Alex's sleep had been restless, a haze of pain and fragmented memories swirling in his mind. He didn't know how long he'd been out when he was jolted awake by the soft clinking of metal. Blinking groggily, he saw a nurse leaning over him, expertly disconnecting the IV line from his arm and shutting off the machines that had been monitoring him.
"What's going on?" Alex asked, his voice hoarse and thick with confusion.
The nurse glanced at him but didn't answer in English. Instead, she muttered something in Russian, her tone brisk as she motioned toward the foot of the bed.
Alex followed her gesture, his gaze landing on a neatly folded set of clothes resting on a chair. The fabric looked plain but clean, a far cry from the tattered and bloodied remnants he'd been wearing when he was brought here.
"I don't understand," Alex mumbled, his mind scrambling to catch up. He wasn't sure if the nurse hadn't heard him or simply didn't care, but she pointed at the clothes again and spoke once more in Russian.
The nurse stepped back, her body language prompting Alex to move. He hesitated, unsure if he could trust his legs to hold him after everything he'd endured. Still, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool air brushing against his skin as the thin hospital gown shifted.
The instant he placed weight on his feet, a sharp pain radiated through his body, his muscles trembling in protest. Alex winced, clutching the edge of the bed for support. The nurse, seeing his struggle, stepped forward without hesitation, one arm slipping under his to steady him.
Alex didn't resist her help as she guided him with surprising strength and efficiency. Together, they moved slowly across the room, every step sending a dull throb through his body. His legs felt weak, as though he hadn't used them in days, but the nurse's grip kept him upright.
She led him to a door on the far side of the room, opening it to reveal a small bathroom. Inside, the clothes she'd shown him earlier were now neatly placed on a counter. The nurse gestured toward them, then at Alex, clearly expecting him to change.
Alex nodded faintly, understanding despite the language barrier. He shuffled inside, leaning heavily on the doorframe as he moved. The nurse lingered for a moment, her eyes scanning him to ensure he was steady, then stepped back and closed the door behind him, granting him privacy.
The quiet of the small bathroom felt oddly overwhelming. Alex took a shaky breath, glancing at the clothes laid out before him. For the first time in what felt like forever, a flicker of hope sparked within him. He was finally going home.
Alex hesitated before looking at his reflection in the mirror, his breath catching at the sight. Over the past few days, he had grown accustomed to seeing a battered version of himself, but this was worse. His face was a patchwork of bruises, purples and greens spreading across his cheekbones and jawline. Dark marks circled his neck, a grim reminder of Conrad's hands strangling the life out of him.
A bandage stretched across his forehead, the edges stained faintly with dried blood. He stared at it, trying to recall when he'd hit his head, but his memory was hazy—a blur of pain and chaos. The sight made his stomach churn, and he tore his eyes away from the mirror.
If his face looked this bad, he didn't want to imagine the rest of him. Slowly, his hands fumbled with the ties of the hospital gown, his fingers trembling from exhaustion and nerves. The gown slid off his shoulders and pooled at his feet, exposing his thin frame. Burns, cuts, and mottled bruises marked his arms and torso, each one telling a story of what he'd endured.
Alex bent down carefully, wincing as every muscle in his body protested, and picked up the clothes left for him. They were simple: soft sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. The fabric looked comfortable, chosen to avoid pressing against his wounds. Grateful for the thoughtfulness, he pulled the sweatpants on first, their loose fit allowing him to move without aggravating his injuries.
The hoodie followed, the act of lifting his arms sending a sharp jolt through his ribs. He gritted his teeth and forced himself through it, the soft fabric a small comfort once it was finally on.
Dressed and feeling marginally more human, Alex took a shaky breath, avoiding the mirror as he steadied himself against the counter. He couldn't bring himself to face his reflection again—not yet. Instead, he turned toward the door, ready to step out and face whatever came next.
Alex opened the bathroom door to find the nurse standing there, waiting patiently with a wheelchair positioned just outside. Her calm expression didn't falter as she stepped forward to assist him. Without a word, she took his arm, guiding him out of the bathroom and easing him into the chair.
He hesitated for a moment, his pride stinging. "I can walk," he murmured, his voice hoarse and shaky.
The nurse simply shook her head and gave him a pointed look, her hands firm yet gentle as she ensured he was seated properly. Alex bit back the urge to argue further, knowing deep down that she was right. The brief effort of standing and changing had left him utterly drained, his muscles trembling and burning in protest.
The moment he sat down, he felt the relief of being off his feet, though he hated how weak it made him feel. He slouched slightly, his body leaning against the armrest as he tried to catch his breath.
The nurse adjusted the footrests and straightened his posture before giving him a nod, as if to say,You're ready now.Alex glanced at her, a faint spark of gratitude flickering in his otherwise exhausted gaze. He wanted to thank her but couldn't summon the strength to speak again.
Instead, he gripped the armrests as the nurse began to wheel him out, the soft hum of the chair's movement filling the silence.
As the nurse wheeled Alex out of the room, he immediately noticed that this wasn't a regular hospital. The air was colder, the walls a stark gray that lacked the warmth and clinical sterility of the hospitals he knew. The corridors were eerily quiet, save for the occasional echo of footsteps.
As they moved through the hallways, Alex's gaze drifted to the figures standing and moving about. Soldiers. They were dressed in crisp military uniforms, their expressions unreadable as they went about their duties. Some of them paused as Alex was wheeled past, their eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to their tasks. None of them spoke, but the weight of their stares was enough to set Alex's nerves on edge.
It didn't take long for him to piece it together. This wasn't a public hospital; it was some kind of military facility. The realization made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
The nurse pushed the wheelchair forward without a word, her steady pace unwavering. Alex kept his head down, his jaw tightening as they passed another group of soldiers. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, scrutinized, as if everyone here knew who he was and why he was here
The nurse paused at the reception area, parking the wheelchair neatly before stepping away. Alex watched as she exchanged a few words in Russian with the nurse stationed at the desk. Her tone was calm and matter-of-fact, though Alex couldn't understand a word. After a brief exchange, she reached behind the counter and retrieved a thick military jacket—the same style Alex had seen on the soldiers in the hallway.
She stepped in front of him, holding the jacket out with a firm expression. Alex immediately opened his mouth to protest. "I don't need—"
"Cold," the nurse interrupted, her voice carrying a thick accent that made the single word almost curt.
Alex turned his head slightly to glance out the nearby window. A soft layer of snow blanketed the ground, and even from inside, he could see the frost forming on the edges of the glass. He sighed heavily, resigning himself to the practicality of her insistence. Protesting wouldn't do any good, especially to someone who likely didn't understand much of what he said
With a slight nod, he relented. The nurse moved efficiently, helping him slip his arms into the heavy sleeves. The fabric was stiff, smelling faintly of detergent and something metallic, but it was warm. She zipped the jacket up to his chin, ensuring it was snug before stepping back to check her work.
Alex's gaze dropped to the jacket's sleeve, where the unmistakable symbol of a Russian flag was stitched prominently onto the arm. His frown deepened, his fingers brushing against the embroidered fabric. It wasn't just a jacket—it was a statement, deliberate and taunting.
They were dressing him in the colors of MI6's adversary, as though mocking the people who had sent him into this nightmare. The thought churned in his stomach, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
Was this part of their game? A calculated move to remind MI6 who held the cards now? It felt like a quiet jab, a way of draping him in an allegiance he hadn't chosen, hadn't wanted.
He clenched his fists, the fabric of the armrest creaking slightly under his grip. The nurse didn't seem to notice—or care. She was already preparing to wheel him out, her expression focused and neutral.
Alex shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the jacket suddenly heavier.
As the nurse wheeled him outside, the icy air struck Alex's face like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. He shivered instinctively, grateful for the warmth of the military jacket despite its unwelcome symbolism. His breath puffed out in white clouds, the cold biting at his exposed skin.
Thankfully, he didn't have to endure it for long. A sleek black car sat waiting a few feet away, its engine humming softly and the faint warmth of its interior spilling into the frosty air. The nurse moved quickly, supporting him as he eased out of the wheelchair.
Every movement sent jolts of discomfort through his battered body, but Alex gritted his teeth and let her help him. He slid into the car's back seat, the heated air inside immediately wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.
The nurse stood by the open door for a moment, her expression unreadable. She didn't say anything, but her gaze lingered on him, as though silently bidding him farewell. Alex met her eyes briefly, unsure whether to feel gratitude or resentment. She'd been kind in her way, but she was still a part of this place.
With a quiet sigh, the nurse stepped back and closed the door firmly behind him. Alex turned his head to look out the window, catching her retreating figure as she disappeared into the hospital.
For a moment, he allowed himself to relax into the warmth of the car.
Seated in the back of the car, Alex noted the two other occupants: the driver, whose sharp eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, and a man in the passenger seat. Both exuded an air of quiet authority, their tailored suits and rigid postures practically screaming "secret service." Neither spared Alex a glance nor uttered a word as the car smoothly pulled away, its tires crunching softly over the frosty ground.
Alex shifted his gaze out of the window. The cold gray landscape blurred past, a stark reminder of his surroundings. It became evident that he hadn't just been in a military hospital but deep within the heart of a sprawling military base. Through the haze of his thoughts, he noticed soldiers in the distance—rows of them jogging in perfect formation, their boots thudding rhythmically against the packed earth. Others performed drills, their movements precise and mechanical, every step a testament to their discipline.
The man in the passenger seat finally broke the silence, his voice steady and matter-of-fact. "Someone from MI6 is waiting for you," he said, his English clipped and deliberate. His gaze flicked to Alex in the rearview mirror, his expression neutral. "This camp has a runway, so you'll be flying out from here. It won't take long to get there."
Alex didn't respond, his throat still raw from the smoke and exhaustion weighing heavily on him. Instead, he nodded faintly, turning his head back toward the window.
True to his word, the car slowed to a halt exactly fifteen minutes later. The man in the passenger seat moved swiftly, stepping out and circling to Alex's door. He opened it without hesitation, his actions efficient and businesslike, though there was no offer of assistance. Unlike the nurse who had gone out of her way to support him earlier, this man seemed indifferent to Alex's condition.
Alex hesitated briefly, his muscles still aching from his earlier exertion, before he pushed himself out of the car. The cold air immediately bit at his face, sharp and unforgiving. In front of him, a sleek private jet stood waiting, its engines humming softly in the stillness of the military base. The aircraft loomed large and imposing, the sharp angles of its design cutting through the overcast sky.
Alex squared his shoulders against the biting wind, pulling the unfamiliar military jacket tighter around him.
"Alex," a familiar voice called out, cutting through the cold stillness.
Alex turned toward the sound, his movements slow and deliberate. Standing near the jet was Crawley, his MI6 handler, a faint look of concern etched on his usually composed face. Alex hadn't noticed him when he stepped out of the car.
Crawley approached quickly, his eyes narrowing as he took in Alex's battered appearance. He halted a few paces away, his gaze shifting to the man who had escorted Alex. "You said he wasn't badly hurt," Crawley accused, his voice tight with irritation. "You claimed he was stable enough for transfer without medical assistance."
The man shrugged, his expression cold and dismissive. "He'll survive," he replied curtly, his tone devoid of sympathy.
Alex could see the tension building in Crawley's frame, his lips parting as if to argue further. But before he could speak, Alex intervened, his voice hoarse but steady. "I'm fine," he said, forcing the words out with more certainty than he felt.
Crawley's sharp eyes shifted to Alex, softening as he took in the boy's quiet resilience. "Can we just go?" Alex asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with exhaustion.
Crawley's expression melted into something gentler, the edge of his frustration blunted. "Yes," he said with a nod, his voice low and calming. "Let's take you home."
As Crawley reached out, placing a hand on Alex's back to guide him, Alex immediately flinched, a sharp stab of pain radiating through his body. Crawley pulled back his hand quickly, as though burned, his brows knitting together in concern.
"It's fine," Alex said, straightening despite the discomfort. "I'll manage myself." His tone was firm, leaving no room for debate as he clutched the cold metal railing of the jet's staircase. Slowly, carefully, he began to climb, each step a painful reminder of the ordeal he was finally leaving behind.
"You alright?" Crawley's voice broke the tense silence, his tone laced with concern.
"Yeah," Alex breathed out, though his voice was strained. "Just a little rough."
He fumbled with the seatbelt, clicking it together as the jet began to roll forward, its engines humming softly. The vibrations under his feet felt oddly grounding, even if his body protested every movement.
"Alex," Crawley said, drawing his attention. The man had settled into the seat across from him, his sharp gaze fixed on Alex. "Do you need to go to the hospital when we get to London?"
Alex shook his head, though the movement made his neck twinge. "No, it's not as bad as it looks."
Crawley's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression skeptical. It was clear he didn't believe him, but he chose not to argue. "Alright," he said finally, his voice softening. "We'll take a little under four hours to reach London. You should get some rest."
Alex gave a faint nod, leaning back into the seat with a wince as the movement sent a dull ache through his body. He turned his head toward the window, watching the landscape blur beneath them. The plane's wheels left the ground with a soft jolt, and the world outside shifted as they climbed steadily into the sky.
The gentle hum of the engines filled the cabin, a strangely soothing sound after the chaos of the past few days. Alex let his eyes drift shut, the exhaustion finally pulling at him as the plane soared higher, carrying him away from the nightmare he'd survived.
Alex slept, but his dreams offered no refuge.
The chaos unfolded as soon as his eyes closed. He was back in the icy waters of Skeleton Key, Troy's lifeless body slipping through his fingers, blood mingling with the waves. His hands were slick, trembling, useless to save anyone. Troy's face was pale, his unseeing eyes staring up at Alex in silent accusation.
The scene shifted, and he was underwater, his lungs screaming for air as Conrad's iron grip held his head down. He clawed at the edges of the basin, his nails splitting against the unyielding metal. The pressure in his chest built until it felt like his ribs would crack. He thrashed, desperate for freedom, but Conrad's sadistic laughter echoed in his ears.
Then the screams started. Not from Conrad, not from anyone else—but from Alex himself. His back seared with agony as the whip lashed across his skin, the pain hot and all-consuming. He was on the cold ground again, helpless, with Sarov's shadow looming over him.
"Nothing you do will change this," Sarov's voice hissed.
The whip fell again, and Alex's body jerked in agony.
He was thrown back into the smoke and fire. Yassen lay before him, his body twisted and lifeless, eyes staring blankly at nothing. Alex screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the roaring flames. He reached for Yassen, but his hands went straight through him, grasping at nothing but ash.
Alex woke with a sharp gasp, his chest heaving as if he'd just surfaced from drowning. His heart pounded against his ribs, and his throat felt raw, like he'd been screaming for hours. The dim cabin lights of the plane cast long shadows, and for a moment, he didn't know where he was.
A blanket had been draped over him, its warmth contrasting painfully with the cold sweat soaking his skin. He blinked, disoriented, before realizing Crawley was still sitting across from him, a tablet in his hands. The man looked up, his expression shifting to concern when he saw Alex's face.
"Are you alright, Alex?" Crawley asked softly, his voice careful.
Alex tried to respond, but his throat tightened. He nodded instead, the movement shaky and unconvincing. His hands gripped the armrests so tightly his knuckles were white, and his body ached from the tension he hadn't realized he was holding.
But it wasn't the physical pain that hurt the most—it was the ghosts that clung to him, their voices still echoing in his ears. The blood, the screams, the betrayal of his own body when it had failed him and everyone around him.
He turned his face away, looking out the small window where the night sky stretched endlessly. He wanted to believe Crawley's question had an answer, that someday he could say, "Yes, I'm alright."
But right now, the truth sat heavy on his chest, suffocating him just as the water, the smoke, and the nightmares had. He swallowed hard, gripping the blanket tighter as if it could hold the broken pieces of him together.
"We're landing soon," Crawley said gently, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence in the cabin. "And then we'll head straight to debriefing. I know it's too soon, but we need to know what happened."
Alex didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the dark expanse outside the window, where the distant lights of London were beginning to pierce through the clouds. The weight of Crawley's words settled heavily on his chest, though he wasn't surprised. He'd known this was coming—MI6 always demanded answers, no matter what state he was in.
"I know," he muttered, his voice rough and barely audible.
Crawley leaned back in his seat, studying Alex with a mixture of concern and reluctance. He clearly wanted to say more, but something in Alex's tone—or maybe the way his shoulders were hunched as if bracing for impact—stopped him.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything Alex couldn't say. He knew the debriefing wouldn't just be about recounting events; it would be about justifying why he was still alive when so many others weren't. He felt the sting of that unspoken question already.
His fingers gripped the blanket tighter, and for a brief moment, he wished the plane wouldn't land at all. But he knew there was no escape, not from MI6 and not from the memories chasing him.
They landed at London Heathrow not long after, the plane touching down with a jolt that made Alex's already tense body flinch. The hum of the engines slowed to a whine, and moments later, the doors opened with a hiss, letting in the crisp night air.
A car was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs, its engine idling. Alex barely had time to register the surroundings before Crawley gestured for him to move. His legs protested as he stood, his body stiff and aching from the hours of sitting and the strain of the last few days.
As Alex descended the stairs, the cold bit at his exposed skin, but he barely noticed. He was too tired to care. Crawley stayed close, a quiet but steady presence, as they crossed the tarmac and got into the waiting car.
The doors closed with a soft thud, sealing them inside the warm, dimly lit interior. The driver didn't say a word, pulling away smoothly as soon as Crawley and Alex were seated. They bypassed customs entirely—no lines, no questions, no need for identification. Not that Alex had anything with him; his name wasn't on any passenger manifest, and he doubted there was a single official record of his journey.
The car slipped through the airport's private exits with practiced ease, the headlights cutting through the darkness as they headed toward central London. Alex leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the lights of the city blur into streaks of color.
Alex barely registered the journey, the city lights flashing past in a haze. Before he could make sense of the ride, the car slowed, gliding into the underground parking of the department. The dim, sterile light of the garage did little to make the place feel welcoming; it was just another reminder of where he was headed.
Crawley stepped out first, waiting as Alex followed more slowly, his body stiff and aching. The sound of their footsteps echoed off the concrete walls as they approached the lift. Crawley pressed the button, and the doors opened with a soft chime.
As they stepped inside, Crawley broke the silence. "Alex, a doctor will see you once we're upstairs. The Russians didn't provide us with any medical reports or details about your condition."
Alex wanted to protest, to say that he was fine—or at least that he was done being poked and prodded like a lab rat. But he couldn't summon the energy to argue. Instead, he gave a small, resigned nod, leaning back against the cool metal wall of the lift.
The hum of the machinery filled the silence as the lift ascended, floor by floor. Alex's eyes fixed on the changing numbers above the door, trying not to think about what awaited him when they reached the top. His body might have been on autopilot, but his mind was anything but still.
He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his sore muscles. Crawley glanced at him, concern flickering across his face, but he didn't say anything. Alex was grateful for that much, at least.
When the lift finally dinged to a stop, Alex exhaled softly, bracing himself. Whatever came next, he'd face it—just like he always did.
The lift doors slid open with a faint ding, revealing the stark, gray interior of the department. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee, the ambiance as cold as Alex felt inside.
"Alex," came a familiar voice. Smithers stood a few steps away, his usually jovial demeanor muted as he took in the sight of him. "Good heavens. What have they done to you?"
Before Alex could respond, Crawley spoke up. "Smithers, can you take him to the conference room? The medic is already there. I'll call the others." Crawley strode off briskly, leaving Smithers and Alex alone.
Smithers approached, his sharp eyes scanning Alex's bruised face and slumped posture. "What have they done to you?" he repeated, his tone tinged with both worry and disbelief.
Alex forced a dry smirk, though it tugged painfully at the bruises on his cheek. "Oh, you know. Another Job interview."
"Come on, then," Smithers said, motioning for Alex to follow him. "Let's get you checked out before you fall apart completely."
"Too late for that," Alex muttered under his breath as he trailed after Smithers toward the conference room.
Inside the conference room, as promised, was a man Alex assumed to be the doctor. He wasn't wearing a white coat, but a medical kit was already open on the table, its contents neatly laid out.
"Have a seat," the doctor said, gesturing to the chair beside him. Smithers took a seat across the table, his expression unreadable but watchful.
Alex lowered himself into the chair, the aches in his body protesting every movement.
"Alright, Alex, let's get started," the doctor said briskly, pulling out a small penlight. "Did you hit your head?"
"Apparently," Alex replied, his voice flat. He realized too late that it wasn't the answer the doctor was looking for.
"You don't remember?" the doctor pressed.
"No, I mean—I just didn't realize I had," Alex corrected himself quickly, wincing at how disjointed his response sounded.
The doctor hummed in acknowledgment, clearly making a mental note. "Follow the light," he instructed, raising the penlight and shining it directly into Alex's eyes.
The beam of light hit, and suddenly Alex wasn't in the conference room anymore. He was back in the cold, stifling van, his wrists restrained on either side. A blinding light pierced his vision as hands held him still, and he could feel the sting of fear rising in his chest.
He jerked back instinctively, the chair scraping against the floor as the memory surged forward.
The doctor immediately turned off the light, his voice calm but concerned. "Everything okay?"
Alex forced himself to breathe, his heart hammering in his chest. "Yeah, sorry," he mumbled, his voice quieter now.
From across the table, Smithers didn't say a word, but Alex could feel his eyes on him, sharp and probing. Smithers had always been good at reading people, and Alex knew he wouldn't let this go unnoticed.
The doctor leaned back slightly, giving Alex space. "Let's take this slow," he said gently, his tone professional but not unkind. "it doesn't seem you have a concussion. Just tell me if you feel dizzy or if anything else seems off."
Alex nodded faintly, trying to focus on the here and now, but the echoes of the past still lingered, clawing at the edges of his mind.
"Alright, can you take off your shirt?" the doctor asked, pulling out a blood pressure monitor from the kit.
Alex sighed, his frustration evident in the sharp exhale. Privacy wasn't a luxury he was ever afforded anymore. He shrugged off the military jacket and slowly pushed the hoodie over his head, each movement eliciting a quiet wince as the fabric brushed against tender skin.
The room fell silent.
The doctor froze for a moment, his eyes fixed on Alex's exposed torso. Bruises of varying colors—deep purples, sickly yellows, and raw reds—stretched across his ribs and shoulders. Bandages covered parts of his chest and arms, some already spotted with fresh or drying blood. A long, jagged cut ran just below his collarbone, barely hidden by the edge of one bandage.
Clearing his throat, the doctor quickly composed himself and slid the cuff around Alex's arm. As the machine started to measure his blood pressure, Alex could feel the doctor's gaze flickering back to his injuries, cataloging each one in his mind.
"Hold still," the doctor said softly, though his voice carried a weight Alex didn't miss.
Alex sat quietly, staring past Smithers, who looked uncharacteristically grim as his eyes darted from Alex's face to the injuries. The hiss of the blood pressure cuff tightening around Alex's arm filled the silence, but the tension in the room was palpable.
As the cuff deflated with a soft hiss, the doctor gently removed it and scribbled down a note.
As the cuff deflated with a soft hiss, the doctor gently removed it, jotted down a note, and reached for his stethoscope. "Alright, Alex, sit up straight," he instructed, pressing the cold metal against Alex's bruised chest.
Alex flinched slightly at the contact but obeyed, his breath hitching momentarily.
"Take a deep breath," the doctor said, his tone clinical yet calm.
Alex inhaled deeply, the movement pulling at sore muscles and making his ribs ache.
"And let it out."
Alex exhaled, the air leaving his lungs in a shaky rush.
The doctor paused, moving the stethoscope to a different spot on his chest. "Again," he prompted.
Alex repeated the process, each breath a reminder of the smoke he'd inhaled and the physical strain his body had endured.
Finally, the doctor straightened and hung the stethoscope around his neck. "Everything seems to be in order," he said, though his tone lacked the reassurance Alex might have expected. "Now, I'll take a look at your wounds and change the bandages."
He opened the medical bag, pulling out antiseptic, fresh gauze, and surgical tape. The sight of the supplies made Alex's stomach churn—not because of the pain he knew was coming, but because it meant yet another reminder of how much damage he'd taken.
"Let me know if anything hurts too much," the doctor added as he began unwrapping the first bandage, his hands methodical but gentle.
Alex clenched his fists, his knuckles white, as the doctor carefully unraveled the bandages one by one. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the wall behind the doctor, refusing to look down at the burns and scrapes that marred his skin. Just the thought of the raw, blistered flesh beneath the gauze made his stomach churn.
The room was silent except for the soft rustling of bandages and the occasional clink of medical supplies. The antiseptic smell was sharp in the air, and Alex could feel the sweat collecting on his palms despite the cool temperature.
"Almost done with this one," the doctor murmured, breaking the silence as he exposed a particularly nasty burn on Alex's forearm.
Alex swallowed hard, the sight in his peripheral vision enough to make his stomach twist. He didn't dare look directly.
The doctor worked efficiently, spreading a cool, soothing cream over the burns. The relief was almost immediate, the stinging heat replaced by a chilling numbness. Still, Alex couldn't shake the sickening awareness of what lay beneath the cream.
"Let me know if anything feels worse than before," the doctor said, his voice steady.
Alex nodded stiffly, biting back the urge to tell him that everything already felt worse than it should.
All the while, Smithers sat quietly on the other side of the room, his hands folded in his lap. He watched the procedure with a look that Alex couldn't quite decipher—concern, perhaps, or maybe something closer to regret.
Alex tried to focus on anything else—the rhythm of his own breathing, the hum of the air conditioning, the faint creak of Smithers shifting in his chair. But no matter what he did, he couldn't escape the weight of Smithers' presence or the reality of his battered body.
Finally, the last piece of bandage was secured to Alex's chest, and the doctor leaned back, exhaling softly. Alex had been bracing himself for this moment, the one he'd been dreading since the exam began.
"Can you turn away from me, Alex? I need to see your back."
Alex hesitated, gripping the edge of the chair for a moment before nodding. Slowly, he turned, the fabric of the hoodie bunching awkwardly at his elbows as his back was revealed. He stared at the wall, his jaw clenched tightly, willing himself not to flinch.
Behind him, he could hear the rustle of gloves and supplies as the doctor worked. The first tug of tape peeling away from his skin sent a shiver down his spine, but Alex kept still.
As each layer of bandage was removed, the air felt colder against his exposed skin, and he could sense the doctor pausing to take in the damage. He didn't need to ask what it looked like. Alex already knew. The raised, angry lines crisscrossing his back said more than words ever could.
The doctor didn't comment, which Alex appreciated, but the silence was heavy. Every press of disinfectant-soaked cotton against a cut sent a sharp sting through him, and Alex couldn't stop the occasional wince.
"Sorry," the doctor murmured each time, his voice low and genuinely apologetic.
Alex bit his lip, his fingers tightening on the chair. He didn't reply. Apologies didn't change what was done or how the scars would linger long after the pain had faded.
Smithers, still seated in the corner, shifted uneasily. Alex couldn't see his expression, but he didn't need to. The atmosphere in the room spoke volumes. The cuts were a testament to what had happened, and no one needed to ask.
The straight, deliberate lines etched into his skin told a story of cruelty and control, one that Alex had no desire to relive or explain. Instead, he focused on breathing evenly, on staying present, even as the memories tried to claw their way back to the surface.
"It's healing, nicely, no infections" the doctor finally said, breaking the silence as he began to apply fresh bandages.
The doctor worked quickly, his hands moving efficiently as he secured the final piece of gauze to Alex's back. Just as he pressed the tape into place, the door creaked open, and the sound of approaching footsteps filled the room. Alex barely had time to process it before more people stepped in.
"Great. Will everyone want to watch?" he muttered, his voice edged with irritation and exhaustion.
"You can put your shirt back on now," the doctor said, stepping back and handing Alex his hoodie.
Alex tugged the hoodie over his head, the soft fabric brushing against his raw skin as he adjusted it carefully. Then he turned toward the newcomers. The moment his gaze landed on them, his body went rigid.
Mrs. Jones and Crawley stood by the doorway, their expressions carefully measured. But it was the person standing just a step behind them that made Alex's blood run cold—Bryne.
The same woman who had sent him into that nightmare. The one responsible for every bruise, every cut, every scar he now carried.
"What are you doing here?" Alex demanded, his voice sharp, cutting through the room like a blade.
His sudden movement startled Smithers, who half-rose but Alex attention fixed solely on Bryne. His fists clenched at his sides, and his jaw tightened as a flood of anger surged through him, burning hotter than the pain that still lingered in his body.
Mrs. Jones stepped forward, raising a hand in a calming gesture. "Alex—"
"No," he interrupted, his voice rising. "She doesn't get to be here. Not after what she did."
Bryne's face remained stoic, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—guilt, defiance, maybe both. "Alex," she began, but he cut her off.
"You don't get to say my name," Alex spat, his voice trembling with restrained fury. His eyes burned into Bryne's, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. "You sent me there. Belinda and Troy are dead because of you, and you left me there. After I pressed thefuckingbutton," he accused, his voice breaking on the last word.
Bryne flinched, her mask of calm cracking for a moment, but she said nothing.
Mrs. Jones's voice softened, though her expression remained firm. "Alex, I know how hard this is, but we need you to start from the beginning. This was a CIA operation, and that requires her presence for the debriefing."
Alex's gaze flicked to each person in the room, their expectant faces only deepening the frustration boiling inside him. He let out a heavy sigh before falling back into the chair with a thud, his movements reminiscent of a child reluctantly yielding after being scolded. "Fine," he muttered, his voice low and begrudging.
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut, broken only by the sound of the doctor clearing his throat. It was a subtle but deliberate reminder that he was still there. All eyes shifted momentarily toward him.
Alex turned to face the man, who was already tidying up his supplies. "Keep the wounds clean," the doctor said, his tone matter-of-fact as he handed Alex a small tube of cream. "You can apply this to the burns. I'll also prescribe you some antibiotics and pain medication."
Without waiting for a response, the doctor rose from his chair, his bag of tools clicking shut with a practiced efficiency. "Take care of yourself, Alex," he added, his voice tinged with genuine concern, before making his way to the door and stepping out of the room.
The quiet that followed felt oppressive, the weight of what was coming hanging heavily in the air. Alex stared down at the tube of cream in his hands, his jaw tightening as the enormity of everything he'd been through—and everything yet to come—settled squarely on his shoulders.
Mrs. Jones leaned forward, her expression a careful mask of professionalism tinged with concern. "Alright, Alex, let's start from the beginning. What happened? What went wrong?"
Alex swallowed hard, his throat dry. Before he could respond, a cup of water was placed in front of him. He glanced up to see Crawley stepping back, his movement so subtle Alex hadn't even noticed him fetching it. With a nod of thanks, Alex took a sip, though the cool liquid did little to soothe the knot tightening in his chest.
"We had scouted the island from the beach," Alex began, his voice quieter than usual, almost detached. "Troy and Belinda wanted to go in at night using a blind spot they'd found. We went into town earlier to pick up some gear and waited for nightfall."
He paused, gripping the edge of the table as if it might anchor him to the present. "We went in that night. I stayed in the boat to keep watch. It was supposed to be simple." His voice faltered, and he shook his head. "But something went wrong. Suddenly, all the lights on the island came on. Sirens. Noise. Chaos. And then..."
He closed his eyes, the memory cutting like glass. "Troy came crashing down into the water. I don't know how, but he fell—jumped maybe—but something was wrong. I dove in to get him back to the boat. That's when I saw it. He'd been shot."
Alex's knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists, his voice tightening. "I kept looking at the shore, waiting for Belinda to follow, but she didn't. She never came. I didn't know what to do—I took us out of there, back to the beach."
He stopped, his chest heaving slightly as he struggled to push the words out. "But it was too late. Troy... He'd lost too much blood. He died right there. Right in front of me."
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Crawley looked down, his jaw tense, while Mrs. Jones maintained her steady gaze, though a flicker of emotion passed through her eyes.
Alex exhaled shakily, his eyes darting between the faces staring back at him. He felt the weight of their expectation pressing down on him, making it harder to breathe. "I don't know exactly what went wrong," he began, his voice uneven. "But everything did."
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. "The people from the island—they followed us. They caught up fast. They injected me with... something. I don't even know what it was. And then... I woke up. Tied up. Next to the water."
He paused, swallowing hard, the memories flooding back as vividly as if he were still there. "There was a man waiting for me—Conrad. He was asking questions. About MI6, about everything. They already knew my name. My real name."
Alex's gaze shifted to Bryne, sharp and accusing. "Apparently, your contact in Cuba sold us out."
Bryne opened her mouth as if to protest, but he didn't give her the chance. "Conrad wasn't patient. When I wouldn't tell him what he wanted, he decided to make an example out of me. He... he threw me into the water." Alex's voice cracked slightly, the memory of cold water filling his lungs cutting through his composure. "I thought I was going to die. I really did."
He stopped, his hand gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. "But someone pulled me out."
Alex's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It was Yassen. He was there. On the island."
Mrs. Jones's calm facade faltered for a fraction of a second. "Yassen? Yassen Gregorovitch?" she asked, leaning forward slightly.
Alex nodded, the tension in his chest tightening with every breath. "Yeah. Him. He pulled me out of the water, apparently on Sarov's orders."
Mrs. Jones frowned, leaning forward. "But why would Sarov save you?"
Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze flickering downward as if searching for answers in the pattern of the table. "He wanted... a heir," Alex said, his voice laced with bitterness. "He said I reminded him of his dead son. The whole time I was there, he kept trying to manipulate me, trying to get me to agree with his plans and follow his lead. He never told me exactly what he was planning, but it was big. Dangerous. He wanted me to be a part of it."
He swallowed, the taste of saltwater and desperation suddenly vivid in his mind. "When the Russian President arrived, I saw my chance. I tried to escape—took his boat. But they caught me."
Alex hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he clenched them into fists. "Sarov... he made sure I regretted it."
The room fell into a suffocating silence, the weight of Alex's words pressing down like a storm cloud. Mrs. Jones exchanged a glance with Crawley, whose jaw clenched tightly, his expression teetering between anger and disbelief. Smithers shifted uneasily in his chair, his usual levity replaced by quiet concern, his gaze fixed on Alex.
"I was taken to Russia not long after," Alex continued, his voice hollow but steady, each word laced with exhaustion. "Sarov kept me handcuffed most of the time. He wasn't stupid—he knew I'd fight back. But…" Alex hesitated, his eyes darkening. "Yassen gave me the key."
That admission hung in the air like a challenge, drawing every gaze back to him. Alex swallowed hard, the memory cutting deep. "He said he wanted to give me a choice. I didn't understand it at the time."
He shifted uncomfortably, the enormity of the next part making his chest tighten. "Then Sarov told me his plan. He wanted to detonate a nuclear submarine. The explosion would devastate half of Europe—England included. He thought it would force the world to turn its back on Russia, so he could seize power and take command."
Alex paused, running a hand through his hair as if trying to scrub the memories from his mind. "I was left alone with him at one point, and I saw my chance. I managed to get the bomb off the submarine."
His breath hitched, and for a moment, he looked as though he might stop. But he pushed on, his voice trembling now. "Conrad showed up before I could get away. He… he was going to kill me. I thought it was over."
Alex's fists clenched on the table as he forced the words out. "But Sarov shot him. Sarov killed his own man to protect me." He let out a shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "It didn't make any sense."
The room was deathly still as Alex continued, his tone growing more fractured with each word. "Yassen turned his back on Sarov after that. He… he tried to stop him. But the bomb—" Alex's voice broke, and he took a moment to gather himself. "The bomb exploded anyway."
He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay composed. "Yassen saw it coming. He… he protected me from the blast. He shielded me."
Alex finally looked up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, his voice breaking under the weight of his confession. "He died doing it."
Mrs. Jones tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Yassen Gregorovitch is dead?" she asked, her tone carefully measured.
"Yeah," Alex rasped, his voice cracking as he spoke the words. He paused, his throat tightening, the conflicting emotions swirling within him threatening to overwhelm.
Alex finally looked up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, his expression haunted. The words felt foreign as they left his lips, brittle and sharp.He died doing it.
The room remained suffocatingly silent, the gravity of what he had just revealed pressing down on everyone present. Alex's gaze dropped to his hands, trembling and clenched tightly in his lap. His knuckles were pale, the veins stark against his skin, a testament to the tension coiled within him.
Yassen Gregorovitch was dead. The thought should have brought closure, maybe even relief. Instead, it left a hollow ache that Alex couldn't quite explain, a knot of emotions that he couldn't untangle. The man had killed Ian, had robbed him of the last semblance of family he'd had. Alex should have felt nothing but hatred, the sharp, consuming kind that burned everything else away.
But he didn't.
He thought of the icy water filling his lungs, the crushing weight of it pulling him down, and Yassen's hand reaching in to save him. He thought of the moments in the midst of chaos when Yassen had stepped in, protecting him, not out of duty or necessity but something Alex couldn't understand. He thought of the blast, the heat, the roar of destruction, and Yassen shielding him from it, sacrificing himself in the process.
The memories twisted in his chest, a cruel mix of resentment and gratitude that gnawed at him. He hated Yassen for what he'd taken from him, for the pain he'd caused. But he couldn't deny the truth either—Yassen had saved him, again and again, even when he didn't have to.
It didn't make sense, and maybe it never would. The man who had stolen so much had given so much back. And now he was gone.
Alex's throat tightened, his grief quiet but all-encompassing, folding him into its heavy grasp. He felt the eyes on him, the unspoken questions, the subtle shifts of discomfort in the room. He didn't need their pity, didn't want it. He just wanted… something he couldn't name.
He blinked back the tears that threatened to spill and let out a shuddering breath. The emptiness inside him was colder than anything he'd felt in that Russian prison or on that island, and he had no idea how to fill it.
Bryne's voice was steady, almost rehearsed, as she said, "Alex, I'm sorry for what you've been through, but you understand it was necessary."
Alex's head snapped up, his expression icy. "Fuck you." The venom in his voice was palpable, cutting through the air like a blade. "You don't get to justify your actions to make yourself feel better. You kidnapped me from my dorm. I almost died because of you." His words trembled with a raw edge of anger and exhaustion, his body tense despite the pain it caused him.
Bryne didn't flinch, her demeanor as polished and unyielding as ever. "And you saved millions of people, Alex." She slid a thin file across the table toward him. "Thank you for your service, Alex. This is for you."
He eyed the file with disdain, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"If you want to go back to America and finish college, you can, you won't be bothered anymore" Bryne added as she rose from her seat, smoothing her jacket like she was closing a deal rather than addressing the trauma she had inflicted.
As she turned to leave, Mrs. Jones's voice cut through the tension. "Joe."
Bryne paused in the doorway, her hand on the frame, and turned back with a neutral expression.
"Don't ever go behind my back with my agents," Mrs. Jones said, her tone carrying a quiet fury that left no room for argument.
Bryne gave a small, stiff nod, her mask of professionalism firmly in place, and walked out of the room without another word.
Alex stared at the file in front of him, his jaw tight. He didn't move to open it. It felt like a dismissal, a neatly tied bow on a nightmare that wouldn't stop unraveling in his head.
No one asked what was inside the file. The weight of its presence on the table was suffocating, but Alex didn't dare touch it. It felt like a box of Pandora's lies, carefully constructed to sweep everything under the rug.
Mrs. Jones's voice broke the silence, measured but firm. "Alex, I think it's best if you continue your sessions with Dr. Lamberg."
He nodded mutely, his expression hollow. He didn't need to say it—he knew he was messed up after this mission. The images, the pain, the screams—they were all etched into him now, and there wasn't a neat solution to scrub them away.
"Crawley will take you home," Mrs. Jones added. Her tone softened just enough to make it feel like an attempt at comfort. "Get some rest, Alex."
Without a word, he rose from his seat, his movements stiff and mechanical, as though his body was on autopilot. Crawley stood and followed behind, a silent presence, as they left the room
The drive home was quiet, the hum of the engine and the occasional turn signal the only sounds filling the car. Alex stared out the window, the familiar streets of London passing in a blur, but none of it felt real. His body ached, his mind felt like it was trapped in a fog, and the tension in his chest was suffocating. He gripped the armrest tightly, his knuckles white, as Crawley navigated through the city.
Alex's thoughts spiraled. He expected to return to an empty house—Jack had gone back to America, Tom was traveling with his brother, and Kyra was in Singapore. He'd be alone, which was fine, he told himself. After everything, maybe he needed the solitude.
When the car finally stopped in front of his house, Crawley hesitated, his hands resting on the steering wheel. Alex looked out at the dimly lit street and the familiar façade of his home. It was strange how unchanged it looked, as though the world hadn't shifted on its axis while he was gone.
Crawley broke the silence. "Alex… there's something you should know." His tone was cautious, almost reluctant. Alex turned his gaze toward him, his brow furrowing slightly.
"When your signal went silent during the mission, and they couldn't get through…" Crawley sighed, running a hand over his face before continuing. "the CIA thought you were dead. we told Jack, and Kyra that you didn't make it, when they came looking for."
The words hit Alex like a punch to the gut. He hadn't expected this—hadn't even considered what they must have gone through thinking he was gone. The idea of Jack receiving the news, of Tom and Kyra believing he was gone forever, made Alex's stomach twist painfully. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his gaze fixed on the familiar door in front of him.
"We still haven't told them you're alive," Crawley said softly, breaking the silence. "We wanted to be sure first."
Alex nodded numbly. What could he even say to that? Without a word, he stepped out of the car, the chill of the night air biting at his skin. He paused in front of the door, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He could go in—he knew where the spare key was hidden—but instead, he raised his hand and knocked.
For a moment, there was only silence. He stood there, unsure if he even wanted an answer. Then, faint shuffling came from the other side of the door. It opened hesitantly, and there stood Jack, her face drained of color, her eyes wide with shock. For a second, she just stared, frozen, as if she were seeing a ghost.
"Alex?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Hey, Jack," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips.
Her hand flew to her mouth, and tears welled in her eyes. "Oh, Alex," she choked out, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug so tight it knocked the air out of him. Pain flared in his still-healing body, but he didn't care. For a brief moment, the warmth of her embrace made the world feel a little less cold, a little less fractured.
She held him like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go, her sobs muffled against his shoulder. "I thought—I thought you were gone," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"I'm here," Alex murmured again, his voice strained, as if saying the words aloud made them more real. "I'm here, Jack."
Jack pulled him inside the house, her grip on him unwavering. "Tom! Kyra!" she called out, her voice shaky and thick with emotion. "Get down here! Now!"
"What, Jack? What's going on?" Tom's voice echoed from upstairs, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps descending the staircase.
Jack finally loosened her hold on Alex, though her tears continued to fall as she stepped aside, revealing him. Alex stood there, his exhaustion and injuries barely concealed beneath his hoodie, but his presence was undeniable.
Tom froze halfway down the stairs, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing like he couldn't find the words. Behind him, Kyra came rushing down, her steps quick and light. She skidded to a stop right in front of Alex, her eyes scanning him, disbelief and hope flickering across her face. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm, like she was afraid he might vanish if she touched him too firmly.
Alex didn't wait. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her tightly, feeling her shake as silent sobs wracked her frame. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Before he could even catch his breath, Tom joined them, crashing into Alex with a hug so fierce it made him wince. But he didn't pull away. Tom clung to him with the same desperate strength Jack had, like he was trying to anchor Alex to the ground, to make sure he was real and not just some cruel dream.
"You idiot," Tom muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "We thought you were gone. We thought—" His voice broke, and he didn't finish the sentence, burying his face in Alex's shoulder instead.
Alex held onto them both, the weight of their relief and grief crashing over him like a wave. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to let go, to lean into their warmth and their love. The tears he hadn't allowed himself to cry slipped down his face, and for a moment, the broken pieces of his world felt just a little bit less jagged.
As the day unfolded, Alex reluctantly recounted what had happened, though he carefully omitted the worst parts—the pain, the humiliation, the torture he had endured. He didn't need to say it; their hugs, the way they held onto him like he might slip away again, told him they already knew enough.
Later, when the house finally quieted, Alex retreated to his room. He shut the door behind him and sank onto the bed, pulling the folded file from his pocket. The edges were creased, and the paper felt heavier than it should. He hesitated for a moment, then opened it. Inside was Kyra's file, the same one they'd shown him to manipulate him into taking the mission. A yellow post-it note clung to the corner, its message stark and simple:"This is the only copy."
Alex exhaled, the weight of it all pressing down on him. He was about to shove the file into the drawer when the door creaked open behind him. His body tensed, and he spun around quickly, instinctively hiding the papers behind him. It was Kyra. She stepped in, closing the door softly.
"Hey," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I was scared," she admitted, her voice trembling. "You're the only family I have left." She paused, her eyes filling with tears. "You promised me, Alex. You promised you'd say no if they came back."
"I know," Alex replied, guilt pooling in his chest. "I'm sorry." He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.
"You promised," she said again, her voice breaking, her shoulders trembling against him. Then she froze, her body going rigid. "What is that?" she asked, her gaze darting over his shoulder to the file lying on the bed.
Alex pulled back, stepping aside and running a hand through his hair. He knew it wasn't worth trying to hide it. Kyra walked forward slowly, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at the documents. Her hand trembled as she picked them up.
"I did say no," Alex confessed quietly.
She looked up at him, her face etched with a mix of horror and betrayal. "You did this because of me," she whispered, her voice cracking.
Alex reached out and grabbed her hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. "It's not your fault," he said firmly. "Kyra, this is on me. I made the choice."
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she shook her head. "You did it because of me," she repeated, her voice filled with anguish.
"And I would do it all again," Alex said, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. "I'd do it a thousand times over if it meant keeping you safe. You, Jack or Tom"
Her tears fell harder, but she didn't let go of his hands. For a long moment, they stood there, two broken pieces of a family holding each other together in the silence. "It's okay" he added, not fully belivieng in himself either.
It's finally over a bit of a bittersweet ending. Thank you to everyone that stick to the end and commented, I hope you liked it!
Until next time!