The General sat at his ornate desk, the weight of leadership pressing down on him as he scanned the report in his hands. His expression, though calm, betrayed his simmering frustration. The report detailed yet another infiltration—two more spies spotted roaming around his island. It was the third such incident in recent months, and he was growing weary of these constant intrusions. His patience, always thin, was nearly gone.

He turned the page with a huff, expecting more of the same. But then, something stopped him cold.

The photograph attached to the report caught his eye. A young boy, stared back at him. Blond hair, blue eyes—features that should have been inconsequential to him, yet they weren't. His hand trembled slightly as he held the paper, his eyes locked onto the image.

The boy... He was so alike his Vladimir.

For a moment, the General was no longer in the present. The years peeled away, and he was once again a father, gazing at his beloved son. His heart, long hardened by war and loss, clenched with a sudden, unexpected pang of emotion. The resemblance was uncanny—too uncanny to ignore. The same golden hair, the same piercing eyes, the same expression of quiet defiance that Vladimir had once worn.

His fingers tightened around the edges of the report as memories flooded back, uninvited and unwanted. Memories of a time when he still had something to protect, something worth fighting for. Vladimir. His son. His future, stolen away too soon.

The General swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He forced himself to look away from the photograph, but the boy's image lingered in his mind, searing itself into his thoughts. His breathing grew heavier as he struggled to maintain his composure, the familiar ache of grief rising within him. He had buried these feelings long ago, sealed them away, but now—now they were clawing their way back to the surface.

For a moment, he simply sat there, paralyzed by the flood of emotions he had long thought he'd mastered. His icy composure, the one he had cultivated over years of loss, war, and duty, faltered in the face of this sudden reminder of his past. The familiar ache of grief pressed at him, demanding to be acknowledged.

He looked down again at the file, forcing himself to focus on the details. His fingers tightened around the papers as he flipped through the sparse information they had gathered. The boy had been with the two spies who were now dead. The name stood out to him like a dark omen.

"Alex Rider," he read the name aloud, his voice cold but with a hint of curiosity beneath it.

Across the room, his friend and former comrade, Yasha—or rather, the man most knew as Yassen Gregorovich—glanced up from his phone, distracted at first. But when the name registered, Yassen's demeanor shifted. His expression, usually so calm and unreadable, tightened. His body went rigid.

"What did you say?" Yassen asked, his voice low, almost cautious.

The General, sensing something unusual in Yassen's reaction, narrowed his eyes. He turned the file around, sliding it across the table toward him. "Look at this," the General said, his voice measured but with an undercurrent of intrigue.

Yassen took the file, his hands uncharacteristically unsteady as he flipped to the photo of the boy. The blood drained from his face the moment he saw it. He had expected many things, but not this. Not him.

"The two spies brought a child with them," the General continued, watching Yassen closely. "A boy."

Yassen stared at the photograph in disbelief, his thoughts swirling. Alex Rider—he hadn't heard that name in months, since Scorpia was destroyed . And yet, here he was, staring back at him from a photograph in the hands of General Sarov. He swallowed hard, struggling to process the implications of this.

The General's voice cut through his shock like a knife. "You know him?"

Yassen's breath caught in his throat. The memories came rushing back—of a boy, barely more than a child, thrust into the deadly world they both inhabited. Yassen's mind raced as he tried to formulate a response.

"Yes," Yassen finally said, his voice low and strained. He couldn't deny it, not now. Not with the boy's image staring back at him like a ghost from his past.

The General raised an eyebrow, his curiosity deepening. "Who is he?"

Yassen hesitated, the weight of the truth pressing on him. His eyes flickered from the file back to Sarov, searching for the right words. "He's... a spy," Yassen said, his voice laced with something between bitterness and regret. "Alan Blunt forced him to work for MI6. He didn't choose this life. But that doesn't change what he's done."

The General leaned in, intrigued by the gravity in Yassen's tone. "Go on."

Yassen's jaw clenched, as though the next words pained him. "He's the one responsible for Scorpia's downfall. He infiltrated them, destroyed their operations from the inside—single-handedly."

Sarov leaned back, eyes narrowing as he processed this. His thoughts returned to the photograph—the boy, so hauntingly like Vladimir. Could a child really be capable of that?

"He's been a pawn his whole life, manipulated by people like Blunt," Yassen continued, his voice quieter now, almost as if speaking to himself.

The General's eyes darkened as he absorbed Yassen's words. A boy who had taken down one of the most feared organizations in the world, thrust into the treacherous world of espionage not by choice, but by necessity.

"Fascinating," Sarov murmured, a new intensity settling into his gaze. "A child forced into war. A reflection of our times."

A sharp knock on the door broke the silence, snapping him from his thoughts. "Come in," the general said, quickly closing the file and sliding it aside.

A guard entered, saluting briskly. "General, the boy has been captured. Conrad is interrogating him as we speak."

"What?" Sarov's voice hardened, his eyes narrowing. "I didn't give any orders to interrogate the boy." He rose swiftly from his chair, his calm composure giving way to a rare flicker of irritation. "What is Conrad thinking?"

Yassen, standing in the corner, tensed, knowing that Conrad's methods weren't exactly subtle. If the man was left unchecked, he could easily kill Alex.

"Where are they?" Sarov demanded as they hurried down the path, his voice tight with controlled anger.

"At the pier, sir," the guard replied, hastening to keep up with the General's long strides.

The moment they reached the pier, Yassen's heart sank. Conrad stood at the edge, his back turned to them, a smug grin tugging at his lips as he looked out over the water. There was no sign of Alex.

Sarov's eyes narrowed dangerously as he stormed toward Conrad. "Where is the boy?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the smirk on Conrad's face.

Conrad turned slightly, his expression twisted with satisfaction. "Took a little swim," he said, his gaze flicking lazily over the water. "Wasn't talking, so I thought I'd loosen him up."

Yassen's heart pounded in his chest as he rushed to the edge, scanning the water for any sign of Alex. His throat tightened at the thought that he might be too late, that Alex might already be gone.

Then, finally, through the faint ripples of the water, Yassen saw it—a pale blur beneath the surface, motionless and sinking deeper. Without a second thought, he dived in.

The cold water slammed into him, but he pushed it aside with powerful strokes, diving deeper, his lungs burning as he kicked toward Alex. The weight of urgency fueled his every move. He reached the boy just as his lungs began to tighten because of the lack of air.

As he approached, he could see the Alex's features faintly illuminated by the dim light filtering through the water, he was barely conscious, his body limp and unresponsive, drifting into the depths like a fallen leaf. Panic surged in Yassen's chest as he reached out, his hand grasping the fabric of Alex's shirt, pulling him close.

With a surge of determination, Yassen wrapped an arm around Alex, cradling him against his chest. He kicked hard, muscles straining against the cold grip of the ocean, his heart pounding as he fought to break the surface.

Finally, they broke free from the water's grasp, gasping for air as Yassen hauled them both upward. The world above felt bright and chaotic, sounds muffled by the water still swirling around them. He could feel Alex's body go even heavier, the boy's head lolling back, unresponsive.

Yassen kicked harder, fighting the exhaustion creeping into his muscles. The pier loomed closer, he could make out the General already bent down, arms stretched out, ready to pull Alex from the water.

Yassen reached the edge, pushing Alex upward with the last of his strength. The General grabbed Alex's arms, lifting the boy out of the water and onto the pier, his soaked body collapsing limply onto the wooden planks.

Yassen scrambled out of the water after them, gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest as panic surged through him. Alex lay motionless on the pier, his chest completely still, his lips already tinged blue from the lack of oxygen.

The General was already beside Alex, his composure slipping as he knelt down, hitting Alex back, desperate motions. "Breathe, damn it," Sarov muttered under his breath, his voice sharp with frustration and fear.

But it wasn't working. Alex's body remained still, lifeless. Sarov's efforts seemed futile against the eerie silence that had settled over them. Yassen watched, his heart tightening in his chest, his breath shallow as his mind raced with helplessness.

The General tried again, hitting harder, but Alex's chest didn't rise.

Yassen fell to his knees beside them, his hands shaking as he reached out, his eyes fixed on Alex's still form. He couldn't believe it—couldn't accept the possibility that it was too late. That the boy, who had been thrown into this brutal world, could now be slipping away in front of him.

Sarov paused, his hands hovering, unsure for the first time. His face twisted in frustration, as if the situation had become something beyond his control.

Yassen didn't wait for permission. He took over, positioning himself to begin CPR. His palms pressed down on Alex's chest, counting the compressions, his movements automatic, driven by the raw need to save him.

"Come on, Alex," Yassen muttered through gritted teeth, his voice rough with fear. "Breathe."

For what felt like an eternity, there was nothing—just the cold, oppressive silence hanging in the air. Yassen pressed harder, desperation clawing at him as his hands moved mechanically, refusing to give up. Then, finally, a cough—a small, weak sound that pierced through the dread.

Alex's body jerked, expelling a torrent of water from his lungs. Yassen reacted instantly, turning him onto his side to help him breathe. Alex coughed violently, his entire body convulsing as he struggled to expel the water, his lungs wheezing as they fought to fill with air.

Yassen stayed by his side, his hand on Alex's back, rubbing it gently as if coaxing the boy back to life. "That's it," Yassen whispered, relief flooding through him as he watched Alex gasp and cough again, his body finally responding.

The General, who had remained tense and still, exhaled sharply, his mask of control slipping for a moment. His eyes locked on Alex, who lay there, barely conscious but alive.

The General, had been holding back his anger, finally let it spill out. His calm composure shattered as he turned on Conrad, fury blazing in his eyes.

"Did I give you orders to harm the boy?" he demanded, his voice low and menacing.

Conrad, taken aback by the General's anger, stepped back slightly, his usual smugness fading under the weight of the General's wrath. "I was just—"

"Silence!" the General barked. "If I wanted him dead, he would be dead. You disobeyed me."

Yassen, meanwhile, had tuned out the confrontation. His focus remained entirely on Alex, who had passed out again, his body too exhausted to do anything but cling to the fragile threads of consciousness. A thin trail of blood oozed from a small cut on Alex's forehead, likely from when he hit his head in the water. It wasn't deep, but it still unsettled Yassen. He worked quickly, untying the rough ropes that had bitten into Alex's wrists, leaving behind angry bruises.

As he freed Alex's hands, Yassen's eyes caught the watch still clasped to the boy's wrist. Without hesitation, he unclasped it and hurled it into the water with a sharp splash. He knew exactly what it was—a tracker, a lifeline, but also a danger.


Bryne sat on the plane, staring blankly out the window, her mind replaying the events of the past few days. Five agents dead. One of them wasn't even American. It was a disaster in every possible way, and she knew it. The worst part wasn't just the body count—it was that there was no concrete evidence to explain how or why things had gone so horribly wrong.

The hum of the airplane's engine did little to soothe her mounting frustration. Her grip tightened on the folder in her lap, filled with nothing but scraps of information, half-baked theories, and redacted reports. All of it was useless. She had come close to losing her job over this, and the pressure weighed heavily on her. The CIA was not forgiving when operations went off the rails, especially when foreign agents were caught in the crossfire.

As the plane touched down in London, Bryne steeled herself, suppressing the creeping sense of dread that had lingered since everything went wrong. She wasn't looking forward to this meeting with Mrs. Jones. After their last tense conversation, she knew the British intelligence head would not be pleased. But this... this was worse than anything she had expected to report.

Bryne walked into the department headquarters with purposeful steps, masking the uncertainty she felt. Mrs. Jones was waiting for her in her office, her expression cool but tinged with the annoyance left over from their last exchange.

"Joe," Mrs. Jones said flatly, her voice edged with impatience. It was clear she wasn't going to waste time with pleasantries.

Bryne sat down across from her and took a breath before delivering the blow.

"Alex Rider is missing, presumed dead," Bryne repeated, her tone cold and devoid of emotion, though the weight of her words hung heavily in the air. She could see the way Mrs. Jones' eyes clouded with emotion, the woman's usually impenetrable composure slipping for a fraction of a second. The man standing beside her, likely a senior officer, visibly stiffened.

Mrs. Jones didn't react immediately, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk as she processed the news. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, controlled, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of tension. "What happened?"

Bryne took a breath, prepared for the details. "We stopped receiving his vitals this morning. The readings indicate that his oxygen levels dropped drastically—suggesting he most likely drowned. The two agents who went with him are KIA. Their bodies were recovered—both died from gunshot wounds."

Jones' expression remained cold, but her eyes flickered at the mention of Alex's fate. "And his body?"

Bryne shook her head, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. "We don't have it. There's no trace of him, only the vitals signal cutting out. We assume he was in the water when it happened."

The tension in the room was suffocating. Mrs. Jones' lips pressed into a thin, hard line as she glanced away, clearly wrestling with the next steps. Her voice was icy when she finally spoke.

"You used an underage British citizen without my consent, and now he's missing, presumed dead. Do you realize how that affects relations between our countries?" Her eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and controlled fury.

Bryne scoffed, her own irritation flaring up. "Don't play that card with me, Jones. The department was the one using the boy first."

Mrs. Jones' eyes narrowed. "Alan Blunt did," she said, her voice dangerously low. "He's not here anymore, is he? And it wasn't him who sent Alex to be killed. You did."

Bryne opened her mouth to argue, but Mrs. Jones cut her off, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "You will not stop looking until you find the body," she continued, each word sharp and final. "And don't you dare come back here with excuses. Now, get out of my office."

The command hung in the air, and Bryne, seething but unable to argue further, turned and left, the door closing behind her with a soft click. Mrs. Jones remained behind her desk, staring at the closed door, her hands trembling as she thought of Alex, the boy caught in a war he never asked for.

"what should we do" Crawley asked breaking the silence

Mrs. Jones blinked, but this time, the usual calm composure didn't come as easily. She had spent years perfecting the art of emotional control, a necessity in her line of work where loss was an everyday reality. But this—Alex Rider—was different. He had never been just another agent. He was a child, barely old enough to navigate the complexities of life, let alone the treacherous world of espionage.

Her heart tightened painfully, a sharp reminder of the burden she had placed on him, the weight of the missions he never should have been part of. A boy whose only crime was being exceptional, was now missing probably dead. The thought gnawed at her, bitter and relentless. The thin veneer of professionalism she'd always clung to faltered, and her chest heaved as she struggled to hold back the flood of emotions.

Her eyes welled with tears, and she blinked them away fiercely, but one slipped down her cheek, betraying her. She wiped it away quickly, as if doing so could erase the deep, aching guilt that sat heavy on her shoulders. The boy had been thrust into a war he hadn't asked for, a war she and others had thrown him into, believing he could handle it. But what had they done? They had sent him to his death.


"Yassen?" Alex's voice wavered, barely concealing his shock. He stared at the man standing in the corner of the room, his mind struggling to piece together what was happening. Scorpia was finished, destroyed. What was Yassen doing here?

"What—" Alex began, but his words faltered, his head swimming with confusion and exhaustion. His thoughts felt like a storm, incoherent and jumbled. Every part of him was heavy, weighed down by the events he had barely survived.

Before he could continue, the General's hands landed gently on his shoulders, the touch meant to be reassuring, though under normal circumstances Alex would have shaken them off in an instant. But right now, nothing felt real—his mind and body were too drained to protest. His limbs were leaden, his chest still aching from the water that had nearly claimed his life.

"Rest, Alex," the General said softly, his voice calm, as if this were the most natural situation in the world. He pushed Alex gently back against the mountain of pillows that had been arranged behind him. Alex didn't resist. His muscles sagged, surrendering to the bed beneath him, and he let himself be guided as his head sank into the pillows.

His eyes fluttered shut almost immediately, the exhaustion pulling him under. He could still feel the presence of the two men in the room—Yassen, the ghost from his past, and Sarov, whose motivations remained an enigma—but the questions swirling in his mind were drowned by the overwhelming need for sleep. The world faded into darkness, the last vestiges of his consciousness giving way to the deep, dreamless void of unconsciousness.

When Alex woke up again, his mind was sharper, the fog of exhaustion no longer clouding his thoughts. Blinking against the dim light filtering into the room, he scanned his surroundings. It was quiet—eerily so—and he quickly realized he was alone.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, but immediately winced as a dull ache radiated through his chest, each breath still painful from the near-drowning. His muscles protested, sore and tight from the ordeal.

Glancing down, Alex noticed that someone had changed him out of his wet clothes. He was dressed in a simple shirt and soft pants, but his skin felt sticky, the residual salt from the ocean still clinging to him like a second, uncomfortable layer. The faint smell of the sea lingered on his skin, a constant reminder of how close he'd come to dying.

He ran a hand over his chest, wincing again at the tenderness beneath his fingers. The bruises from being bound were still there, dark purple rings circling his wrists. The memory of being submerged, of fighting for his life as the water filled his lungs, was still too fresh, and he swallowed hard to push it aside. He had survived, but he had no idea why or what was expected of him now.

Alex shifted, letting his legs dangle off the side of the bed, taking a moment to gather his bearings. His head throbbed where he had hit it, the ache a persistent reminder of how close he'd come to dying. He surveyed the room, noting its simplicity. It was far too plain for someone like General Sarov—a stark contrast to the luxury he expected from someone in the general's position. Whoever had saved him had also, inexplicably, kept him alive. The question that loomed largest in his mind was, why?

He spotted the door on the far side of the room and, with some effort, got to his feet. His muscles groaned in protest, but he forced himself to move. When he reached the door, Alex gripped the knob and turned it—only to find it locked. He sighed, dropping his hand back to his side. It wasn't surprising. Whoever had put him here wasn't going to just let him walk out freely.

Turning back toward the bed, Alex scanned the room more thoroughly this time. His gaze landed on a small note and a glass of water sitting on the bedside table, which he hadn't noticed earlier in his haze. Slowly, he picked up the note, his fingers trembling slightly from the soreness in his hands.

The handwriting was neat and deliberate, but the words were as cold as ever:

"Alex, I had an a appointment I needed to attend. There's a bathroom to the left. Take a shower.

-S"

He placed the note back on the table and stared at the closed bathroom door. His skin was still sticky with salt water, and his body ached for the comfort of warmth. For a brief second, he considered not doing what the note said—purely out of defiance. But his body screamed for relief. The cold, sticky sensation on his skin was enough to make him shudder.

With a reluctant sigh, Alex headed toward the bathroom, his feet dragging slightly across the cold floor. As he pushed the door open, the scent of soap and faint humidity greeted him, as if the room had been freshly cleaned and prepared just for him. Inside, neatly folded on the counter beside the sink, was a set of clothing—soft, plain, and functional, clearly left there with intention.

He eyed the clothes warily, wondering who had placed them there and why Sarov seemed so invested in his well-being. It made no sense. The general was dangerous, known for his ruthlessness, and yet here he was, offering him clean clothes and a chance to wash away the evidence of his near-death.

Alex approached the sink and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His skin was pale, his hair a wild mess, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The cut on his head had been treated with butterfly stitches, small strips of adhesive holding the wound together. His cheek was bruised, a deep purple mark blossoming from where he had been slapped during the interrogation.

He gingerly touched the tender area on his face, wincing at the sharp sting. His gaze moved downward as he peeled off the shirt someone had dressed him in. His chest was a patchwork of bruises, the dark splotches spreading across his ribs and abdomen, a painful reminder of the violence he'd endured—both from the near-drowning and whatever else had happened after. He could feel the ache in his ribs with every shallow breath he took, the bruising deep and angry.

As the water cascaded over him, Alex stepped into the shower, the heat offering brief relief as it flowed on his head and down his bruised body. The warmth eased the tightness in his chest, loosening the muscles that had clenched with panic, but it couldn't numb the deeper ache—the pain that throbbed beneath his skin.

For a few minutes, he allowed himself to stand there, eyes closed, trying to focus on the sensation of the water instead of the memories. But soon, the wetness on his skin started to feel wrong, too familiar—like the weight of the sea pulling him down again. His heart rate quickened, the sensation of drowning creeping back into his mind.

He quickly turned off the water, gasping for breath as he stepped out, gripping the towel like a lifeline. It took a deep, steadying breath to remind himself he was safe—for now.

Alex dressed quickly, his hands still trembling slightly from the lingering effects of his ordeal. He tried to shake off the unease, but it clung to him like the saltwater that had nearly taken his life.

He opened the door and froze. Sitting on the bed he had just woken up in was Yassen. The sight of the assassin made Alex's heart skip a beat—he hadn't expected to see anyone, least of all him. Yassen looked calm, almost indifferent, but Alex couldn't ignore the tension that coiled in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" Alex finally managed to ask, his voice barely steady.

Yassen's gaze remained steady. "I should ask you that, Alex. You're a long way from home."

Alex raised an eyebrow, his confusion mixing with wariness. "I thought you had retired," he said, recalling their last encounter. "You know, leaving your weapon behind and everything—very poetic."

Yassen didn't respond immediately, his silence unsettling. It was as though he was carefully weighing his next words, something about him seemed conflicted.

"I did retire," Yassen finally said, his brows raised slightly, as if to remind Alex that he was the reason for his early departure from the profession. "But I'm not here on work."

Alex shrugged, his usual sarcasm slipping in despite his exhaustion. "Then what are you doing here? Holidays?"

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Yassen's mouth, almost as if he was amused by the response. "No, Alex. Alexei and I are old friends."

Alex raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "I didn't know you had friends, but you should get better ones," he shot back, his tone dry.

Yassen's smile lingered for a moment before fading. His expression hardened slightly, his voice lowering. "You shouldn't be here, Alex."

Alex sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "You don't need to tell me that."

Yassen's gaze stayed locked on him, more serious now. "Then why didn't you say no?"

Alex's frustration simmered beneath the surface, a sharp edge in his voice as he snapped, "You think I didn't try? It's not like I had much of a choice." His words were laced with bitterness, his gaze hardening as he spoke. He felt trapped—caught in a world he'd never asked to enter, a pawn in a game played by people far older and more dangerous than him.

Yassen studied him in silence, his expression unreadable, eyes flickering with something Alex couldn't quite place. "How's your chest?" Yassen asked, his voice calm but his gaze pointed, as if he already knew the answer.

Instinctively, Alex's hand moved to his chest, fingers brushing over the bruised ribs hidden beneath his shirt. "Fine," he lied, but the truth was far different. Every breath was a struggle, each inhale a reminder of the damage that had been done. His ribs flared with a hot, stabbing pain every time his lungs expanded, but admitting that felt like giving Yassen too much.

Yassen didn't need words to see through the lie. The way his eyes lingered on Alex, the faint furrow of his brow—it was clear he knew. "You got lucky, Alex," Yassen said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. "One more minute under the water, and you wouldn't have made it."

Alex swallowed hard, the weight of Yassen's words sinking in. The reminder that he'd been that close to death sat heavy in his chest, but he wasn't sure what to feel—relief, anger, or something else entirely. Yassen's gaze remained steady on him, the silence between them thick with unspoken truths, and for the first time in a long while, Alex wasn't sure what to say.

Alex sighed and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed next to Yassen, his body protesting the movement. The mattress dipped under his weight, the simple act of sitting taking more effort than he liked to admit. He winced slightly, the pain in his chest reminding him just how close he'd come to drowning. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice flat. "I don't feel very lucky."

Yassen's gaze remained steady, unflinching. The former assassin watched him in silence for a moment, his expression as unreadable as ever. His face betrayed nothing—no hint of sympathy, no judgment—just a quiet, unshakable calm that made Alex uneasy. After a long pause, Yassen spoke, his voice quiet but resolute. "You're alive," he said, each word carrying weight, as if survival alone was enough to justify everything.

Alex gave a half-hearted shrug, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the bruises on his ribs, the throbbing pain a constant companion. "Yeah, and for how long?" His words were bitter, the edge of his voice sharp. He glanced over at Yassen, searching the man's face for some kind of answer, but there was nothing—just the same inscrutable calm. The silence between them felt heavy, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for something neither of them could name.

For a moment, Alex's thoughts drifted back to every time he'd managed to escape death—only to be thrust back into another dangerous situation. He was alive, sure, but how many more times could he cheat death before it finally caught up with him?

Yassen, his eyes never leaving Alex, spoke quietly, his voice free of judgment. "I thought you had moved on from this life, Alex."

Alex scoffed, running a hand through his damp hair in frustration. "What do you want me to do, Yassen? They always have something to dangle in front of me. Every time I think I'm done, every time I think I can leave this all behind, they pull me right back in." His voice cracked slightly, a rare display of the bitterness and exhaustion he felt deep inside. "I thought I could have a normal life. I was stupid to believe that. Stupid to think anything good would happen to me."

Alex sighed deeply, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his chest aching with each breath. "And why is it that every time something like this happens, it's you in the middle of it?" He glanced up at Yassen, his eyes sharp but tired. "Seriously, Yassen do you dream of world domination or something"

Yassen's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something—perhaps regret, perhaps something else—behind his eyes. He stood up, the movement deliberate, his posture calm as ever. "Come on, Alex," he said, ignoring the jab. "It's time you meet the general."

The mention of the general made Alex's stomach turn. He knew it was coming, but the reality of facing General Sarov hit him harder than he expected.


Comments response:

maria260686: Thank you, Yassen won't have a easy job in this!

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