my life."
Gary met her gaze, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. He nodded, though his expression stayed cold.
Allysa turned to the others. "Guys, if you need me or the maids, don't hesitate to ask."
Scarlet, Alejandro, and Jonathan answered in unison, "Alright, Allysa!"
Allysa and Gary walked down the hallway together — her steps light, his heavier. She led him up to the second floor, stopping at a door. When she opened it, the scent of antiseptic drifted out. The medical room looked like a private mini-clinic: shelves lined with medicine, rolls of bandages, and stacked first-aid kits. Patrick stepped inside and sat down silently, his eyes scanning the room.
"Take off your shirt," Allysa said calmly, pulling on a pair of gloves. "I'll clean the wounds first."
Gary peeled off his shirt without a word, revealing bruises and cuts across his torso. He moved with measured precision, his expression unreadable. Pain throbbed beneath the surface, but he gave nothing away.
Allysa approached with the first-aid tray, carefully snipping through the old bandages. Her scissors paused briefly over a scar on his chest — a flicker of recognition passed in her eyes, as if a memory brushed past. She blinked it away and continued cutting.
"Patrick," she said softly, voice low and gentle. "How long have you been in the security force?"
Gary's tone remained calm, steady, almost detached. "Three years," he replied, eyes fixed ahead, betraying nothing.
Allysa nodded, cleaning around the wound with careful movements. "I see. What was your life before security?"
He exhaled slowly, measured. "I was a SAF member of the PNP."
"Oh… for how long?" she asked, keeping her attention on the cleaning, though her curiosity was clear.
"For four years. Assigned to VIP protection and counter-terrorism," he said quietly, every word precise, his posture controlled despite the discomfort
Allysa listened, a hint of curiosity — or maybe suspicion — in her eyes. "That must've been hard. I actually had someone back in the Philippines… a lover." She sighed. Gary stayed silent, watching her carefully.
"Ah… forget it," she murmured, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "Remembering it just brings back the tragedy that happened there."
A flicker of disbelief passed through Gary's mind. I can't believe her…
He looked at her, softening his tone, but keeping his expression unreadable. "What happened? If it's okay for you to tell me."
"No… it's okay," she said quietly, almost too low to hear. "I don't want to remember the past."
Gary's gaze lingered, calm and measured, hiding the flicker of concern beneath his stoic exterior. "It's alright, Allysa. I understand. It's hard for someone to talk about it."
Allysa continued her careful work, hands steady as she cleaned the wound. Gary, unwilling to press, shifted the conversation seamlessly. "Allysa… where's your fiancé, Bernard?" His tone remained neutral, controlled.
"Oh, Bernard?" she said softly, without looking up. "He's at work."
Gary's brow furrowed slightly, barely noticeable, as a subtle question formed in his mind. After everything… he went to work? His voice, when it emerged, carried only a low undercurrent of suspicion.
"Well…" Allysa continued her careful motions, dampening a towel to clean his wound. "That's just Bernard. Always focused on his work, even when his own life could be in danger. He says it's for our future."
Gary's eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her movements and her tone. Every detail was noted, analyzed. David Ethan Bernard… hotel owner in France, ties in the United States. File seems clean. Maybe he is. I can't assume. Can't let my guard down.
Even as Allysa's gentle hands moved over his wound, Gary's thoughts remained sharp, every observation balanced with quiet vigilance.
Allysa was almost done patching up the wound. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and she sensed something familiar in his gaze. Gary, as always, betrayed nothing — only the faint reflection of pain mirrored in his own calm, unreadable eyes.
"Allysa… you know you don't have to treat me, right?" he said calmly, his voice steady, controlled.
"I have to, Patrick," she replied softly, a small smile touching her lips as she met his eyes. "It's my way of paying you back for the selfless act you did an hour ago."
Gary's lips curved into a faint, controlled smile. "It was nothing, Allysa. Just doing my job as your security personnel. It's my duty to serve and protect."
"All done!" she said cheerfully, brushing her hands together. "It's clean and patched. Try not to do anything reckless today." She chuckled lightly.
"No promises, Allysa," he replied, his tone calm, a trace of dry humor threading through. "The threats are still around, you know."
Allysa removed her gloves, gathering the medical supplies, warmth in her eyes. "Patrick, if you need anything, don't hesitate to tell me—or the maids, alright?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his stoic mask. "And thank you… for treating my wounds. You didn't have to, but you did anyway."
She shook her head, smiling softly. "I should be the one saying that, Pat. You saved my life."
"Anyway," she added, stepping toward the door, "I'll see you downstairs." With that, she left, the soft click of the door echoing lightly behind her.
Alone, Gary allowed himself the briefest exhale, the warmth of her attention lingering longer than he wanted. A small smile crept across his face, but his internal voice snapped him back into control.
Gary, what the hell are you doing… lowering your guard? Don't you dare.
He adjusted his shirt, straightened his posture, and reminded himself: mission first. Always.
With measured steps, he exited the medical room and closed the door behind him, returning fully to the professional mask of a stoic operative.
L.A. EIS Headquarters
From the mountains, Los Angeles stretched across the horizon, bathed in the fading glow of the afternoon sun. The day was ending, and soon the city lights would flicker to life—bright, restless, alive.
Beneath the calm mountainside, however, the underground atmosphere was nothing like the serene sunset above.
Inside the EIS Operating Room, dim lighting barely illuminated the space, the cold glow of monitors casting sharp reflections across the walls. Surveillance screens streamed live feeds, data, thermal scans, and satellite visuals. Guards worked silently, eyes fixed on shifting information, every detail accounted for.
At the center, Frontier stood motionless, observing the monitors. His dark tech mask hummed faintly, scanning, filtering, and processing every frame, every signal, every anomaly.
Footsteps approached.
A supervisor guard halted behind him and snapped a crisp salute. Frontier turned his head slightly, the mask shifting with the motion.
"Sir," the supervisor began clearly, "we've tracked down the owner of the gun—and the bullet registered to it."
Frontier's voice was low, steady, and cold.
"Speak, Supervisor."
"The weapon, a Glock 21, is registered to a man named Dave Cooper. Thirty-four years old. Currently residing in Clarisa Village, San Diego," the supervisor reported, firm and authoritative.
Frontier listened without moving.
Then, in that same deep, calm voice, he said,
"Assemble the troops. Tell them to prepare. We hunt him down tonight."
"Yes, sir."
The supervisor straightened and turned away. Frontier pivoted, his coat shifting with the motion, and walked toward the exit of the operating room without looking back.
As the doors hissed open, one of the visual guards glanced at the supervisor. A single nod was exchanged. The guard faced the monitors again, leaned forward, and pressed a button—activating the next phase of the operation.
The end of Chapter 4