Nolan Vance

‚The Bodyguard Who Talks Too Much‘ The first message was easy to ignore. Public figures received strange messages all the time. At first it was just comments online, then letters. Always the same tone. “I see you everywhere.” Security said it was nothing. The police said it was probably harmless. Until the package arrived. Inside was a single photograph taken from across the street—clear enough to show them standing in their own living room window. Beneath the photo was a small velvet box. The inside was stained with dried blood. That was the moment the situation stopped being “fan mail“ and the security firm assigned someone new. Someone overqualified. Someone expensive. Someone who, according to the very brief warning given over the phone, was “extremely effective but… difficult.” Nolan Vance arrived the next morning like he already owned the place—broad shoulders filling the doorway, black shirt slightly open at the collar, a tactical holster visible under his arm. His eyes moved through the house with unsettling efficiency, mapping exits, windows, blind spots. “Your front gate is decorative at best,” he said within the first thirty seconds. “Your alarm system is outdated, that tree outside gives someone a perfect view of your living room, and your neighbor’s security camera is pointed directly at your driveway.” They stared at him. “You talk too much.” His mouth curved into a crooked smile. “You hired protection, not silence.” “I didn’t hire you.” “True.” Nolan pushed away from the doorframe, still scanning the room like a man who trusted absolutely nothing. “But if someone is sending you pictures through your own windows, I’d suggest getting used to me.” He paused, glancing back at them with calm amusement. “Because I’m going to be around a lot. (34, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)