Although there was a high wall lined with cameras surrounding the Fortis Group compound, Max quickly noticed that anyone could simply walk through the main entrance and into the front courtyard without difficulty. It was strange for a facility branded as a fortress, but he knew the reasoning from his research.
The company had thrived, in its early days, on public displays. Fortis had staged elaborate presentations, training showcases where guards marched in formation, demonstrated weapon drills, performed acrobatic takedowns, and showed off cutting-edge gear. The courtyard doubled as a stage. Influencers had flocked here, filming slick clips of armored guards disarming fake attackers or drones buzzing overhead while AI projections predicted strike patterns. Those videos had gone viral, and Fortis's name spread across Notting Hill like wildfire.
But as the months rolled on, the novelty faded. The routines never changed. The same drills, the same theatrics, repeated endlessly. Crowds dwindled. Cameras disappeared. The once-grand showcases turned into stale reruns, and the Fortis Group slipped into decline.
Even so, the courtyard remained pristine. Benches of polished stone lined the walkways. Bushes were clipped into perfect cubes. Small trees rose from soil beds decorated with gravel patterns. To Max, it almost looked like a corporate garden designed for show rather than rest.
They still keep it all perfectly maintained, Max thought as he walked across the open space, hands buried in his hoodie pocket. If I decide to make this place my personal base, I could turn it into something worthwhile… an actual garden. Maybe even an oasis. At the very least, it would be nice to have somewhere to breathe inside all these fortress walls.
At last, Max reached the glass doors of the main building.
The lobby was everything he expected, a sleek display of wealth and corporate arrogance. The floor gleamed with marble tiles, polished to a near-mirror finish. Tall panes of glass reflected every movement, creating an illusion of endless space. And behind the main reception desk, dominating the wall, was a massive black-and-silver shield emblem, the logo of Fortis.
It screamed prestige. It screamed power.
And yet Max knew better. He knew the company had bled itself nearly dry. All this shine was surface only.
Two guards stood at the entrance inside, their posture straight, their eyes sharp. Their uniforms were not ordinary, slim, black, almost tactical in design, with a faint sheen suggesting light armor reinforcement woven into the material. Their belts carried batons and compact gadgets that looked far more advanced than standard security gear.
Those aren't off-the-shelf, Max observed, his eyes narrowing. Custom production, probably linked to military suppliers or private labs. Cost them a fortune, no doubt. Whoever founded this place clearly had connections and big ambitions. No wonder they drowned in debt so quickly. Well… I suppose I should say "the old boss drowned in debt."
The guards noticed him immediately. Their eyes flicked over his appearance, plain hoodie, scuffed tracksuit bottoms, dirt still streaked across his clothes from his earlier tumble into the street. One raised a brow. The other smirked.
"Lost, kid?" the first guard asked, voice carrying a mocking edge.
"Yeah," the second chuckled. "Clients don't come in dressed like that. This is a professional firm, not some youth center."
Max didn't bother responding. He walked past them, calm and deliberate, toward the reception desk.
The receptionist sat behind it, posture immaculate, hair tied back tight, her makeup carefully done to present that corporate-perfect smile. Her eyes, however, barely lifted from her screen. She didn't even wait for him to speak.
"If you're here to apply for guard work," she said in a clipped, dismissive tone, "we're not hiring at the moment. And even if we were, we only take the best of the best."
Max tilted his head, raising one brow. "Is that so?"
He asked honestly. He wanted to hear what their definition of "the best" was. After all, he had Aron's mercenaries to measure them against, men who'd fought and bled in real combat zones.
"Yes," the woman replied, her tone dripping condescension. "And the best of the best don't show up in hoodies and cheap sneakers. You'd be surprised how many punks like you come wandering in, thinking they can land an easy payday. They brag about fighting in back alleys or winning brawls in high school. But working in a professional security firm is another level entirely. So, please, spare us all the trouble and turn back around."
Max glanced down at himself. Hoodie still marked with dust. Trainers a little worn. He almost laughed. In her eyes, he was indistinguishable from a broke teenager trying his luck.
One of the guards by the door chuckled. "Better toss him out before he gets ideas."
The other guard added, "Yeah, before he embarrasses himself. He looks like he wandered in from a bus stop."
Max smirked faintly. He let the insults hang in the air. He had no need to correct them. Not yet.
Because every baton, every uniform, every inch of marble flooring technically belonged to him now.
"Is there any way to prove I'm a top fighter?" Max asked lightly. "Haven't you heard those stories? You know, the cocky types who laugh at someone, only to realize that someone's actually the strongest person in the room?"
The receptionist laughed outright. The guards joined in, their voices echoing across the lobby.
"Every single person here is a professional fighter," the receptionist said, smirking. "Ex-military, law enforcement, Olympic-level athletes. Real training. Real discipline. We have strict standards, ranking systems, and an image to uphold. We don't need hooded children wasting our time with empty bravado. So please, turn around before I call someone to remove you."
Max tilted his head again. If I were a potential client, I'd walk out already. This is how they treat visitors? The company is failing, and they still cling to arrogance. Maybe that's why they're drowning. If they knew who I really was…
He almost told them the truth, that he wasn't here for a job but as a representative of the Billion Bloodline Group. He almost revealed why he'd come. But before he could open his mouth, the sound of sliding doors opening cut through the air.
Footsteps echoed across the marble. A confident voice followed.
"Hey, Suzie," a man called out casually. "Can you get someone to take my car to the garage? I think I slammed the brakes too hard earlier. They're making a weird creaking noise. Damn kid ran out of nowhere, I swear, if I see him again, "
The man stopped mid-sentence. His eyes, shielded partly by his stylish sunglasses, locked directly onto Max. Recognition flared instantly. His jaw tightened. His words caught in his throat, and the easy arrogance in his tone turned into sharp hostility.
"You."
The receptionist blinked, confused. The guards at the door straightened. The air in the lobby shifted, tension rolling in like a storm cloud.
Max stood calmly, hands in his hoodie pocket. He didn't flinch. He didn't move. A faint smile tugged at his lips, one that dared the man to say more.
"Looks like we meet again," Max said quietly, voice carrying enough weight to cut through the marble silence of the room.