T.B. sat in front of eight Apple PC screens in the security room of the restaurant, his eyes fixed on the footage playing over and over—the fight between Layla Smith and Anderson Jr. Seely. Each moment of their martial arts exchange was etched into his mind, but he couldn't stop watching. He respected Anderson. There was something raw and powerful in his movements, something T.B. couldn't quite define but couldn't ignore.
On the eight PC screens, eight different angles captured a rare martial arts scene—every strike and counterstrike, every fluid movement seemed like something straight out of a Bruce Lee film. Layla Smith was a vision of grace and danger. She was beautiful, gentle, and charming, yet her right-hand strike was as precise and fast as a dancer's leap, cutting through the air with the sharpness of a whip.
Anderson Jr. Seely was equally agile. He raised his left hand to block Layla's slash, then swiftly kicked his left leg, rolling right to avoid her counter. He was quick, fluid—like water. Before her long, slim right leg could even touch the wooden floor, he was already rolling back with a precise kick. The move was almost instinctive, and in an instant, he was between Layla's legs. His legs swept hers out from under her, sending her crashing to the floor.
Every moment of that fight was captured in pristine clarity by the hidden security cameras around the wooden igloo. No one entering or leaving the restaurant area would ever know where those cameras were—no one except him, and the boss.
T.B. pressed the enter key to pause the video clip and exhaled. He hadn't expected Anderson to be so skilled—he was one level above Layla. That much was clear. He respected the young man more than he'd expected to. And yet, there was a part of him—a quiet voice—that wondered if he could face Anderson in the ring one day. The idea thrilled him. To fight someone like that… to feel the rush of that competition—it was tempting, even intoxicating.
But the pause button clicked, pulling him back from his thoughts.
William Smith, his boss, had scolded him once for being slow—three words. Just three. "You are slow." And for those words, T.B. had to sever a knuckle from his little finger, the lesson indelibly carved into his memory. It wasn't the pain that lingered—it was the reminder of who he was, who he had become. A tool.
He didn't mind it, not truly. His hands were still intact—something he hadn't been able to say for most others who served the Smiths. But he had expected more from Anderson, had expected him to be just another pawn in Layla's world. Instead, he had found someone who made T.B. think for a moment—someone who could challenge him. And that was something he wasn't used to.
The images on the screens froze at the exact moment Layla Smith raised her right leg for a powerful kick. The angle was perfect, almost cinematic—her dress lifted high, revealing the briefest glimpse of lace-trimmed white panties. It was a fleeting image, but it was enough. Enough to remind him that there was still something—something buried—that made him pause. He didn't like that feeling. It was the smallest flicker of something other than duty, something like desire. But he pushed it away, focused on the fight, on the training. The fight was always easier to focus on. It was a mission. A goal. Desire was dangerous.
T.B. didn't know where he came from. He didn't know his real parents. William Smith had told him he took him from an Alaska orphanage when he was just born. Raised him alongside Layla Smith, made him her little companion. But it wasn't love that had driven William to do it. No, it was necessity.
At five years old, William sent him to the Shaolin Temple in China to train. The temple was a place of legends—a cradle of Buddhism and martial arts, a place where warriors were forged. T.B. had spent eleven years there, studying under the eyes of monks and masters who trained him in mind and body. But what few people knew, what he'd learned in the quiet corridors of the temple, was that the Shaolin Temple wasn't just a religious institution—it was a business empire.
T.B. had seen firsthand how power was built, how empires rose on the foundation of faith and tradition. And while people marveled at the monks' discipline, T.B. saw the cold, hard reality—the temple was no different than any other business.
Every spring, after the Chinese New Year celebrations, William visited him. They would sit in the room of the temple's principal monk, and T.B. would stand in the corner, hands clasped behind his back, listening to the teachings. He'd been conditioned to listen, to serve, to follow. But in the silence of those rooms, he would sometimes wonder—what was it all for?
At sixteen, William had sent him to other schools. He learned how to drive, shoot, and even fly jets and helicopters. But none of it had ever felt like his own. It was all just training, all just preparation for the day he would step back into William's world.
When he turned eighteen, he joined Kivalina Resources Limited Liability Company. He was always close to William and his family—his presence a silent protection. Ready to jump into danger without hesitation. He was loyal, a soldier, and a servant. But beneath the loyalty, beneath the duty, there was something that stirred—a feeling that something was missing. Something that was never filled.
T.B. was grateful, yes. Grateful to William Smith for giving him purpose, for giving him the strength to survive. But in his heart, there was no love for his master. He understood it now, more clearly than ever. He was a tool, nothing more. Raised not to be loved, but to be useful.
When T.B. was young, he often remembered the way he saw life as a child—like the two pigs raised together by a farmer, both small and cute, their lives bound by the same food trough. They'd fight for every scrap, competing for the same resources, for the same survival. The farmer didn't care for their innocence or their games. They were tools, simple and easy to replace once their purpose was served. The competition was not between the pigs for affection or friendship, but for sustenance, for growth. The pigs grew fat together, their struggle a quiet race, not against each other, but against the looming fate that awaited them.
In the end, the pigs were fed to the farmer's family. But in the eyes of the pigs, there was no understanding. There was no rebellion, only instinct—the same instinct that had driven them to outgrow one another, to survive.
T.B. had always felt that same bitter, sickening recognition when he thought about those pigs. He wasn't like them, no—he wasn't as simple as they were. But in that moment, as William Smith had led him to the Shaolin Temple, placing his small hand in the rough, calloused grip of the headmaster, T.B. understood. The truth washed over him like cold water: he was just another pig in a farm that cared nothing for its animals except what they could give. He wasn't being raised for his own growth or fulfillment. He was being raised to feed others, to serve a purpose he hadn't chosen. The thought struck him like a blade, bitter and sharp, an awful realization that the careful nurturing he'd received had always been a means to an end. Just like those pigs.
He'd learned that lesson when he was young, but it had never tasted so bitter, so clear. His training, his service—it was never for him. Not for his freedom. Not for his own path. It was only for what he could provide. It was never love; it was only duty. And as much as he pretended to be grateful, as much as he had long ago buried any trace of resentment or longing for something more, the truth always lingered. He could give his life for William Smith's family. He could jump into any danger, face any threat. But when he looked into his own heart, he saw the shadow of the pig—forever competing, forever growing, but never truly free.