A Quiet Life Denied
Chapter 45 - 44: Starting Of The Aptitude Test

Chapter 45: Chapter 44: Starting Of The Aptitude Test

Franz’s POV

The bottle of Healthy Whiskey sat cold against my lips. I took a long drink and let the sweetness sit on my tongue for a second before swallowing it down with a sigh.

It didn’t help much.

My shirt was soaked through. My arms still felt like they were on fire. Sweat clung to my spine.

Three hundred one push-ups. Three hundred one pull-ups. Thirty-one kilometers.

Not hard.

Refreshing.

Across the path, I caught sight of her again—the same jogger from last time. Same pace, same judgmental energy. Like she had somewhere better to be and had already decided I wasn’t it.

She passed with that same disappointed and disgusted look.

I raised my middle finger.

She didn’t even flinch.

Just kept jogging—eyes ahead, ponytail swaying with rhythm—as if I were some drunk slurring curses in a parking lot.

<You’re proving her right, you know.>

I sat a moment longer, then stood. Cracked my neck. Rolled out my shoulders.

Time to go.

[Again pretending nothing happened huh.]

...

The apartment was quiet when I got back.

---

### In the Shower

Franz stood under the spray, one hand pressed against the cool tile, the other lazily running through his hair. Water coursed down his shoulders and back, washing away the sweat, the grime, the leftover tension from the morning run—and the morning whiskey.

He tilted his head back, eyes closed, and hummed.

The notes were different, but the mood was perfect.

"I was made for loving you, baby...

You were made for loving me..."

The steam swirled around him like mist at a concert. He hummed louder now, more rhythm than melody.

<Are you trying to summon rain or just testing our patience?>

[You’re going to be late.]

Franz reached for the shampoo like he heard them. But he just didn’t care.

He was still humming when he shut the water off and toweled himself dry, the song bleeding into little whistles and mumbles as he moved from room to room.

Ten minutes later, he was dressed—hoodie zipped halfway, joggers clean and soft, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. One of four pairs. Same frame, different tints.

He grabbed his keys and phone. Paused. Then smeared a fat layer of peanut butter on a single slice of bread, slapped another one on top, and bit down hard.

Half the sandwich hung from his mouth as he locked the door behind him, slid on his helmet, and stepped onto the street.

He mumbled around the bread:

The morning breeze against my face.

"Alright. Let’s do this."

...

....

....

.....

College Auditorium—

The air in the auditorium was thick—not with noise, but with nerves.

Rows of students filled the space wall to wall. Conversations drifted in and out—some excited, others tense. Pens clicked. Paper rustled.

At the center of the stage, a plain white screen displayed:

APTITUDE ASSESSMENT: PHASE ONE

Staff moved down the aisles with quiet efficiency—distributing test sheets, ID slips, and clipboard tags. Nothing too fancy. Just enough to feel official.

In the middle rows, the main group sat together.

Celeste was upright, eyes scanning the room in quiet observation. Zane sat beside her, one leg bouncing, pretending not to care. Lena looked like she was trying to memorize answers before the test even began. Iris was calm, already reading through the instructions. Emphera leaned back with her arms crossed, a look on her face that screamed they’ll be lucky if I even try.

The atmosphere wasn’t heavy.

Just still.

And then the doors opened.

Franz walked in, helmet tucked under one arm.

His hoodie still bore faint creases from a rushed change. His hair was slightly damp at the edges. His steps were quiet—but not hesitant.

The moment he entered, heads turned.

Lena’s breath caught in her throat. She nudged Celeste with her elbow. Celeste followed her gaze, brows lifting in soft surprise.

"He made it," Lena whispered.

Celeste gave a slight nod.

Lena’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag. She almost raised a hand—almost called out.

But then she noticed.

There weren’t any empty seats nearby. Not in their row, or the next two.

Her hand paused, then awkwardly shifted to fix her hair.

Across the aisle, Franz’s gaze swept the room—calm, unreadable behind his glasses.

He spotted Orion seated near the back.

Alone.

Slouched forward, elbows on knees, fingers tapping against his thigh in a restless rhythm.

<Poor lad.>

[You should sit with him.]

Franz didn’t respond. Just moved.

He stepped over someone’s unzipped backpack and dropped into the seat beside Orion.

Orion stiffened slightly at first—then glanced sideways.

Franz muttered, voice low and dry.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Orion let out a quiet breath. "No. Just... wondered if you studied."

Franz shook his head. "Nope. You?"

"Whole night," Orion said.

Franz nodded, expression unreadable. "Perfect. I’ll just copy off you, then."

<This is an aptitude test, man.>

[And he’s not even subtle about it.]

Franz shrugged. "Yeah? I’ve got an aptitude for copying answers."

Then the lights dimmed slightly. The screen shifted.

A voice crackled through the overhead speakers.

"Welcome, students. Phase one of your aptitude assessment will now begin shortly."

Franz exhaled once.

Orion glanced at him again—like he wanted to say something. But didn’t.

They both looked forward.

....

.....

A Broken Warehouse, Dim and Dripping

The room reeked of rust, blood, and gasoline. Chains dangled from iron beams like the skeletal remains of forgotten prey. Flickering lights buzzed overhead, casting strobe-like flashes over the scene. In the center, a tall man stood—a specter of malice—his silver hair slicked back like polished steel, and his green eyes burning with cold amusement.

He had a man kneeling before him, held upright only by a brutal grip on his scalp. The victim’s face was already swollen, lips split, and blood trailing from one nostril. His limbs trembled—more from hopelessness than pain.

SMACK.

The first slap cracked through the air like a whip.

SMACK. SMACK.

More followed—open-handed, backhanded, unrelenting. Each blow jerked the man’s head to the side like a ragdoll, blood and spit flying with each impact.

Tears welled in his eyes, more from the sting of humiliation than agony.

The silver-haired man leaned in, his voice a low snarl, sour with delight.

"Why the fuck are you crying?"

He laughed, a guttural rasp of cruelty. "You should start crying after I tell you how I killed your family... and fucked your wife."

The man beneath him broke—not his bones, but something deeper, buried inside. His pupils sharpened, tears drying in the heat of rage.

He lifted his bloodied head and spat the words through clenched teeth.

"Yes... anger. That’s what I wanted. To see it burn in your eyes."

There was a flash of confusion in the man’s expression—then fury. He swung, fist curled like a hammer. But the silver-haired caught it mid-air with a sickening snap.

CRUNCH.

His wrist broke in an instant, bone twisting where it shouldn’t, skin giving way under unnatural angles.

"You should’ve followed my orders," he hissed.

The silver-haired man didn’t flinch. He reached behind his coat, drew a gun, and with one smooth motion—

BANG.

The shot echoed like thunder in the hollow of the warehouse.

Brain matter painted the floor behind the corpse. Blood sprayed across the silver-haired man’s face in a warm, sticky mist. He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, savoring the silence.

A second man entered from the shadows—clean-cut, composed, holding a handkerchief. He handed it over without a word. The silver-haired man wiped his face slowly, methodically.

The other man handed him a thick black folder.

"The Adrient family. New intel."

The silver-haired man flipped it open.

Photos, documents, surveillance.

At the front—a picture of Elliot Adrient, a red slash over his face.

"Huh. Elliot’s gone."

He smirked. "He was a cunning fucker... but too blinded by love. Got tangled with those Russian rats and ran his little empire into the dirt."

He licked his thumb and turned the page.

Then paused.

A new photo.

Victoria Adrient.

Eyes defiant. Dressed in black. Holding a glass of wine like a crown.

The silver-haired man’s tongue slid slowly across his lips.

"So... she’s the current owner now."

His smile widened. Predatory.

He traced her image with a bloodied finger.

"This is going to be fun."

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A/N

I am really sorry for this I posted the wrong draft of my Chapter and I couldn’t update it because I can’t delete more then 100 words so I had to write this two time to do it. I am really sorry but I really didn’t like the Chapter i posted before hope you don’t mind it.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A/N

I am really sorry for this I posted the wrong draft of my Chapter and I couldn’t update it because because I can’t delete more then 100 words so I had to write this two times to do it. I am really sorry but I really didn’t like the Chapter i posted before hope you don’t mind it