Alex stirred groggily, the world around him slowly seeping back into his awareness as if rising through thick fog. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and his thoughts were sluggish, hazy, like a dream he couldn't fully escape. His mouth was dry, his limbs numb and unresponsive at first, but as consciousness returned, so did a dull, throbbing ache across his body.

He tried to move, but something held him down. Panic flickered at the edge of his groggy mind, and with great effort, he forced his eyes open. The morning sunlight assaulted him immediately, sharp and blinding, causing him to wince. His head pounded with the intensity of a hangover, a lingering effect from the drug they'd injected him with.

Slowly, his surroundings came into focus. He was lying on a wooden pier, sitting against a wooden support, the material rough against his back. The saltiness of the ocean hung in the air, mingling with the rhythmic sound of water gently lapping against the dock. He felt the cool breeze on his skin, but the realization of his situation snapped into clarity when he tried to move his hands.

They were bound.

Thick ropes cut into his wrists, binding them behind his back, his ankles similarly tied together, making any attempt to shift almost impossible. The bonds were tight, unforgiving. As the fog in his mind began to lift, Alex's pulse quickened, the drug-induced lethargy giving way to full-blown panic.

He pulled at the ropes, feeling them dig deeper into his skin with each movement. His muscles were weak, sluggish, and his coordination was off—another cruel remnant of whatever they'd injected him with. He twisted his neck painfully, trying to get a better look at his surroundings. The pier stretched out into the bright blue sea, with boats tied to wooden posts, gently swaying in the water. Behind him, Skeleton Key rose like an ominous shadow—his worst nightmare now fully realized.

A sickening wave of dread washed over him as the fragmented memories of the previous night surfaced. Troy's voice, the chaos of their escape, the desperate paddle toward the shore. And then… nothing. He remembered the needle stabbing into his neck, the sting of it, and everything had gone black.

Now, he was here. Tied down like an animal. Alone.

He clenched his teeth, fighting back the rising panic, forcing his mind to focus. He had to stay sharp, had to think clearly. His heart raced as he strained again against the ropes, his wrists burning from the effort. But it was no use; whoever had done this knew what they were doing.

Just as his panic threatened to take over, a sound behind him jolted him back to reality. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, moving across the creaking wood of the pier. His body tensed, every nerve on edge, his breath catching in his throat.

The footsteps grew louder, each one deliberate and measured, sending a jolt of tension through Alex's already strained body. His heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to turn his head, the ropes cutting deeper into his skin with every slight movement. The drug still clung to him like a fog, dulling his senses, but the fear was sharp enough to cut through it.

A figure appeared in his peripheral vision, a man looming over him, blocking the harsh morning light. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his presence immediately commanded attention. His face was weathered, the kind of face that had seen too much, lived through too many things most people couldn't even imagine. He wore a plain, military-style jacket, but the most striking feature was the scar. A deep, jagged line ran diagonally across his face, from his brow down to his jaw, slashing through his right eye, which was clouded and unseeing. The scar gave him a fearsome appearance, as though he had been carved from stone and left with a permanent reminder of whatever had tried to destroy him.

The man stopped beside Alex, his one good eye cold and assessing, scanning him like he was calculating the value of a captured animal. His silence was unnerving, and Alex forced himself to meet the man's gaze, despite the terror gnawing at his insides.

"You're awake," the man finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly, like someone who had smoked too many cigarettes or shouted too many commands on the battlefield. It was the voice of someone used to being obeyed.

Alex didn't respond immediately. His throat was dry, and fear had a stranglehold on his voice. He struggled again against his restraints, the ropes biting into his wrists, but it was futile. The man didn't seem concerned by Alex's resistance; in fact, he seemed to find it almost amusing, the corner of his mouth twitching into a cruel smirk.

"You're not going anywhere, kid," the man said, crouching down so he was level with Alex. Up close, the scar was even more grotesque, the skin around it thick and puckered, like an old wound that never fully healed. "Don't bother with the struggling."

Alex's wrists were raw from the ropes, his body aching from the strain. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared up at the man, trying to suppress the rising panic.

"Who are you?" Alex croaked, finally managing to force the words out, his throat dry and voice hoarse from fear.

"I'm the one that asks the questions," the man growled, cutting Alex off with a cold, dismissive tone. His good eye bored into Alex, while the scarred, blind one only made the man more intimidating, like some hardened war veteran who had seen too much bloodshed. "Now, what's your name?"

Alex hesitated, but only for a moment. "I'm Alex Gardiner," he replied quickly, his voice cracking under the weight of the situation.

Before he could even register the man's movement, a sharp crack echoed in his ears, pain exploding across the side of his face. The slap sent him reeling, his cheek burning hot as he gasped in shock. The force had been brutal almost like a punch.

"You're lying," the man hissed, his tone venomous as he stood over Alex. "You think I don't know who you are, kid? You think I don't know what you've been up to?"

Alex blinked through the pain, his mind racing. "I'm not lying," he said, more desperately this time, his voice shaking. His hands twitched against the ropes, but he knew any more movement would only make the man angrier.

The man leaned in closer, his scarred face inches from Alex's, his breath hot against Alex's skin. "You're a terrible liar, Alex Gardiner. Let's try this again." His voice was low, a dangerous growl that sent chills down Alex's spine. "Who are you really, and what were you doing near Skeleton Key?"

Alex swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel the cold, hard truth pressing down on him: there was no talking his way out of this. Every instinct screamed at him to stay calm, to think quickly, but the sight of this man — his scar, his dead eye, and the ruthless look he wore — made it nearly impossible to steady his racing mind.

A sudden memory cut through the haze—the watch. Bryne had given it to him, casually mentioning that it had an emergency button. Why hadn't he thought of it before? His mind cursed his own negligence, the weight of Troy's death and the escalating danger clouding his instincts.

His wrists were bound tightly, his movements sluggish, but desperation surged through him, giving him just enough strength. His fingers fumbled against each other, trembling as they searched blindly for the tiny button Bryne had mentioned. The watch was still on his wrist, snug beneath the restraints.

He forced his arms to bend, muscles screaming in protest, his fingers finally brushing over the cold, familiar metal. It was so small, almost impossible to feel with his hands tied, but Alex knew he didn't have any other choice. He pressed as hard as he could with the limited range of motion, hoping—praying—that the signal would go through.

He didn't know how long it would take for help to arrive, or if it even would. But right now, it was his only shot.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alex stammered, the words tumbling out in desperation. "I'm just here on vacation. You—" His voice faltered, his breath catching as the weight of what had happened crushed down on him. " "You killed my parents," Alex said, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and fear.

The man didn't flinch, his expression hard and unyielding. "I killed them," he said coldly, his voice dripping with menace, "and I'll kill you too if you don't start telling the truth."

Alex's heart was racing. He was trapped, tied up, and completely at this man's mercy. But he knew better than to give in to panic. His mind scrambled for a way out, for something that could buy him time. He didn't have to fake the fear, not entirely. His voice shook, and his eyes brimmed with desperation as he played the part.

"Please, I just want to go home," Alex pleaded, his voice trembling, his eyes wide with terror.

The man snarled, his patience visibly fraying. Without warning, he lunged at Alex, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and dragging him roughly toward the edge of the pier. The world tilted as Alex's bound body was yanked forward, his feet barely scraping the ground.

"Maybe the water will clear your head," the man growled, his face twisted with a cruel smirk.

Before Alex could react, he was thrust forward, his head plunging into the cold, salty water. The sudden shock sent a jolt through his body, and he gasped reflexively—only to find his mouth and lungs filling with seawater instead of air. Panic exploded in his chest as he struggled against his bonds, kicking and thrashing, but the man held him down, unrelenting.

The water muffled everything. Alex could barely hear the distorted sounds above him as his heart thundered in his ears. His vision began to blur as his lungs screamed for air. He fought to stay conscious, trying to focus through the disorienting rush of fear and saltwater.

Just as he thought he would lose the battle, the man yanked him back up by. Alex's head broke the surface with a choking gasp, coughing and spluttering, his body heaving as he desperately sucked in air.

The man loomed over Alex with a cold, calculating satisfaction etched on his scarred face. His voice, dripping with malice, was almost calm. "Now," he said darkly, "let's try this again."

Alex coughed violently, his lungs burning from the saltwater he'd just inhaled. His chest heaved, struggling to drag in enough air as the shock of what had just happened reverberated through his body. He couldn't breathe properly, let alone think straight. His vision blurred slightly from the exhaustion, and his mind raced for any way out of this.

"I swear I'm telling the truth," Alex gasped, each word broken by desperate attempts to catch his breath. His throat burned, his body aching. He barely got the words out before the man's hand fisted in his shirt once again, the movement sudden and ruthless.

Without hesitation, he shoved Alex's head back under the water.

This time, it was worse.

The icy grip of the sea closed over him, muffling all sounds but the furious pounding of his own heartbeat. He fought instinctively, his body twisting and thrashing, but the man's grip was ironclad. Every second under the water felt like an eternity. The world around him dimmed into a murky, claustrophobic void, panic blooming in his chest as he struggled to hold on.

But it was no use.

His body screamed for air, his throat clenched against the rising pressure, but there was no relief, no escape. All he could do was try, hopelessly, to hold out.

Then, just as his body began to betray him, the man yanked his head back back up.

Alex broke the surface with a choking gasp, spluttering and coughing, his entire body shivering as if it had been ripped from a nightmare. His lungs burned, his throat felt raw, and the saltwater stung his eyes. His pulse pounded in his ears, and all he could focus on was the primal, overwhelming need to breathe. He couldn't even form words.

"Please..." Alex managed to croak, barely a whisper, his voice shaking with the raw fear that was consuming him.

But the man wasn't listening. His patience was long gone, and before Alex had even steadied himself, his head was shoved under the water again.

The cold hit him like a slap, and this time, the darkness encroached faster. Alex's strength was fading. He thrashed, less desperately now, the weight of the water and his exhaustion pulling him down. His thoughts spiraled into a frantic blur, only one word repeating in his mind: survive.

He didn't even know how much longer he could last. The water pressed in on all sides, invading his nose, his mouth—his senses drowning.

Just as he felt the icy grip of unconsciousness reaching for him, Alex was yanked up once more.

His body instinctively gulped at the air, more saltwater coming up with each desperate breath, his limbs trembling violently. Every muscle ached, his head spinning. He couldn't take any more.

The man's face hovered just inches from his, his expression cruel and unrelenting.

Alex couldn't fight anymore. He felt like he was dying.

"Alright," Alex finally gasped, his voice broken and barely audible, the word dragged from his throat as a final, desperate attempt to make it stop. His body was failing, and his mind could barely keep up.

"Alright," Alex repeated, the word slipping from his lips like a last-ditch lifeline, a feeble concession to the chaos around him. He could feel his strength draining, the waves of pain and fear washing over him like the very water that had nearly swallowed him whole.

The man seized Alex by the shoulder, turning him roughly so that his back faced the sea. The sudden shift disoriented him further, the saltwater still stinging in his eyes and throat. He could feel the man's breath against his ear, the warmth juxtaposed with the icy reality of the situation.

"My name is Alex Rider," he gasped out, the words tasting bitter and desperate.

The man's response was cold and mocking. "That wasn't that hard." His voice dripped with cruel satisfaction, the scar across his face twisting as he grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye that suggested he had known who Alex was all along.

"Who sent you here?" he demanded, his tone sharp enough to cut through the tension.

Alex shook his head, desperation clawing at his insides. "Nobody sent me."

The man's grip on Alex's arms tightened to the point of pain, a warning that this was not a game. "I'm not playing around," he said, his voice low and threatening. "Tell me or you're back in the water."

Fear pulsed through Alex, each heartbeat a reminder of how quickly things could spiral out of control. But in that moment of terror, clarity struck him. There was no point in protecting Bryne. She was the one who had put him in this situation, the one who had dragged him into a world of shadows and danger.

"It was the CIA," he blurted out, the words escaping before he could stop them.

The man paused, his expression shifting from amusement to seriousness as he let go of Alex's arms. "What do they know?" he asked, his voice now steely, eyes narrowing as he assessed Alex.

"I don't know," Alex replied, his voice trembling, fear coursing through him like ice. Each word felt like a fragile lifeline, one he was desperate to hold onto.

"Last warning," the man growled, his eyes narrowing, the menace in his tone unmistakable.

"They know nothing," Alex hurried to explain, his mind racing to find a way to convince this monster. "They think that the general is planning something, but they don't know what it is"

The man's face twisted into a sneer, his scar seeming to elongate with his disdain. "I think you're lying, Alex."

"I'm not, I swear!" Alex insisted, the desperation rising in his voice. "I'm telling you the truth!"

The man leaned in closer, his breath hot and rancid. "You see, your friends knew where they were heading."

Alex's heart clenched painfully in his chest, a surge of betrayal washing over him. They had been hiding details from him all along, and he felt a wave of foolishness for trusting the first people who had shown him a speck of kindness. "I swear," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "I was just their cover for passing through the airport. Please, I don't know anything!"

"Stop with the theatrics," the man hissed, slapping Alex hard across the face. "You're going to regret playing this game with me."

Alex's head snapped to the side, the sharp sting radiating through his cheek. Panic gripped him, tightening like a vise around his chest as the reality of the situation bore down on him. He could feel the cold sweat on his skin, his breathing shallow, but he forced himself to stay composed.

"You have to believe me," Alex gasped, his voice trembling but steady enough to convey his desperation. "I don't win anything by lying to you."

For a moment, the man's piercing gaze held him, scrutinizing Alex as though weighing the truth in his words. Finally, the man's expression shifted, a glint of consideration in his eyes.

"Perhaps," he mused, his tone quieter now, "you really don't know anything."

Alex's heart leapt in his chest at the faint glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he had convinced him. Maybe this nightmare was about to end.

Suddenly, the man stood up, yanking Alex roughly to his feet. The sudden movement caught Alex off guard, sending a jolt of fear through him. "You'll let me go?" Alex asked, hope blooming in his chest despite the pain.

The man smiled, a slow, wicked grin that sent chills down Alex's spine. It wasn't the smile of a man showing mercy—it was the smile of someone playing with their prey. "Of course I will," he said, his voice dripping with cruel amusement.

The man's shove sent Alex stumbling, his feet slipping on the edge of the pier. Before he could regain his balance, gravity took over, and he tumbled backward into the cold, unforgiving water. The impact with the ocean was brutal, the icy shock of it stealing the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping in panic.

His arms were bound tight, making it impossible to swim properly. The weight of his soaked clothes dragged him down as the current swept him under. Desperation surged through him, and Alex kicked frantically, but his legs, tied at the ankles, were almost useless against the relentless pull of the water.

The world around him spun in a terrifying, disorienting blur. Up and down no longer made sense. Each time he tried to push toward the surface, the ocean currents yanked him sideways or deeper. His chest began to burn as his lungs screamed for air, but every movement only worsened the confusion.

In the chaos of his struggle, Alex's head slammed into something hard—wood, most likely the pier's support beams. Pain shot through his skull, a sharp and blinding pulse that sent him reeling. Black spots danced in his vision as his already panicked mind became even more frayed.

He flailed again, trying to push off the wooden beam, but his strength was ebbing away. The cold seeped into his bones, making his limbs sluggish and unresponsive. The saltwater stung his eyes as he thrashed aimlessly, his bound arms and legs pulling him deeper, the surface now impossibly far.

His head pounded, and each second without air felt like an eternity. The weight of the ocean pressed against him, smothering, drowning out the sounds of the world above. Alex's movements slowed, his body giving way to the exhaustion setting in.

Alex's thoughts were hazy, fragmented as his mind accepted the inevitability of death. His chest convulsed again, screaming for oxygen he couldn't reach. The darkness that threatened to consume him felt final, suffocating, as if the ocean itself was pulling him under, dragging him toward oblivion.

But then, just as his body began to surrender, something slashed through the water—a blur in his fading vision. His mind, nearly gone, barely registered it before strong hands gripped him. Someone was there, pulling him up. Alex couldn't resist, couldn't move—his body was limp, utterly spent, and the world was dimming to black.

He felt himself break the surface, but the muffled sounds of the world above were distant, unreachable, as if he were still submerged. His lungs burned, but they couldn't draw in air. He was out of the water, but still drowning in the thick suffocation of his own helplessness.

Another pair of hands joined in, rough and hurried, pushing him onto the wooden pier. His body was laid flat, but his chest continued to heave, shallow and desperate, unable to do the one thing it needed to—breathe. He was so weak that even the reflex to inhale felt impossible.

The world around him was fading fast, everything a blur of indistinct shapes and sounds. Voices yelled, but they were garbled, like he was hearing them underwater. His mind tried to latch onto the sensation of being pulled out of the ocean, onto the wood, but it was slipping away, his consciousness flickering like a dying flame.

Alex's lips parted, struggling for the breath that wouldn't come. His vision faded completely, and with it, the last remnants of his strength. Just before everything went black, he felt the distant, urgent pressure of hands on his chest, but it was too late. He couldn't hold on any longer. Darkness claimed him.

Bryne sat in her office, the soft glow of her desk lamp illuminating the stack of files scattered in front of her. One document, in particular, caught her eye—a missing persons report. Alex Rider. His guardian, Jack Starbright, had reported him missing after he disappeared from his dorm. Bryne sighed, setting the report aside. It was earlier than she expected. She thought Jack might wait a few more days before panicking, but it didn't matter. No one would really look into it. Not with the right people on their payroll.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden opening of her door. A man, one of her assistants, rushed in with a panic-stricken expression, his face pale.

"Ma'am…Alex Rider is KIA," he blurted out, breathless.

Bryne blinked, her mind taking a moment to process his words. "What did you just say?"

"Dead, ma'am," he repeated, his voice faltering. "The watch… the one we gave him. It monitors his vitals, and the readings just flatlined. We also received his emergency signal—it triggered moments before his vitals dropped."

Bryne's heart sank, but she maintained her composure. "You're telling me his vitals flatlined? When?"

"Just a few minutes ago," the man stammered. "The emergency signal came through first, but then—nothing. Complete shutdown. His heart rate plummeted, and…we have to assume he drowned, or—"

Bryne clenched her jaw. She felt a strange mixture of frustration and disbelief, a numbness washing over her. She had sent Alex Rider into the field expecting complications, perhaps even danger, but she hadn't anticipated this. Not this soon. She had hoped to gain more from him, not lose him so quickly.

"Have we confirmed the location of the signal?" she asked sharply, not allowing the emotion to creep into her voice.

"Yes, we traced it to the waters off Skeleton Key. There's a pier there, but… it's too late, ma'am. His vitals—there's no chance. He's gone."

Bryne sat back in her chair, her eyes narrowing as she absorbed the weight of the information. Alex Rider, dead. The words echoed in her mind, hollow and final. She had seen death before, even sent others to their deaths, but this… this felt different. A boy, a teenager she had sent into the field with full knowledge of the risks, was now another casualty, another name on her growing list of the dead.

Her eyes flicked down to the missing report on her desk, the one she'd been dismissing just moments ago. Anger surged through her, bitter and sharp. She grabbed the report and hurled it against the wall, the pages scattering across the room like discarded confessions of her failure.

Three more people dead in Cuba. Troy, Belinda… now Alex. She slammed her fist against the desk, the sound reverberating in the stillness of the office. It was supposed to be a clean operation. A covert surveillance mission, in and out, with minimal risks. She'd calculated the odds. But this—three lives lost in a matter of days—this was a disaster.

Her breathing came quicker, but she forced herself to remain calm. There was no time for regret. No time to dwell on emotions. She stood, pacing, her mind racing through every possible contingency.

Alex opened his eyes, but the world was a blur. The light was harsh, stabbing through his pupils and making his head pound. His eyes burned, like he'd kept them open underwater for too long. He tried to close them again, but every flutter of his lids only aggravated the sting. His throat felt raw, as if someone had scraped it out with sandpaper, and his chest throbbed with a dull, heavy ache that grew sharper with every shallow breath.

He blinked, trying to focus, but his body wasn't ready. A violent cough erupted from deep inside him, harsh and relentless, like his lungs were trying to purge the last remnants of water that had filled them. The cough forced his body upward off the bed, his ribs screaming with each movement. His throat burned with each exhale, raw and scratched as if he'd swallowed nails instead of seawater.

He tried to inhale between coughs, but it was like sucking air through a pinhole—insufficient, shallow, desperate. The room spun around him as he gasped, feeling the panic grip him again. It was as though the sensation of drowning had never really left his body. Even now, lying in this unfamiliar bed, it clung to him like a weight, pulling him back into the water.

His lungs convulsed again, forcing another brutal cough out of him. He felt like he was suffocating all over again. The air around him was thick and heavy, his chest tight, as if the ocean had followed him up from the depths. His vision blurred, but he managed to focus on his surroundings just enough to tell he wasn't underwater anymore—he wasn't still drowning.

Alex wheezed, gasping desperately for air, his chest constricted as if crushed by an invisible force. Every breath he drew sent stabbing pain through his ribs, his throat raw from the salt water that had nearly drowned him. His muscles screamed for oxygen, his limbs trembling uncontrollably.

A hand, firm but gentle, rubbed soothing circles on his back. He could hear a voice—soft, murmuring words that didn't fully register through the haze of his panic and exhaustion. It was like his brain couldn't process anything beyond the overwhelming need to breathe.

"Shhh, easy now. You're okay," the voice said, but Alex couldn't comprehend the words.

The hand guided him gently, pushing him back down onto the mattress. He felt the softness beneath him, but his body still clung to the sensation of drowning, as if it couldn't accept that he was no longer submerged. His lungs still burned, his breaths shallow and frantic, even though he was no longer under the suffocating grip of the water.

Every inch of him was shaking, from the trauma, from the cold, from the sheer exhaustion that weighed down his body like lead. Even with the air now filling his lungs, it felt like his body hadn't caught on yet. His brain was stuck in survival mode, unable to recognize that he was safe, that he wasn't dying anymore.

The hand remained, steady and calm, continuing to rub his chest, offering comfort as he slowly, agonizingly, regained control of his breath. His heart still hammered in his chest, but the edges of his vision stopped darkening. The panic ebbed, just a little.

His body began to loosen its grip on the terror that had held him hostage. He was still alive, even if it didn't feel like it yet. But that small gesture, that hand on his chest, was an anchor—a reminder that somehow, against all odds, he had survived.

Finally, he managed to drag in a desperate breath, his lungs still aching but gradually calming with each mouthful of air he took. His heartbeat, which had been pounding so violently it felt like it might break through his ribs, began to slow.

The panic subsided, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that settled into his bones. He blinked, his vision clearing enough to make out the dimly lit room around him. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, the soft creaking almost soothing. His mind, though still foggy, began piecing things together.

He was out of the water. He wasn't drowning anymore.

Alex's breath came more steadily now, though his throat still burned, and every muscle in his body felt wrung out. Slowly, he turned his head, finding the person who had been by his side, their hand still resting on his chest. His eyes barely focused, but he could make out a figure sitting beside the bed.

"Easy, just breathe," the voice said again, clearer now. It was gentle, calm.

Finally coming to his senses, Alex raised himself from the bed again, fighting the dizziness that threatened to pull him back under. His chest still ached, and his limbs felt like lead, but he forced himself to sit up. As he did, his eyes locked onto the figure sitting by his side.

It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't just some random person who had saved him.

Alex blinked, his vision sharpening, and his heart dropped when he realized who it was. The man seated beside him, watching him with an unreadable expression, was none other than General Sarov.

The infamous man Alex had only seen in photographs attached to a file, a man with a reputation for cruelty and ruthless ambition, was sitting just a few feet away. But instead of a cold gaze that was always portrayed, Alex could only see a soft worry

Alex frowned, his mind racing. His throat was still too raw to speak immediately, but the questions flooded his thoughts. Why had the general spared him? Why was he still alive?

"My dear Alex, are you okay?" The voice was soft, almost gentle.

"What...?" Alex rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. His throat burned, and every breath felt like fire in his lungs. His head spun with confusion and shock as he tried to understand what was happening. General Sarov, the man everyone had warned him about, was sitting beside him, speaking as if he actually cared about Alex's well-being. It didn't make sense.

"You have to excuse Conrad," Sarov continued, his voice steady, almost apologetic. "He wasn't in any way ordered to treat you that way." He sighed, shaking his head. "When I learned about you, about what he was doing, I got there as fast as I could. Thankfully, we got to you in time and pulled you out of the water."

Alex blinked, his mind struggling to catch up with the words. "We?" he croaked, still trying to understand why he was alive and why Sarov was speaking to him with such concern.

"Yes," Sarov nodded. "Me and Yasha. I believe you've met him." His tone was so casual, as though this were just another ordinary conversation.

Alex frowned. He didn't know anyone named Yasha. "I don't—" he started, but his words trailed off when his eyes drifted to the right. Standing in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, was someone he instantly recognized.

"Yassen..."

Comments response:

maria260686: Thank you for you comment! Because the deaths weren't enough Alex received a little bit of more trauma this chapter, I'll make sure to give him a break next chapter.