Alex walked beside Yassen through the winding halls of the house, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Neither of them had spoken a word since leaving the room where Alex had woken up. His eyes scanned the surroundings, absorbing every detail—the placement of doors, the windows, the turns in the corridor. The house was vast, with high ceilings and old-world charm, but every detail— from the polished wooden banisters to the intricate wallpaper—seemed to whisper a story of power, of control. Alex scanned every corner, every window, searching for anything that might help him if he needed to escape.

Suddenly, Alex noticed something off. His wrist felt lighter than usual. His watch was missing.

"Where's my watch?" he asked, his tone sharp with suspicion.

"Bottom of the sea," Yassen replied without looking at him.

Alex felt a twinge of irritation. "I really liked that watch."

"You'll get over it," Yassen said, his voice flat and indifferent.

They finally stopped in front of two large wooden doors. Yassen opened them with a firm push, and Alex was greeted by a room that seemed frozen in time. It was grand, like something out of a classic film, with shimmering chandeliers casting a golden light across the walls, and an enormous fireplace on the far side of the room. Heavy drapes framed tall windows, but they were drawn shut, blocking out any glimpse of the outside world. The furniture was opulent—deep velvet chairs and a dark wooden table that sat between them, adorned with intricate carvings.

In one of those velvet chairs sat General Sarov, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. His military posture was unmistakable, a man used to command and respect. The light flickered across his sharp features, casting shadows that made him appear even more formidable. Despite his intimidating aura, when he saw Alex, his expression softened, just for a moment.

"Alex," the General's voice was rough, yet there was an unexpected warmth behind it. "Come and sit."

Alex hesitated. His eyes darted to Yassen, searching for any sign of what this was about. But Yassen had already stepped forward and taken a seat in one of the chairs, his face as unreadable as ever. There was no escape from this.

Alex moved cautiously toward the last empty chair. It was positioned directly in front of the General, only a small table between them. He could feel Sarov's eyes on him the entire time, studying him like a puzzle to be solved.

As he sat down, the plush chair seemed to swallow him, but it did nothing to ease the tension coiling in his chest. Whatever conversation was about to happen, Alex knew it was far from casual. Every instinct told Alex that this was the beginning of something much larger, something he had no control over.

His heart beat faster as the silence between them stretched, filled only by the soft crackling of the fire. The air was thick with unspoken tension, and the room, despite its elegance, felt like a trap. He had faced danger countless times before, but there was something unnerving about being here, face to face with General Sarov.

The General, seated with an air of authority, looked rather pleased with himself, his expression calm and almost fatherly, as if he had orchestrated everything perfectly. His eyes glimmered with a quiet satisfaction as he reached for a silver teapot on the small table between them. He moved with precision, filling three porcelain mugs with steaming tea. The soft clink of the teapot against the cups was the only sound in the room for a moment.

"Do you want some tea, Alex?" Sarov asked, his voice carrying a practiced calm, as though they were simply old acquaintances. "I know that the British enjoy their tea. I had someone bring some just for you."

Alex's eyes narrowed as he watched the General carefully push one of the mugs toward him. It was an almost mocking gesture, hospitality laced with power. Yassen, sitting across from Alex, reached out silently and took his own cup, his gaze fixed on Alex, observing the exchange like a quiet sentinel.

For a brief second, Alex hesitated. He leaned forward slowly, his eyes darting between the General and the cup. His mind was racing. Every instinct screamed at him not to trust anything Sarov offered, no matter how harmless it appeared. Without a word, he made a quick, calculated decision. His hands reached for the mug in front of him, but in one swift, fluid motion, he switched it with the one the General had intended for himself. His fingers barely brushed the porcelain, but it was enough.

Sarov's eyes twinkled with amusement as if he had been expecting the move. His lips curved into a faint smile, watching Alex's subtle act of defiance with an almost paternal indulgence. He didn't flinch, didn't protest. Instead, the General picked up the mug Alex had swapped and took a deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Alex's face.

"If I wanted you dead, Alex," Sarov said, his voice smooth and calm, "I would have just left you in the water."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, Alex felt the chill of them. The General's calm demeanor didn't ease the tension—it only made the threat more real. Sarov wasn't lying. He could have easily let Alex drown, but he didn't. And that, in itself, was perhaps the most dangerous thing of all.

"What do you want?" Alex asked, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts in his head.

Sarov leaned back slightly in his chair, his smile fading into something more serious. "I should be the one asking you that, Alex. You're the one on my island."

Alex's gaze hardened, cutting through the pleasantries. "So why am I not dead?"

The General didn't respond immediately, his eyes fixed on Alex, as if evaluating every inch of him, weighing the boy's resilience and defiance. Finally, Sarov spoke, his voice low and deliberate.

"Because, Alex—" he paused, as though searching for the right words, "you're remarkable. You have so much potential, and that is both your gift and your curse. That's why the secret services keep sending you to do their dirty work."

Alex's fists clenched involuntarily, but he stayed silent, waiting for the General to continue.

"It's the highest form of cowardice," Sarov went on, his voice tinged with contempt. "They sit behind their desks, safe and comfortable, while they send a child to face death. Again and again. They sacrifice you so they don't have to dirty their hands."

The room felt suffocating, the weight of Sarov's words pressing down on Alex. He had heard similar sentiments before, but there was something different about the way Sarov said it. It wasn't just an observation; it was almost personal, a twisted reflection of the very system Alex had been caught in.

"They use you, Alex. They've taken everything from you," Sarov continued, his voice softening, almost like he was trying to appeal to some buried part of Alex. "But I can give you something they never will—freedom."

The words lingered in the air, heavy with promise, but also with a threat Alex couldn't yet fully understand. Sarov wasn't just sparing his life—he was offering something much more, something that set off alarms in Alex's mind.

"If you join me, Alex," Sarov said, his voice smooth like silk, "I can give you exactly that."

Alex frowned, his guard rising. "Join you in what?"

The General smiled, a slow, calculated expression that made Alex's stomach twist. There was something unsettling in that smile, something almost predatory. "You're not ready for that yet," Sarov replied, his tone as calm as if they were discussing the weather.

Alex narrowed his eyes, unwilling to be brushed off. "How do you expect me to help if you don't even tell me what your plan is?"

Sarov leaned back in his chair, as if amused by Alex's persistence. His gaze was unblinking, fixed on Alex as though he were an intricate puzzle that Sarov had already solved. "I don't want you to help me, Alex," he said softly, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "I want you by my side."

The words sent a cold shiver down Alex's spine. It wasn't just an offer—it was an expectation, as if Sarov had already decided Alex's fate. Sarov's gaze bore into him, unrelenting, watching for the cracks in his resistance.

"Of course," Sarov finally said, his voice smooth and measured, "I don't expect you to answer me right now. I'll give you time to think—in your room."

Alex's eyes narrowed, his voice sharp with defiance. "You mean locked in a room. Doesn't sound much like freedom, General. A golden cage is still a cage."

Sarov's lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. "You misunderstand, Alex. The cage you speak of isn't of my making—it's theirs." His eyes darkened, as if referring to the very system that had manipulated Alex from the start. "I'm offering you a way out."

Alex's jaw clenched, but he held his tongue, unwilling to give Sarov the satisfaction of a response. He knew this game too well. Promises of freedom always came with strings attached, and the general's offer felt like another noose tightening around his neck.

"Conrad will take you to your room. You'll stay there until it's time for you to join me for a meal," Sarov said, his voice carrying a note of finality.

The door creaked open behind Alex, and instinctively, he turned to see who had entered. His breath caught in his throat, and his body tensed. Standing there, looming in the doorway, was Conrad—the same man who had tortured him and nearly drowned him. Alex's pulse quickened, a cold wave of fear creeping up his spine.

Sarov's voice cut through the tension. "Don't worry, Alex," he said with a calm that was almost unnerving. "Conrad has express orders not to harm you."

Alex didn't respond, but his eyes never left Conrad's. The man's smirk was still there, like a silent reminder of what he was capable of. Even with the general's assurances, the presence of Conrad made Alex feel more like prey than a guest.

Conrad's hand gestured toward the hallway, and Alex hesitated, his mind racing. He knew better than to trust Sarov, but right now, he didn't have a choice. He walked past Conrad, the man's gaze heavy on his back, and felt the familiar weight of being in someone else's control once again.

As Alex stepped into the hallway, the air felt heavier, each breath tight in his chest. The thick, silent atmosphere was only broken by the steady sound of Conrad's boots hitting the polished floor behind him. The walls were a deep, rich wood, adorned with old, dusty portraits of men who had long since disappeared into history. Dim lighting from antique sconces cast long shadows, giving the hallway an eerie, oppressive feel.

Alex kept his pace measured, though his heart raced, his mind scanning every detail, every turn, searching for an escape route. But the house was a maze—each corridor more confusing than the last. The smooth, polished floor beneath his shoes seemed to stretch endlessly, with door after door, all likely locked, offering no refuge.

He could feel Conrad's presence close behind him, a constant, looming threat. The man hadn't said a word since they left the study, but Alex could feel his eyes on him—watching, waiting. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the occasional creak of the old house as they moved through it.

Eventually, they reached the door to the room he had woken up in. Conrad stepped forward, unlocking it with a heavy metallic click, then pushed it open. He didn't speak, only nodded for Alex to go inside. Alex hesitated for just a second, his mind racing with plans that had no foundation. Then, with no other option, he stepped inside.

"I don't know what the general sees in you, Rider, but don't think you're safe for very long," Conrad continued, his footsteps inching closer. "The general will get tired of you, and when he does, it'll be me pulling the trigger."

Conrad gave one last smile, like he was imagining killing Alex before closing the door


Yassen watched silently as Alex disappeared through the doorway, the sound of the heavy door closing behind him echoing faintly. His untouched teacup sat on the table, a clear sign that Alex hadn't trusted the gesture, and Yassen couldn't blame him. It was a smart move—one Yassen himself would have made.

The general, sitting comfortably in his chair, let out a long sigh, shaking his head as if Alex's defiance were no more than a mild inconvenience. "Teenagers," he said with a slight smile, his tone almost paternal, as though dealing with a rebellious child rather than someone who had nearly died at his hands.

Yassen's frown deepened. He'd seen the general display many things: ambition, ruthlessness, calculated charm. But this strange, almost fatherly demeanor was new. It made him uneasy.

"Why did you invite me here?" Yassen asked, his voice carefully controlled, though tension underlined each word.

The general leaned back in his chair, the hard lines of his face softening, though his eyes gleamed with a familiar intensity. His voice, though calm, carried a weight that hung between them. "I have a proposition for you, Yassen, one I believe might catch your interest."

Yassen leaned back, arms folded across his chest, a guarded look on his face. "I retired, General. My days of taking orders are long over," he replied, his voice cool and detached, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind his words.

Sarov waved a dismissive hand, his lips curling into a small smile as if Yassen's response was expected. "No, nothing like that," he said, his tone smooth. "You wouldn't be taking orders from me. You'd be working by my side—as my equal."

Yassen's brow furrowed, the skepticism plain on his face. "Working in what, exactly?" he asked, his tone edged with doubt. He knew men like Sarov didn't extend offers of equality easily. There was always something more lurking beneath the surface.

Sarov paused for a moment, as if savoring the weight of his next words. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto Yassen's with cold determination. "Restoring Russia's power," he said quietly, yet the ambition in his voice was unmistakable.

Yassen's frown deepened. His skepticism sharpened with the general's vague response. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?" he asked, his tone now one of cautious interrogation.

The general smiled again, this time broader, more menacing, the shadow of his true vision coming to light. "With chaos," Sarov said, his voice darkening. "I will bring about the total collapse of the government. Every institution, every foundation that holds this corrupted world together will crumble. And when it does—when the dust settles—I will be the one to rise from the ashes. I will take control. I will rebuild Russia, stronger than ever before."

Yassen straightened, his posture rigid, his eyes narrowing as he processed Sarov's words. The sheer scale of the ambition, the ruthlessness behind it, was almost staggering. He had heard of men like Sarov before—dreamers, visionaries, madmen, most of them had failed.

Yassen's frown deepened as the general's words settled in the air between them. He leaned forward slightly, his skepticism evident. "Caos?" he repeated, his voice low but sharp. "Total government collapse? You think you can just tear it all down and rebuild from the ashes?"

Sarov's expression remained calm, his eyes glinting with a conviction that bordered on madness. "That's exactly what I intend to do," he said smoothly. "Russia has been weakened, Yassen. We have been humiliated, torn apart by corruption and greed. The world has forgotten what it means to fear us. But with the right steps—precise, calculated chaos—we can remind them."

Yassen crossed his arms, the frown still etched on his face. "And you think you'll just step into power after it all falls apart?" There was doubt in his voice, but also a sharp edge of curiosity. "That you'll be the one to control the fallout?"

The general's smile widened, a dangerous confidence behind his words. "Yes. And when I do, Russia will rise stronger than it's ever been. A new empire. And I want you by my side, Yassen. You were trained to survive, to adapt. This new world will need people like us—people who understand how power really works."

Yassen remained silent, his eyes narrowing as he processed Sarov's plan. There was a grim audacity to the general's ambition, a dangerous combination of calculated risk and madness. Sarov was playing a game with world powers, one that would inevitably leave devastation in its wake.

"And how do you plan to achieve that?" Yassen finally asked, his voice steady but guarded.

Sarov leaned forward, his face lighting up as if revealing a secret he had long kept hidden. "There is a military base in Murmansk," he began, his voice low but intense, "home to an old nuclear submarine. It's abandoned—left to rot. A few years ago, it was a major international concern, headlines warning of the dangers of the neglected nuclear equipment onboard. Various countries pleaded with Russia to dismantle it, some even offered teams to do it for them. But, of course, Russia ignored all of those pleas."

Yassen listened, his face impassive, but his mind was racing. He knew the rumors, the stories about Murmansk and the forgotten submarine. It had been a ghost from the Cold War, a relic no one cared about anymore. But in Sarov's hands, it was a weapon.

"The submarine is still there," Sarov continued, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "The world has moved on, forgotten about it. But I will remind them. I will plant a bomb inside—one powerful enough to cause a blast as devastating as a nuclear explosion. When it detonates, the destruction will be unimaginable. Most of the damage will be concentrated in Europe. Countries will cease to exist."

The words hung in the air like the echo of a ticking bomb.

"And the world?" Yassen asked quietly.

"The world will blame Russia," Sarov said, his voice steady, almost calm. "The fallout—both political and literal—will plunge Europe into chaos. Governments will collapse, economies will fail, and in the midst of it all, I will step forward as the one with the power to restore order. Russia will be reborn in the ashes of the West's destruction. It will rise again, stronger than ever."

Yassen's jaw tightened. The scale of the plan was terrifying, its recklessness staggering. And yet, as insane as it sounded, it was clear that Sarov had thought this through, every detail calculated. The forgotten submarine, the world's neglect—it was all part of a grand design to reshape the global order.

Yassen exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. He had seen men like Sarov before—men who dreamed of power, who believed they could shape the world through violence and chaos. But this plan? It wasn't just about politics or power. It was about destruction on a scale that would leave scars for generations.

"And you think this will work?" Yassen asked, his voice low but steady.

Yassen's expression darkened at Sarov's response. The general spoke with such conviction, such cold detachment, as if Alex was nothing more than a pawn in his grand scheme. But there was something in Sarov's words that dug deeper, something personal.

"And what about Alex?" Yassen asked, his voice sharp but controlled.

Sarov tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "What about him?"

Yassen's gaze didn't waver. "Why do you want him here?"

The general's lips curled into a small, almost dismissive smile. "He's just a boy, Yassen. A boy betrayed by his own country, used by those who pretend to be his protectors. He's like you and me—lost, abandoned by the very people who should care for him. But he has something neither you nor I had at his age. Potential." Sarov's voice softened, almost as if speaking of Alex stirred some hidden emotion within him.

"When this new era begins," Sarov continued, leaning forward again, his tone taking on a more measured cadence, "I will need an heir. Someone to carry on my vision. Someone strong, capable, and untainted by the old ways of thinking. Alex fits the part quite well, don't you think?"

Yassen felt a strange twist in his chest at the words. Sarov wasn't just interested in Alex as a tool or weapon. He saw something in him, something that reminded him of himself, perhaps even of Yassen.

"Alex is not like us," Yassen said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that broke through the stillness of the room. Sarov glanced up at him, curious. Yassen's expression remained unreadable, but the conviction behind his words was undeniable. "Despite everything that's happened to him, everything that's been done to him, he doesn't want revenge. He's not like you and me. He's not capable of it, even when you give him the opportunity."

Sarov's brow furrowed, the faintest hint of doubt crossing his face. Yassen stepped closer, his gaze steady, never wavering. "When Alex finds out what you're planning, he will try to stop you," Yassen continued, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. "He won't see the power you crave, or the world you want to reshape. He'll see the destruction, the lives lost. That's who he is."

Yassen's words lingered in the air, heavy with truth. Sarov's fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his chair, a small, almost unconscious motion, as if considering Yassen's point. But the gleam in his eyes remained, defiant, unmoved.

"He's just a boy, Yassen," Sarov said, his tone steady, a calm counter to Yassen's intensity. "Boys can be shaped. Molded. Shown how the world works."

Yassen shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "No," he said, his voice barely above a breath, but thick with emotion. "Not Alex, Scorpia tried and failed. He's not like us. He's not capable of killing. Not like we are."

Sarov's eyes flickered, momentarily clouded with something unreadable—was it doubt, or something else? But just as quickly, he shook it off, the same cold confidence returning to his face.

"Everyone has a breaking point," Sarov said, his voice calm, almost soothing. "Alex simply hasn't reached his yet. But he will. And when that moment comes, he'll see things differently. He'll understand."

Yassen's jaw clenched. He knew Sarov was wrong, and that made the general even more dangerous. Alex didn't belong in this world, not the way they did. Yassen could see the cracks forming, the weight Alex carried that threatened to crush him—but he wasn't broken yet. And Yassen intended to keep it that way.