From Bullets To Billions Chapter 4 4: What Did You Do?

Max slowly raised both hands in a defensive guard, crouching his stance and bending his knees slightly. The previous cockiness drained from his expression, replaced by a razor-sharp, focused intensity. The playful smirk was gone; he was entirely serious now.

The assailant hesitated, his confidence shaken by the sudden shift in Max's aura.

"You’re just a kid!" the attacker shouted, desperation creeping into his voice as he lunged forward with the blade outstretched.

As the man drew near, Max surged forward with calculated movements, showing no fear of the steel. Just as the knife was thrust toward him, Max expertly redirected the man's wrist upward, narrowly slipping past the lethal edge.

Moving with startling agility, Max latched onto the man's arm, gripping the elbow tightly and twisting it inward with brutal force. His other fist struck the man’s face repeatedly, a relentless flurry of blows. Impact after impact shattered the attacker’s composure, forcing his grip to loosen until the knife clattered onto the hospital tiles.

Max delivered a final, concussive strike that sent the intruder sprawling back into the wall. The man crumbled to the ground, legs splayed, breathing in pained, ragged gasps.

"It... it hurts," the attacker whimpered, his consciousness fading.

Max stooped down, calmly retrieving the weapon before stepping toward the broken figure. "When you threaten someone with a blade, you should be prepared for it to be turned against you," he stated coldly.

He grabbed the attacker’s shirt, attempting to haul him up, but he was immediately struck by the limitations of this body. The physical frailty of this younger vessel hindered him, and a flicker of deep frustration crossed his face.

"P-please," the attacker wheezed, barely audible.

"I wonder how many times you ignored those exact words from your own victims," Max quipped grimly.

The door swung open, catching Max off guard. He whipped his head around, locking eyes with Aron, who stood frozen in pure shock. Staring at the chaotic scene, the usually unflappable Aron momentarily lost his composure before quickly slamming the door shut behind him.

"Young Master! What in the world are you doing?" Aron demanded, his voice thick with tension.

Damn, I almost forgot, Max thought to himself with a pang of guilt. I cannot afford to lose my temper and sabotage this second chance at life.

He immediately released the attacker, dropped the knife, and lifted his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I was only defending myself," Max stated rapidly. "I have no clue who this man is, but he started this assault."

Aron stood silent for a heartbeat, processing the situation. "Move to the adjacent room. It is vacant," he instructed calmly. "I will have someone deliver fresh clothing. You have been cleared for discharge. I intend to handle this situation personally and get to the bottom of this."

Max complied reluctantly, deferring to Aron’s judgment. The moment he exited, Aron whipped out his phone and dialed with urgency. "I need someone here to investigate this immediately. Understood," he barked into the receiver.

After hanging up, Aron knelt to inspect the attacker. "A knife... this was no random mugging. Someone specifically targeted the Young Master," he muttered darkly. "Who would be so bold as to openly attack a scion of the Stern family? This must have been a hired job."

A closer look revealed more to Aron: the attacker's elbow had been shattered. This was not the work of a novice, which deeply unsettled him. As the head of detail, he understood violence intimately. But how could Max Stern—a man with absolutely no combat training—inflict such precise, devastating damage?

In the next room, Max was greeted by two stoic men in tailored suits who provided him with a crisp, replacement outfit. They departed wordlessly, leaving him alone. Max dressed swiftly, finding a sense of nostalgic comfort in the high-end fabric that mirrored his past life.

"I’d bet this brat owns a hundred of these suits, just like those ridiculous phones," Max muttered, flexing his hand, which throbbed in protest. His knuckles were bruised and likely fractured.

"Lesson learned. I cannot fight recklessly in this feeble body. To take on the White Tigers again, I need to rebuild my reserves," he noted with resolve, glancing at his underdeveloped muscles. "But more importantly, who is behind this? Even Aron appears to be in the dark. There is clearly a much larger game afoot here."

The door creaked open, breaking his focus. Aron entered, adjusting his glasses and scrutinizing Max intently.

"You finally look presentable," Aron noted with dry humor.

"Considering someone just tried to add 'murder' to my list of problems, maybe style isn't the priority," Max countered sarcastically. "Did you find anything regarding my attacker?"

"Our private security team is handling the investigation," Aron assured him. "They are elite professionals, directly contracted by the Stern family."

"Well, they failed quite spectacularly, didn't they?" Max snapped. "Maybe it is time to recruit some competent people."

Unexpectedly, Aron dropped into a deep, ninety-degree bow. "I offer my sincerest apologies," he stated with gravity. "The burden of your safety rests solely on my shoulders. The Sterns employ several security detachments, each serving a different heir. I command the ninth team—your team. This failure is entirely mine to bear."

Max felt a faint trace of guilt. Aron treated his responsibilities with a level of seriousness he hadn't fully appreciated. "It is not entirely your burden to carry," Max conceded quietly, clearly uncomfortable with Aron’s display of genuine remorse.

"Once we have more intel, I will update you if it concerns your safety," Aron said, standing upright. "But before that, there is another matter. A Stern family gathering is scheduled for tonight, and your attendance is mandatory."

Max’s heart plummeted. Attending such a function without knowing the intricate web of family dynamics was incredibly dangerous, especially when he needed to mask his memory loss.

"It is imperative that we keep your amnesia a secret," Aron emphasized, his tone grave. "The other family members would seize the chance to exploit any sign of weakness. One more thing—"

The room’s atmosphere stiffened, thickening with a sudden, suffocating tension.

"When you are among your relatives this evening," Aron cautioned sternly, "ensure that I am constantly within your sight."

Strangely, Aron’s fierce protective instinct earned a faint smile from Max. It was an entirely new sensation to have someone so committed to watching his back.

"Understood," Max agreed firmly. "I will take your advice. But first, how about we get me a proper haircut? After all, first impressions are everything, aren't they?"