Rewritten: Age of Anarchy

The heavy oak door of Winston's office clicked shut behind Drake, sealing him inside. The air smelled of leather-bound books and expensive whisky, thick enough to choke on—with something darker beneath. This room had swallowed stronger men than him whole.

"Sit," Winston said, gesturing to the high-backed chair across from his desk.

Drake hesitated, then sat. His fingers drummed against his thigh—nervous energy with nowhere to go.

Winston moved to the liquor cabinet, the crystal decanter catching the dim light as he poured. He slid the glass toward Drake.

Drake stared at the amber liquid. "I'm not eighteen."

A beat of silence stretched long enough for dust motes to settle in the sunlight between them. Then Winston exhaled, retrieving the glass. "My mistake." He set it aside, his gaze never leaving Drake. "You've changed."

A dry laugh escaped Drake's lips. "Have I?"

"Something in you has." Winston leaned forward, elbows on the desk. The leather creaked like a hanging rope. "And I want to know what."

Drake's smile faltered. He looked away, feigning interest in the bookshelves lining the walls. "Dunno what you mean."

Winston didn't blink. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and placed Drake's dragon-hilted blade between them. The metal gleamed, the ruby eyes of the carved dragon catching the light as if they were alive. A faint hum vibrated through the desk.

Drake's breath hitched. His fingers remembered the surge of power from it, the way he had fought during the match.

"What happened while you were unconscious?" Winston asked.

"Nothing." The lie came too fast.

Winston leaned back, swirling his drink. Then, without another word, he stood and walked to the window. The evening sun spilled in, painting his sharp features in gold, his hazel eyes glowing like banked embers.

"Boy," he said quietly, "this is the first time we're meeting in person, and you chose to lie to me."

Drake's fingers twitched toward his sword.

Winston didn't turn. "How do you think that blade came into your possession?"

The question landed like a punch. Drake froze. He had always questioned it—Shelby had handed it to him, said it was from her higher-ups, that it was restricted. But now, under Winston's stare, the explanation felt flimsy.

Winston turned, and for a second, his eyes seemed to burn. "What did Shelby say when she gave it to you? That it was from her superiors? That it was off-limits?" His voice hardened. "How did you suddenly get into Arachis?"

Each question was a hammer strike. Drake's throat tightened. He had no answers.

Then Winston said, low and deliberate: "It was me."

Drake's head snapped up.

"All of it. Me." Winston's voice was rough now, a growl beneath the surface. "I've been protecting you from the shadows. Watching over you since you were a child, since your parents were no more. So don't you dare stand there and lie to my face."

Something inside Drake snapped.

"Protecting me?" His voice cracked. "Providing for me?" He shot to his feet, hands shaking. "Do you have any idea what I've been through? The pain? The fucking hell?"

 His vision blurred. "You were nowhere when I was starving in the foster homes. Nowhere when I got my ribs broken in back-alley fights. Nowhere when—" His voice broke. "So don't sit there and act like some goddamn guardian angel when I had to claw my way out of every nightmare alone!"

He turned to leave.

"You dare!" Winston said in a deep overbearing tone.

Then the air shifted.

A crushing weight slammed into Drake, driving him to his knees. His sword clattered to the floor. His lungs burned—he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The pressure was everywhere, pinning him like an insect under glass.

Winston bent down, picking up the blade. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, as he approached.

Then—

The door swung open. Vanessa stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes flicking between them. "Winston," she warned, fingers tapping twice against her thigh in some coded rhythm. "The board convenes in ten minutes."

The pressure vanished. Drake gasped, hands braced against the floor. His heart pounded in his ears, his vision swimming with black spots.

Vanessa stepped forward. "Drake, you should go."

He staggered to his feet, chest heaving. His fingers twitched toward his sword.

Winston didn't hand it back. "I'll be holding onto this for now."

Drake opened his mouth to argue, but Vanessa shot him a look—Not now.

He swallowed the words, turned, and stormed out.

---

The hallway was too bright, the murmurs of passing students too loud. They stared. Whispers followed him.

"That's him."

"The one who beat Riko, the lowest rank."

"Did you see the fight? It was insane—"

"How did he do it?"

Drake barely heard them. His skin still prickled with the remnants of Winston's suffocating presence. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He needed air.

Pushing through the crowd, he burst into the courtyard. The cool evening breeze did nothing to calm the storm inside him. He gripped the railing, knuckles white, and sucked in ragged breaths.

Protecting me? Bullshit.

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts. "You look like hell."

Drake turned. Alexis leaned against the stone archway, arms crossed. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something unreadable.

"Not in the mood," Drake muttered.

Alexis pushed off the wall and walked over. "Heard you had a meeting with Winston."

Drake's jaw tightened. "Yeah. And?"

"And you're still in one piece." Alexis shrugged. "That's impressive."

Drake snorted. "Barely."

Silence stretched between them. Then Alexis sighed. "Look, I don't know what went down in there, but you're shaking like a leaf."

Drake hadn't even realized. He clenched his fists to stop the tremors.

Alexis hesitated, then reached into his pocket and tossed Drake a small, wrapped candy. "Here. Sugar helps."

Drake caught it, staring at the offering like it was a foreign object.

Alexis rolled his eyes. "Just eat it, dumbass."

Drake unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. The sweetness was almost jarring.

For the first time since leaving that office, he felt like he could breathe.

---

The dorm was quiet when Drake finally returned.

Drake sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his empty hands. His sword was gone. The weight of its absence was unnerving.

He flexed his fingers. Winston's words echoed in his skull.

"I've been protecting you from the shadows."

A bitter laugh escaped him. If that was protection, he'd rather have had nothing.

His wrist buzzed. He switched on his smart watch—a single message from an unknown source:

"We need to talk. Tomorrow. Alone."

Drake's stomach twisted. He didn't need to guess who it was.

He switched off the watch, collapsed on the bed, and ran a hand through his hair.

Tomorrow.

Whatever game Winston was playing, Drake was done being a pawn.