Project Rodzina

I feel honored to be able to share my beloved Ilian Jansen with you.

I started this book in September and it has been a great pleasure to tell this story.

Thank you for the feedback. Please let me know if you find any errors or inconsistencies. Advice is welcome.

Thank you for reading..

Chapter 4: Agent Miller

The afternoon brought a different kind of apprehension. The new agent, the main contact. Mr. Miller. Ilian did not know what to expect. Another Marcus? Or someone harder, more bureaucratic?

At three o'clock, a dark sedan stopped in front of the guest house. A tall man in a gray suit and impeccably combed hair got out. He did not have Marcus's calm nor Mr. Anderson's academic presence. He moved with a tense energy, a sharp efficiency.

He did not ring the doorbell. The handle turned and the door opened. Miller entered, his gray and piercing eyes sweeping the room—the furniture arrangement, the exits, the cleanliness—before landing, lastly and briefly, on Ilian, sitting on the sofa, as if assessing a piece of inventory.

"Mr. Jansen," the man said. It was not a question. "I am Agent Miller. I will be your contact from now on."

His gaze made another quick sweep over Ilian, registering the pallor, perhaps the slight disarray of the clothes of someone who had been sick, with an expression that bordered on disdain. Miller sat on the edge of the armchair opposite, back straight, the briefcase already open on his knees, as if the very act of relaxing was an unacceptable waste of time.

"Protocols," he began, bluntly, his gaze fixed on Ilian. "Security: no unauthorized contact. Communications: only via the provided device, strictly for work or emergency. Schedule: medical appointments and physical therapy are mandatory and must not interfere with the project timeline. Professor Anderson has been instructed on confidentiality."

He paused briefly, just enough for the words to settle. "Your... problems... with sleep, nightmares, or panic attacks are irrelevant to the deadline. Find a way to be productive during the hours you are functional."

The tone was that of someone reading an instruction manual. "You are here for a single reason: the Argus project. Results are expected. Immediately. You cost us dearly."

He spoke in a continuous flow, his voice a sharp instrument eliminating any illusion of autonomy. Ilian felt the air grow cold, his body stiffening involuntarily in the armchair. His hands, hidden under the long sleeves, trembled involuntarily. Dr. Evans's kindness, the warmth of the Andersons' home... everything seemed to evaporate, replaced by the familiar icy sensation of being an evaluated object, a resource under pressure. This was his past and continued to be his future: protocols, deadlines, threats.

"Understood," Ilian said, his voice low.

"Excellent," Miller said, closing the briefcase with a dry click. "My number is on this card. You must only call from this pre-approved phone we have provided." He placed a simple, sealed cell phone on the table. "Only for emergencies and direct contact with me. I will call tomorrow to schedule our first session. We want results and not empty promises. I hope your recovery will not be an excuse for delays, or we can send you back to that hole. Those friends of yours would love a reunion."

He stood up and left.

Agent Miller's words hung in the air, cold and sharp. The mention of "that hole" and his "friends" was not a simple warning, it was a threat that hit Ilian with the force of a physical blow. An icy chill ran down his spine, settling in his stomach like a stone. The gray walls, the smell of mold and fear, the echo of distant screams—the memories he fought so hard to suppress came to the surface, vivid and terrifying. He felt the taste of metal in his mouth, the taste of panic. Staying in that house was conditional. He was not a guest, he was an asset under surveillance, and failure meant a return to hell.

The sound of Miller's car driving away left a heavy and different silence in the air. The kindness of the doctor and the Andersons had been a buffer against the reality of his situation. Now, with the arrival of Agent Miller, the cold and brutal nature of his new life had been revealed.

Ilian looked at the phone on the table. It was just another leash. He stood up, limped to the window, and watched the shadows of the trees lengthen in the garden. The long trip had ended, but the true journey, he realized, was just beginning.

 
Chapter 5: The Cold Tide

The afternoon dissolved into a long, gray twilight. Ilian sat in the armchair near the window, a book open on his lap, but his eyes didn't see the words. On the desk, a stack of technical manuals on military radars stared at him, a mountain of expectations. Miller's voice echoed in his mind, a looping recording: you cost us dearly... we want results... or we can send you back to that hole...

The pressure was a physical presence, a dense fog in his brain that prevented him from thinking clearly. He knew he should be working, deciphering the schematics, but his mind refused to focus. Every time he tried to read a sentence, the words dissolved into a blur of anxiety.

He wasn't just a scientist, he was a resource that needed to prove its worth, and the anguish of potential failure was a slow poison in his veins, a cold echo of another failure, Project Falke, in Germany, a name that burned in his memory with the weight of lost lives. Miller wanted results, failure meant a return to the hole. The price for his mind erring had always been paid with his body. And to think that Dr. Hayes, at the military hospital, had spoken of a 'family environment', of 'gradual recovery', the cold analysis of the "Human Potential Program" indicating that direct pressure would be counterproductive... Lies. Or perhaps just a different strategy, now swallowed by Miller's urgency.

He looked from the manuals to the window. The guest house, which had seemed like a sanctuary, the sanctuary Hayes had promised him, suddenly seemed small, the walls closing in. The air in the room, previously neutral, suddenly seemed thin, heavy, and difficult to breathe. He tried to draw a deep breath, but the air stopped halfway, caught in his chest like a knot.

And then it began.

His heart gave a violent jolt, then another, and suddenly raced into a frantic and uncontrolled rhythm, a terrified bird beating against the bars of his ribcage. He could feel the pulse hammering in his neck, in his temples, a war drum announcing imminent danger. The sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears drowned out the silence of the house.

A layer of cold, sticky sweat broke out on his forehead and the palms of his hands. His vision began to narrow, the edges of the room darkening and blurring, as if he were looking through a tunnel. The armchair, the table, the lamp—everything in the center of his vision seemed to ripple, losing solidity. He gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white, trying to anchor himself in a reality that was unraveling.

The air. He needed air. He gasped, but each inhalation was short, useless, not reaching his starving lungs. The sensation of suffocation was total, as if invisible hands were squeezing his throat. Panic rose like hot bile, bringing with it pure, irrational terror. I'm going to suffocate. Here. Alone. The phrase ricocheted in his chaotic mind.

He tried to stand, a desperate and clumsy movement, propelling his body with the strength of his right arm, but the injured leg was a dead weight, an anchor of agony. The attempt made him stagger, searing pain shooting from his knee. He managed to take a dragging step before his strength abandoned him. He collapsed to the side, his body crashing onto the rug, his right leg straight and painful. There, on the floor, he curled up, forehead against the rug, focused only on the impossible task of forcing air in and out of his lungs, each gasp an excruciating effort.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that. Seconds or an eternity. But gradually, like a giant wave that finally breaks and recedes, the peak of the terror began to subside. The hammering in his chest slowed to strong, exhausted beats. He managed a shaky, irregular breath, then another. His vision stopped rippling, though everything still seemed distant and unreal.

He remained on the floor, trembling uncontrollably, his body completely drained, as if he had run a marathon. And it was in this state of devastation that he noticed another sensation, overlapping the aftermath of the panic.

It started as a suggestion. A cold that wasn't from the sweat on his skin, nor the floor. It was a cold born deep in his marrow, an internal chill that the tremor of panic had masked. He rubbed his arms, the fabric of his shirt suddenly seeming thin and useless. Chills. But this time, he recognized them not as a symptom of anxiety, but as the familiar harbinger of another battle.

Then, the pain in his leg changed. The dull, manageable ache was replaced by sharp, intermittent stabs that made him hold his breath. It wasn't overwhelming pain, but it was different.

The panic attack had breached his defenses, leaving his body vulnerable. Now, sickness was invading the conquered territory. With the strength he had left, and with the help of the cane that was within reach, he dragged himself to the armchair, a slow and excruciating movement, feeling the injured leg protest with every inch. The book fallen on the floor looked like an artifact from another life.

He stood up, every movement a deliberate effort. He walked to the spacious bathroom, the sound of his cane on the floor marking a slow, heavy rhythm. He stopped in front of the mirror. The face staring back was pale, ravaged, eyes sunken, but now there was a feverish glint in them, a glint he knew too well. He placed the back of his hand against his own forehead. The skin was hot. Too hot.

Denial crumbled, replaced by a cold, resigned exhaustion. It wasn't just the panic. It was happening again.

He returned to the living room, heart beating a little faster, not with panic, but with weary apprehension. Dr. Evans's small business card was on the coffee table, exactly where he had left it. The yellowish light of the lamp fell on the embossed letters, making the doctor's name shine subtly.

Ilian stood still, looking at the small rectangle of paper. It seemed to weigh a ton. Picking it up, using the number, was an act of surrender. It was admitting he wasn't well, that the improvement had been an illusion, that he was, once again, a problem to be solved. Agent Miller's visit in the afternoon had already reduced him to a "case"; calling the doctor now would solidify that status.

The pain in his leg pulsed harder, a cruel reminder that pride was a luxury he couldn't afford. The next chill was stronger, a tremor that ran down his spine and made him clench his teeth.

With a sigh that carried the weight of defeat, he leaned down and picked up the card. The texture of the paper was thick and high quality under his fingers. He turned it over and over. Such a small object, holding such a big promise. Don't hesitate, the doctor had said.

He went to the phone Miller had left, the impersonal device. He felt like a prisoner using his one allowed call. He dialed the numbers slowly, checking each one twice. The sound of each key being pressed was a dry, final click in the silence of the house.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Each ring echoed in his empty chest. He rehearsed the words in his mind. It's me, Ilian. I think I have a fever again.

"Dr. Evans." The voice on the other end was calm, exactly as he remembered, with no trace of surprise or annoyance at being contacted at night.

Ilian swallowed hard. "Doctor... this is Ilian. The patient you visited this morning."

"Ilian. Yes, of course. Has something happened? Are you alright?"

"I... I'm not sure," he stammered, hating the weakness in his own voice. "I have chills. And the pain in my leg... has increased. I think I have a fever."

There was a short pause on the other end of the line, filled only by the sound of the doctor's calm breathing. "Alright, Ilian. You did very well to call. Don't worry. I'll be there shortly."

"Are you sure? I don't want to bother..."

"It's no bother at all. It's my job," Dr. Evans said, his voice firm and reassuring. "Just stay seated and try to keep warm. Don't take any extra medicine until I get there. Understood?"

"Yes. Understood."

"See you soon, Ilian."

The call ended. The silence returned, but now it was different. It was filled with waiting. Ilian hung up the phone, his body suddenly heavy. He pulled the blanket from the sofa over himself, curling up under the fabric. He had made the call. He had surrendered his control. Now, all he could do was wait.



Chapter 6: The Silent Verdict

The wait was a silent torture. Each minute became a small eternity. Ilian huddled under the blanket, but the cold persisted, radiating from the inside out. He listened to the sounds of the house—the low hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the structure as the night cooled.

He closed his eyes, his head throbbing in sync with the pain in his leg. He felt like a broken ship, being pulled back into a storm he had barely escaped. The fragility of his own recovery was a cruel joke.

Finally, he saw it. Headlights swept across the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls before disappearing. Seconds later, he heard the soft sound of car doors closing, followed by firm steps on the gravel path. The doorbell rang, not shrilly, but with a calm, muffled sound.

With immense effort, he stood up and limped to the door. He opened it and found Dr. Evans. He wasn't alone. Behind him, a younger man in a nurse's uniform held a larger bag. The night air entered the house, cold and smelling of imminent rain.

"Ilian," said Dr. Evans, with the same calm expression as before, but his eyes were more serious now, assessing him quickly. "May we come in?"

Ilian simply nodded and stepped back. They entered, bringing with them the silent efficiency of the medical world. The nurse, without a word, began opening the bag on the table in the center of the room. Dr. Evans helped Ilian back to the armchair.

"Let's see what's going on," the doctor said, his voice still soft, but with a tone of command that brooked no argument.

The examination was quick and methodical. The nurse placed the thermometer in his mouth. The beep was a small but decisive sound. The young man looked at the display and then at Dr. Evans, a look that conveyed all the necessary information.

Dr. Evans sighed, an almost inaudible sound. He knelt beside Ilian's armchair, an echo of Mr. Anderson's gesture the night before, but this time, it was clinical, not paternal. "Ilian," he said, his voice calm, his gaze meeting Ilian's for an instant, "I need to examine your knee directly, feel the joint. Do I have your permission to lift your pant leg a little?"

Ilian froze for a second, the unexpected request for consent almost as shocking as an unwanted touch. The question returned a crumb of control he hadn't expected. He looked away, but gave an almost imperceptible nod. With a care Ilian wasn't used to, Dr. Evans gently lifted the fabric of the trousers, exposing the knee marked by the old scar and the more recent marks. Only then did he gently palpate the area, experienced fingers searching for heat and swelling. Even with the warning, Ilian flinched at the touch, the pain intensifying.

The doctor stood up. He and the nurse exchanged a few words in low voices, technical jargon Ilian didn't bother to decipher. The verdict was already clear on their faces.

Dr. Evans turned to Ilian. His expression was regretful, but his voice was firm. "Ilian, your fever is high. I don't want to take any risks. I need to take you to the hospital to run some tests, a more detailed check."

The words fell on Ilian like stones. Hospital. The white walls, the smell of antiseptic, the sound of beeps and machines. He had just left one.

"Is it necessary?" he whispered.

"Yes," replied Dr. Evans, without hesitation. "It's the safest thing to do. Don't worry. The nurse, John, will help you get ready. We'll take care of everything."

Ilian didn't argue. There was no strength for it. There was only a cold, heavy resignation. The tide had caught him and was pulling him back out to sea.

The small guest house transformed into a space of efficient, silent movements. The nurse, John, was the embodiment of professional calm. He moved around the room, gathering a few essentials and placing them in a small bag. Ilian just watched, sitting in the armchair, a passive spectator to the dismantling of his brief autonomy.

"You'll need your coat, sir," John said, his voice neutral.

He helped Ilian put on the heavy coat, the same coat Mr. Anderson had helped him take off. Every movement was slow, deliberate. The pain in his leg was now a constant flame, and he leaned on the cane with all his weight.

Dr. Evans was already outside, talking on the phone. He opened the door, and the cold night air invaded the room again, stronger this time, carrying the promise of a long, difficult night.

The walk from the door to the car parked on the gravel path was a slow struggle. John on one side, offering a firm arm on which Ilian leaned. On the other, the cane, tapping the ground with each painful step. The rhythm of his fragility echoed in the stillness of the night.

The darkness of the garden was almost total, broken only by the yellow light of the porch and the headlights of the waiting car, a dark sedan with the engine running. The driver, a faceless silhouette, was already standing by the open rear door.

To Ilian, the distance of a few meters felt like a mile. Every step sent a vibration of pain through his leg. The cold penetrated his coat, intensifying the chills. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, focused only on the next step. The world had shrunk to that small journey, from the door of the sanctuary to the vehicle that would take him back to clinical captivity.

They were halfway there when another pair of headlights swept across the property entrance, illuminating them in a sudden, blinding glare. Ilian raised his head, blinking against the light. A familiar car, the Andersons' SUV, was slowly pulling into the driveway.

The SUV stopped, and the engine was turned off. For a moment, everything was silent, except for the sound of the doctor's car engine. The four figures—Ilian, leaning on John and the cane, Dr. Evans by his side, and the waiting driver—froze in the glare of the headlights, like actors on an unexpected stage.

The driver's door of the SUV opened, and Mr. Anderson got out. His face, initially relaxed after a day of work, contracted into an expression of confusion and then immediate concern upon seeing the scene.

He stopped beside his car. His eyes passed over the doctor, the uniformed nurse, and finally landed on Ilian. He saw the pallor, the body bent by pain, the way he leaned on John to stay upright. Understanding dawned on his face.

"Ilian?" called Mr. Anderson, his voice loaded with contained anxiety. "What happened?"

Dr. Evans approached, intercepting the professor halfway between the two cars. The gesture created a subtle barrier, keeping the situation contained. Ilian stayed back with the nurse, feeling like the object of discussion, a piece of fragile cargo being transferred in the dark.

The conversation between the two men was low, muffled by the sound of the engine. Ilian couldn't hear the exact words, but he caught the fragments, the inflections. The calm, clinical voice of the doctor explaining. The concerned, grave tone of the professor asking questions. He heard the words "fever," "inflammation," "precaution," "hospital." Each word was a nail in his coffin of hope.

From his feverish perspective, the scene seemed surreal. The car lights cast long shadows that stretched and danced. Mr. Anderson's face, lit from the side, was a mask of worry. He looked over the doctor's shoulder, directly at Ilian, and his eyes conveyed a silent message of compassion and regret.

Ilian looked away, shame burning on his face. He didn't want that pity. He didn't want to be the cause of that worry.

The conversation ended. Mr. Anderson nodded slowly. "Of course. I understand. Do whatever is necessary. Please, keep me informed."

"I'll call as soon as we have news," promised Dr. Evans.

The doctor returned to Ilian's side. "Let's go, Ilian. Careful now."

With John's help, he completed the last few steps to the car. Getting into the vehicle was a clumsy, painful maneuver. Once he was inside, John got in beside him. Dr. Evans sat in the front. The door closed, sealing him in the dark.

Through the window, he saw Mr. Anderson standing, a solitary figure under the porch light, watching the car turn around and leave, taking him back into the night.



Chapter 7: Echoes in the Kitchen

Richard Anderson stood on the gravel path until the sedan's red taillights disappeared into the darkness of the street. The sound of the engine faded until it was swallowed by the silence of the night. He looked at the small guest house, now dark and empty, and felt a tightness in his chest.

With a sigh, he turned and walked toward his own house. He opened the door and was greeted by warmth and a delicious aroma of garlic and herbs. His wife, Helena, was at the stove, and Elara was at the table, chopping vegetables. Both looked up, but their smiles faltered when they saw his expression.

"Richard? What is it?" asked Helena.

"It was our guest," he said, in a low voice. "He wasn't well."

He explained the scene he had just witnessed: the fever, the pain, the trip to the hospital.

Helena brought her hand to her mouth. "The poor young man. Alone..."

"He didn't look good at all," Richard continued. "Robert said it was a precaution, but..."

The atmosphere in the kitchen changed completely. Elara stopped chopping and went to the window, looking at the dark guest house.

Helena approached her husband. "You did everything you could, dear. He's in good hands now."

"I know," Richard said. "But I can't help feeling..." He paused, his voice heavy with doubt. "We know his history, Helena. The accident, his importance to the university project... But seeing him like that, so fragile... sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing by accepting, if our home is the place for... all this."

Helena took his hand firmly. "Richard, from what you told me, he's just a frightened young man who can barely speak, who flinches at a gesture of kindness. Of course we did the right thing. What he needs isn't a lab right now, it's a refuge. Empathy. He needs a safe place to recover, and we can be that place."

They stood in silence for a moment, the three of them united by a feeling of helplessness and compassion for a young man whose pain they could barely begin to imagine. The sound of the pot bubbling on the stove was a reminder that life went on, even when, for someone so close, it had been cruelly interrupted once again.



Chapter 8: The Silent Return

A week passed. On the eighth day, just before lunchtime, a black car pulled up in front of the guest house. A man in a suit waited for Ilian to get out. He moved like a man who had crossed a desert, his body even thinner, his face paler.

While one of the men watched him walk slowly, another began unloading supplies. They guided him into the cold house and waited for him to sit on the sofa. When the refrigerator was full, the leader approached Ilian.

"The doctors have discharged you, but The Agency requires a strict observation period." He gestured toward a young man waiting silently. "Agent Leo will stay with you for the next three days. He will monitor your vitals, administer your medication, and prepare your meals. During the night, he will be replaced by John, Dr. Evans's nurse, to ensure continuous clinical monitoring."

Ilian looked at Leo. The young man with a calm face gave a brief nod.

"If, at the end of three days, there is no return of the fever, they will receive new orders. Until then, they are your points of contact. Do you understand?"

Ilian looked at the quiet figure of Leo, who would be his daytime shadow. "Yes," Ilian whispered. "I understand."

The other two men turned and left, leaving Ilian and Leo alone in the silence of the newly stocked house.

The silence that settled was heavy. Ilian expected Leo to settle into the armchair to begin the vigil. Instead, Leo went to the kitchen. "I'm going to prepare lunch. The doctor recommended a light diet."

The action was so normal it almost broke the tension. From the sofa, Ilian listened to the domestic sounds of preparation, filtered through the watchful presence of a trained stranger. He was in this state of torpor when he heard the doorbell.

Leo moved quickly to open the door. It was Helena and Elara.

"Hello!" said Helena, entering like a breath of fresh air; the agent stepped aside and returned to the kitchen. Then she approached the sofa, her face expressing genuine compassion, but still a little restrained by formality. "Mr. Jansen? I'm Helena Anderson. We saw the car and imagined... Oh, dear, we were so worried! A whole week! We were sick with worry." Her gaze swept over his fragile figure.

"Mrs. Anderson... Elara," murmured Ilian, making a weak attempt to rise.

"No, no, stay there, rest," Helena said. "You look exhausted, but it's very good that you're back."

While Helena spoke, Elara approached the kitchen. "That smells good," she commented. "Soup?"

Leo, cutting a piece of meat, answered without turning. "Yes. Beef broth with vegetables. He needs a very restricted diet for now. Tests at the hospital showed his kidneys are still overloaded."

Helena heard the conversation and approached. "Restricted diet? But these ready-made meals they brought can't be very tasty."

"They are nutritionally balanced, ma'am. When we leave, he'll only need to heat them up," explained Leo.

"Nonsense," Helena said with warm conviction. "No one heals on packet food. It will be a pleasure to cook for him." She turned to Ilian, eyes shining. "Ilian, dear, you are always welcome at our table."

Leo intervened. "That would be very kind. I can ask Dr. Evans for an exact list of the diet and foods he cannot eat and pass it on to you, ma'am."

"Perfect!" exclaimed Helena. "I'm happy to help." She looked directly at Ilian. "You will give us the honor of dining with us as soon as you can, yes?"

Ilian felt his face heat up. Direct kindness was a foreign language to him. It was so genuine it was almost painful, exposing how little he was used to it. He didn't know how to answer, so he lowered his gaze, unable to sustain eye contact with Helena. He managed only a nod, a rigid, brief movement. "Thank you," he murmured to his own hands. "I will come... as soon as it is possible." The internal agony of not knowing how to accept human warmth was almost as overwhelming as the physical pain, and the inability to return such a simple gesture filled him with a silent shame.

The visit was brief. "Well, let's not tire you out," said Helena. With a final smile, they left. Leo closed the door. Some time later, he approached with a tray and a bowl of soup.

After eating, Ilian looked visibly exhausted. Leo spoke calmly. "If you want to rest now, you can go to the bedroom. But remember Agent Miller's deadlines. If you prefer, I can bring the study material and the notebook to your room."

Ilian's body screamed for rest. He wished to sink into the mattress and sleep for a whole day. But Miller's threats were a whip in his mind. The physical exhaustion, the pain, the fatigue, nothing compared to the mental exhaustion of living under constant pressure and fear. He looked at Leo, the decision made. "Bring the material, please."

Night descended on the small house, bringing with it a silence that was, at the same time, dense and fragile. After dinner, another nutritious and silent meal prepared by Leo, Ilian settled into the armchair with one of the heavy books on his lap.

He wasn't really absorbing the complex diagrams; his mind, too fatigued for abstract mathematics, had drifted to something more tangible. His eyes were fixed not on the pages, but on the way the lamp light fell on the book, creating a soft, diffuse edge in the shadow cast on his knee. He watched the penumbra, the physics of diffraction happening there, silent and real, a problem much simpler and more elegant than the circuits on paper. The act of focusing on something concrete, even if it was just the dance of light and shadow, was an anchor in a sea of uncertainty and exhaustion. Leo was at his usual post, the chair in the corner, looking at something on his cell phone.

The doorbell rang, the sound cutting through the stillness of the night. Ilian startled slightly, torn from his silent contemplation of the light. Leo looked up, but this time there wasn't the same tension as before. He stood up calmly and opened the door.

It was Professor Anderson, alone. He carried the smell of the cold night on his coat and a tired, but genuine, smile on his face.

"Good evening, Leo. Ilian," he said, entering. "Helena told me about their visit earlier. I wanted to see with my own eyes how you were."

"Professor," Ilian replied, making a move to stand up.

"No, please, stay seated," insisted Mr. Anderson, pulling the chair from the table close to Ilian, repeating the gesture of intimacy and respect. "We were all very relieved by your return. A week is too long to leave friends worried."

The word "friends" resonated in Ilian with the force of an unexpected note in an unknown equation. It was something he didn't expect to hear applied to himself. A subtle heat rose in his face. He remembered Dr. Hayes's words at the military hospital, the promises of a 'family environment', of 'dignity'. Was this it? Was it possible that, despite Miller's demands, Dr. Hayes's cold and analytical promise had, after all, some substance in practice? Or was it just Richard, an anomaly in that system, acting on his own?

The professor's gaze fell on the volume still open on Ilian's lap. He smiled, a smile that contained prior knowledge. "I see they've already put you to work. They don't give you a moment of peace, do they?"

Before Ilian could answer, he continued, his voice soft. "These schematics... they are the reason we are all so anxious for your arrival, Ilian. When The Agency contacted me a few months ago to ask me to be your host, they explained the situation. They told me about you."

Ilian stared at him, confusion and surprise stamped on his face.

"My research group at the university..." the professor continued, "...we are the team you will join, as soon as you are strong enough. When they told us about your work at the university in Germany, about your projects... well, let's just say the team is, to say the least, eager to start collaborating with you. Your references are impressive."

Ilian's world seemed to reconfigure itself. That gentle man was his future superior. The revelation left him speechless. He looked at the manuals, feeling the weight of expectation on him. "They said... the Argus project is behind schedule," he murmured, almost as an apology.

Professor Anderson's expression became immediately serious. He gestured toward the books with disdain. "Nonsense. None of that matters now. They may be in a hurry, but I'm not. The only thing that matters right now is your recovery. Your health comes first, second, and third. The project, the radars, my eager team... all of that can and will wait. I want you to understand that clearly."

That was when Leo, who had remained silent, spoke from his corner. "Mr. Miller believes that keeping busy with the technical manuals can be beneficial for Mr. Jansen's focus." The voice was neutral, a citation from a protocol.

Professor Anderson laughed, a genuine, warm laugh that filled the room. "Beneficial? Leo, with all due respect to Mr. Miller, no one in the world is entertained by calibration manuals. That is work, and heavy work." He turned back to Ilian. "I'll bring you some real books tomorrow. Fiction, history. Something for the soul, not for the signal processor."

"I don't mind, professor," Ilian said, his voice surprisingly firm, feeling the need to explain. "Studying... sometimes helps me not think about other things."

The professor's smile softened, his eyes filled with deep understanding. "I understand," he said, his voice low. "I understand perfectly. Even so, the offer of books still stands."

He stood up. "Well, I'll let you rest. But know that you are not alone in this." He paused at the door. "I'll be back tomorrow after work, to see how your day went. And I know Helena and Elara won't stay away for long. Get used to us, young man."

With a final nod, he left. Ilian remained seated, the heaviness of the book on his lap suddenly feeling a little lighter. The visit had changed everything. The bridge between him and the professor wasn't a coincidence, it was a destiny planned by The Agency, perhaps, but the way Richard was building it... that felt real. Dr. Hayes had spoken of a 'supportive environment', but this went beyond that. Richard offered constancy, presence.

"Get used to us". The phrase echoed. No one had ever said anything like that to him. Kessler demanded utility. Orlov, obedience. The Arabs... demanded only his submission. The idea of someone wanting his habitual presence was so strange it almost hurt.

He took a deep breath for the first time since the professor had arrived, feeling his shoulders relax a millimeter against the back of the armchair. The night ahead would still be long and watched by Leo, but now, it contained a promise of purpose and collaboration that hadn't existed before. Maybe, just maybe, Dr. Hayes hadn't lied about everything.





Chapter 9: The Silent Routine

The next three days unfolded in a slow and predictable rhythm, a routine that was, at the same time, clinical and surprisingly human. Leo's presence was the foundation of everything: the punctual meals, the medication at the right time, the thermometer rituals. But the silent vigil Ilian feared was broken, day after day, by the warmth of the Anderson family.

True to his word, Professor Anderson appeared every early evening, after returning from the university. He would sit down to chat for half an hour. Ilian, most of the time, remained silent, just listening, his gaze lowered, hands motionless in his lap. Richard spoke about the history of the region, about a curious tree on campus, about light subjects.

And while the professor's calm voice filled the silence, Ilian analyzed him. He thought about how that man was an enigma. An enigma of pure kindness. So fundamentally different from Kessler. Kessler demanded, tested, punished with silence or hunger. Richard offered, shared, asked without expecting anything in return. His goodness was data that Ilian's mind, trained for mistrust, still struggled to process.

The professor carefully avoided the topic of radars, and Ilian was immensely grateful for that. The connection between them remained, growing in that underlying current of mutual respect.

During the day, Helena stopped by for a few minutes, bringing a piece of cake or just her radiant smile, asking if he needed anything. Her visits were bursts of sunlight in the quiet of the house.

And there was Elara. She usually appeared in the late afternoon, almost always with the excuse of bringing something her mother had made. She handed the dish to Ilian with a shy smile, briefly asked how he was, but then, invariably, her focus shifted to Leo. They talked in low voices near the kitchen while Ilian tried to concentrate on reading on the sofa. They spoke of simple things; it was a quiet and quick conversation. Ilian noticed that Leo, always so quiet and functional, seemed to relax a little in her presence. His voice, though still contained, lost its formality. To Elara, he didn't seem to be an agent, but just a young man in an unusual job.

And so the days passed. Ilian worked on the documents and technical schematics during the day, but now he did so with a new purpose. The visits broke the monotony, reminding him that there was a world of warmth and normalcy a few meters away. The silent routine with Leo during the day and the nurse John during the night was no longer a prison, but an interlude, a safe space for physical healing, while the Andersons' visits began to heal something much deeper.

On the morning of the fourth day, the routine changed. After breakfast and the last beep of the thermometer, Leo picked up his phone and made a call.

"This is Agent Leo Grant. The 72-hour observation period is complete. I confirm the absence of fever... However, I observed nocturnal agitation, and the reports from Nurse John at night confirm the same pattern. The nights were poorly slept... He managed to review the material from the first part... Yes, sir... Understood."

Ilian heard the mention of his sleepless nights and felt a chill. Every movement in the darkness had been observed, cataloged, and reported.

Leo hung up and began packing his own belongings. "My observation period has ended. You are stable, sir."

"Thank you, Leo," Ilian said, his voice laden with complexity.

"I just did my job," Leo replied. "Agent Miller will contact you later, sir. Continue with the medication." He paused. "Oh, one more thing. I spoke with Dr. Evans this morning. He said that, since Mrs. Anderson already has the food list, you are cleared to have dinner with the family, sir. The doctor believes the interaction will be good for your recovery." Another pause. "And the physical therapist will come tomorrow morning to start the sessions."

He went to the door and stopped. "Mrs. Anderson and her daughter... are good people."

And then he left.

Ilian heard the footsteps fading, the sound of the car driving away. And then... nothing, silence. He stood up. Remained motionless in the middle of the room.

Nothing.

There was no sound of another person in the next room. There was no creak of a chair, the sound of discreet footsteps. He was completely and totally alone.

The silence was so absolute it seemed to have weight, a pressure in the air. His first reaction was not relief. It was suspicion. His instinct, trained for years, screamed that it was a trap. A test. He limped silently to the front door and tested the handle; it was unlocked and without a key. Then, he went to the large glass door in the living room and looked out at the garden. Empty.

He stood still, his mind racing. Was he really alone?

He began to search. His gaze swept the ceiling, looking for the black dot of a lens. He went to the light fixture hanging from the ceiling and stared at it. Was it just a light fixture? There was no way to know. He ran the fingers of his right hand, trembling, along the top edge of the bookshelf, looking for something. Nothing.

The absence of surveillance was almost more unnerving than the surveillance itself. It was a set of rules he didn't understand.

Then, curiosity, an emotion long suppressed, began to emerge, stronger than fear. If he really was alone, then the house was his to explore.

He limped to the kitchen. Not to eat, but to look. He opened a cupboard. Saw a stack of white plates, all identical, perfectly aligned. Opened another. Glasses, lined up in rows. It was a functional, stocked house, but it wasn't a home. It was all impersonal. He looked at the refrigerator, full of similarly aligned packages.

He continued down the hallway opposite the bedroom, there was another room and further back, he found a door. It was a small laundry room. A washing machine and a dryer, side by side, with some cabinets. He went back, the hallway was wide, the walls a neutral beige. There were no pictures, no ornaments. Just emptiness. With an impulse he couldn't explain, he reached out his right hand, his good hand. And touched the wall.

He pressed his palm against the surface. Felt the slightly rough texture of the paint. It was just a wall. He dragged his fingers along it, the sensation of reality. The house was beautiful. It was clean. He returned to the living room.

Absolute silence.

A silence that was more than just the absence of sound. It was the absence of observation. The air in the guest house suddenly seemed lighter, easier to breathe. Ilian closed his eyes for a long moment, just absorbing the sensation of being completely and totally alone. It was peace. His first true peace.

He approached the work table. Opened a book. Spread out the large technical schematics and the glossy photographs.

The small and cozy living room had transformed into his new laboratory. The healing of the body was underway. Now, in the silence he had conquered, the work of the mind began.

Time passed. Hunger began to manifest, not as a desire, but as a weakness in his limbs. He looked at the refrigerator. The idea of getting up, choosing one of the anonymous meals, heating it, and eating it alone seemed like a monumental effort, an act of mechanical survival that filled him with deep weariness.

That was when the doorbell rang. The sound startled him. Miller. The idea of another confrontation made the air thin. He stood up, his leg protesting, and limped to the door, his right hand trembling as he reached for the handle.

He opened it and found Elara. She was standing on the porch, with a faint smile. The relief that flooded Ilian was so strong he had to lean on the doorframe.

"Ilian?" she said, her voice tinged with concern. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

He just nodded, unable to speak.

"It's just that... my mother went out," she continued, a little awkwardly. "She went to a meeting with her friends from church. I thought... have you had lunch?"

He looked at his work table, at the chaos of papers, and then back at her. "No... not yet."

"I thought I'd help you heat up your food. If you want, of course."

The offer left him paralyzed. He should refuse, but the truth was he was exhausted. Without saying a word, he just stepped back, a silent invitation for her to enter.

Elara entered and silence settled in. "Well, I'll take care of lunch, you can go back to what you were doing and when everything is ready I'll call you," she said, going to the kitchen. Ilian returned to his table, feeling like an intruder in the house. He heard the beep of the microwave, the clink of plates, the noise of cutlery. She wasn't just heating his food, she was setting the small kitchen table for two. The realization hit him with a wave of social panic. She was going to have lunch with him.

"Ilian, lunch is ready," she called.

When he turned, he saw the table set. She smiled at him. "I hope you don't mind, I'm going to steal one of your astronaut meals. But I promise I'll pay the debt by cooking a real dinner for you one of these days."

The humorous comment caught him off guard. He stood up slowly from the work table, his body stiff. He leaned on the cane and began the crossing of a few meters to the dining table. He felt Elara's eyes on him, and every dragging step, every hesitation of his injured leg, seemed amplified under her scrutiny. Upon reaching the table, nervous, after sitting down he tried to lean the cane securely against the chair, but his clumsy fingers on his right hand failed for an instant, and he let it slip. The cane hit the floor with a dry, almost accusing thud that echoed in the silent room.

A wave of humiliating heat rose up his face. He bent instinctively to pick it up, a movement that sent a stab of almost blinding pain through his leg. He leaned his left hand on the table for balance, muscles protesting violently. He stretched out his right arm, but without being able to reach it. The pain in his hip intensified with the effort, and he realized, with a cold frustration, that he wouldn't be able to pick it up from that position without perhaps losing his balance.

While he struggled silently, frozen in that precarious and painful position, Elara, seeing his difficulty and the pain he couldn't hide, acted. With a quick and practical movement, she stood up, walked around the table, picked the cane up from the floor, and held it out to him. "Here," she said, her voice calm, the gesture clearly intended only to help.

Ilian froze completely upon seeing her hand closing over the smooth wooden handle. Her touch on the cane. It was a silent shock, a sharp dissonance in his perception of personal space. The cane was... his. Part of him. An extension of his body, the tool that allowed him to navigate the world. The idea of someone else touching it, even with the best of intentions, seemed fundamentally wrong, an invisible line being crossed without permission. He took the cane back quickly, the movement a little clumsy, unable to meet her gaze. He felt a complex and disconcerting mix of gratitude for the necessary help and deep discomfort at the unintentional intrusion.

"It's good to have you back, really," Elara continued, perhaps sensing the awkwardness of the moment, the sudden tension in him, and trying to fill the silence with normalcy. "The guest house seemed... empty. And my father is very happy with your participation in the project. He doesn't stop talking about the possibilities."

Her conversation was a gift, now more necessary than ever, a shield of normalcy that protected him while he, finally, straightened up with difficulty, his face burning not only with shame for the fall, but with the uncomfortable sensation of having had his most intimate boundary—the inviolability of his support tool—tested without warning. The cane, now secure in his right hand, felt strange, displaced, as if it needed to be "recalibrated" after the foreign touch.

He looked at the plate. There were pieces of meat and cooked vegetables. He picked up the fork with his right hand. His left hand rested beside the plate. He tried to use the knife to cut a piece of meat. That was when he realized, with a cold horror, the exposure of his hands. The left hand, with its poorly healed bones, was clumsy. But worse than that was the absence of the little finger on both hands, a brutal symmetry that spoke of methodical punishment, not an accident. He always wore long-sleeved shirts, even indoors. It was armor, an attempt to hide the map of his history, but his hands were fully exposed.

He felt her gaze. It wasn't a critical gaze, just curious. But to Ilian, it felt like a spotlight. Her gaze dropped from his face to his hands. Not just the imperfection of the movements, but the scars, the most glaring thing, the empty spaces where fingers should be.

A new wave of shame rose up his neck. He stopped trying to cut the meat. The fork hovered over the plate. His first, his only instinct, was to hide. He pulled his left hand off the table quickly, as if he had touched fire, and hid it in his lap. With his right hand, he began pushing the vegetables from one side to the other on the plate, a meaningless movement.

He didn't face her. The little appetite he had had vanished, replaced by a knot of humiliation. The silence stretched, heavy with his shame. He wanted her to leave. He wanted to be alone.

Ilian heard the soft sound of her fork resting on the plate and braced himself for questions.

"The sky is clearing up," Elara said, her voice calm, gaze turned to the window. "I don't think it's going to rain today."

Ilian looked up, surprised. She had noticed. She had seen his shame, his agony, and, instead of pointing it out, she gave him a way out. She changed the subject, shifted the focus, built a small bridge of normalcy over the abyss of his embarrassment.

He couldn't answer. But, for the first time in that lunch, he stopped stirring the food on his plate.

The silence that followed was no longer heavy with shame, but rather an expectant stillness. Ilian remained with his gaze lowered, the fork paralyzed in his hand, heart still beating fast from the exposure of his scars. He expected her to apologize, to get up, for the strange moment to end. Instead, he heard the sound of her fork scraping gently on the plate.

"Not the best thing in the world, this food, is it?" Elara said, and the casual tone of her voice was so unexpected that it made Ilian look up for a fraction of a second. She was looking at her own plate with a slightly amused expression. "Practical, I suppose. But soulless."

The simple observation disarmed him. She was talking about something they shared.

"I imagine everything must be strange for you," she continued, still not looking directly at him. "The food, the language, the weather... everything." She paused. "I've never left the country. I have no idea what the feeling of being in a completely new place is like."

Nothing. No comment from Ilian.

"My father told me you're Polish," Elara continued looking out the window. "Your accent isn't very heavy."

Her kindness, the way she skirted his pain, deserved an answer. "Sometimes... when people speak fast in English... the words mix together."

A genuine, bright smile appeared on Elara's face. "I imagine," she said, her voice lighter. "People here speak very fast. That reminds me of a friend. She moved to California... her husband is from there, and she always says that when they come to visit us, he feels completely lost." She leaned back. "They have a small son, who likes my mother very much. When they come to visit in the summer, my mother loves it. She spends hours outside with him, in the garden, trying to teach him the names of the flowers."

While she spoke, Ilian felt the knots of tension in his shoulders begin to loosen. He looked through the living room window, which faced the lush garden. Now, he saw the colors, the shapes. He ate. One bite at a time. When he put down the fork, Elara's story had ended. In the silence that followed, he felt a strange impulse to fill it.

"The garden..." he began, his voice so low it was almost a thought aloud. He cleared his throat. "...is it your mother who takes care of it? It's very beautiful."

The surprise on Elara's face was visible, followed by an even brighter smile. "Yes, it's all hers. It's her passion. She says every flower there has a story. It's like the map of her life. Do you want to go outside to see it up close?" Elara invited. "The fresh air would do you good."

The invitation hit him with sudden panic. Go out. Cross the lawn. Be outdoors, exposed. The physical effort, the possibility of being seen. It was too much. "Thank you, but..." he said, his voice retreating to a murmur. "Maybe another day."

"Sure, no problem," she said, without showing disappointment. "When you feel stronger, I can show you the garden and even a bit of the neighborhood, if you want."

She stood up, taking her empty plate. "Well, I'm done." She hesitated, then took his plate too. "I'm going to wash this." Seeing the deep exhaustion on his face, she added: "You look exhausted. Why don't you go lie down? I'll take care of this."

He should go. His body begged for rest. But he didn't move. He sat at the dining table, watching her. She went to the sink, turned on the tap, and began washing the dishes. The sound of running water, the soft clink of plates being soaped, her calm and efficient movements. It was the most normal and domestic scene he had witnessed in years. It was hypnotic. He watched the light from the window illuminate the loose strands of hair from her bun. In that moment, she wasn't his host's daughter, nor a stranger. She was just a quiet presence in his space, and that was more comforting than he could ever admit.

When she finished and was drying her hands on a dish towel, he found the courage to speak again.

"Thank you," he said, his voice still low, but firm.

She turned, and the smile she gave him was different. It wasn't of surprise or pleasure, but a soft smile, of acceptance. As if they had crossed an invisible border.

At the door, she stopped and looked at him. "Oh, and don't forget about dinner. My parents would be very happy if you went. No pressure, of course, but they would like it."

She gave a small wave and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Ilian stood still for a moment. Then, he got up and went to the large glass door that opened to the garden. The sun painted Helena's garden with golden tones.

He turned and walked slowly toward his bedroom. The weight of the project, Miller's threats, the pain in his leg—everything was still there. But, for the first time in a long while, they weren't the only things he felt. There was something else. The memory of a simple conversation, the warmth of a sincere invitation. He lay down on the bed and, closing his eyes, felt, undeniably, a little lighter.



Chapter 10: The Map of the Body

Sleep found him not as an abyss, but as a safe harbor. For the first time in weeks, perhaps months, he didn't fight unconsciousness, but surrendered to it. There were no nightmares, no fragments of terror, just an empty and restful darkness.

When he woke, it wasn't with a start, but with a slow ascent to the surface of consciousness. The first thing he noticed was the light. It had changed. The brightness of the early afternoon was gone, replaced by a more melancholic light that filled the room. He looked out the window. Helena's garden was immersed in long, soft shadows, the colors of the flowers surrendering to the approach of night.

He had slept for hours.

A long, deep sigh escaped his lips. Mentally, he felt... calm. The fog of anxiety and exhaustion that usually clouded his thoughts had dissipated, leaving behind a lucid stillness. Lunch with Elara, the simple conversation, the warmth of kindness—all of it had been a balm.

But the body exacted its price. Every muscle ached with a deep fatigue, an echo of the week in the hospital and the cocktail of drugs still running in his veins. His right leg throbbed with a dull, familiar pain. He moved slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed, allowing time for the world to stop spinning. Standing up was an art he had learned to master: a calm, unhurried movement to prevent his leg from locking or a wave of pain from knocking him down. He stretched out his right hand, fingers searching for the familiar, smooth shape of his cane, his constant companion.

Leaning on it, he rose. The house was in absolute silence. The journey to the bathroom was slow and dragging. He turned on the light, and the fluorescent glare made him blink. He stopped in front of the mirror and stared at himself.

The person looking back was a stranger. A sketch of a man. The cheekbones were prominent under the pale skin, eyes sunken in dark sockets. His hair, longer than he remembered, was unkempt, falling over his forehead. He was thin, frighteningly thin.

And in those empty eyes, memories of the last few months surfaced. Not like a movie, but like sensory flashes. The dry, suffocating heat of an Arab country. The smell of engine oil, hot metal, and sand. The crushing pressure of being forced to work on weapons guidance systems, his mind transformed into a tool of death. He remembered the constant fear, the absolute certainty that his usefulness had an expiration date and that, when it ended, he would be discarded in that anonymous desert. He thought he would die there.

Then, the rescue. A night of chaos, shouts in English and Arabic, the sound of muffled explosions, the flash of a shot in the dark. The sharp pain in his body. The sensation of being dragged, carried. And then, the white. The sterile white of a military hospital for almost three months, a limbo of pain, surgeries, and interrogations by the agency that had rescued him, the "cost" Miller had mentioned.

His eyes dropped from his face in the mirror to his hands, resting on the sink. The hands Elara had seen. He lifted them. The burn scars, the empty spaces where his little fingers should be. The memory of the punishment—a clinical, precise pain, designed to maim without incapacitating—was a scar on his soul. But tonight, looking at them, something was different. The shame he had felt at lunch was still there, but beneath it, there was something else.

He had survived. He had survived mentally. He had remained clinging to his sanity with a desperate stubbornness, taking refuge in the palaces of logic, in silent calculations, while the outside world tried to demolish him. He had kept his mind intact, his last inviolable stronghold.

Those hands, that body, were the map of that silent war, the physical proof of his survival. The pain of the memory still existed, but it wasn't the only thing. For the first time, he looked at himself not as a collection of damages, but as proof of resilience. If he had survived that, keeping his mind sane against all odds, maybe he could survive this. Maybe an almost normal life—even a controlled life, with imposed projects—was still possible. Maybe the Andersons' kindness wasn't just an interlude, but a possibility.

Was this the 'family environment' Dr. Hayes had mentioned at the hospital, the controlled variable designed by the Agency to optimize his recovery? Or was it something simpler, more real? Richard's genuine kindness, Helena's? The uncertainty was uncomfortable, but the possibility itself was a new and almost dizzying territory.

With this complex and uncertain thought, he began to undress, the difficulty of the act bringing him back to the present. The long-sleeved shirt brushing against his skin. Untying the drawstring of his pants with clumsy fingers was a frustrating task. But he did it, slowly, patiently.

In the shower, the hot water streaming down his shoulders and back felt restorative. He let out a sigh of relief. Steam filled the space, fogging the mirror. He let the water cascade down his body.

His gaze traveled over the rest of his map. The long scar on his leg, a thick line starting at the knee, now peppered with small purplish marks and scars where shrapnel from the rescue had been removed. The other mark, pale and round, on his shoulder—a bullet that had found its target but failed in its mission. His left hand, which he flexed under the water, the bones still stiff from the fracture, a constant reminder that complete healing was still far from being achieved.

He stayed there for a long time, letting the water wash away not just the dirt, but the weight of the day.

When he got out, wrapped in a towel, the aroma of Helena's food coming from the kitchen in the main house wafted through the window. The invitation to dinner. He stopped, heart tight. The image of sitting at their table, trying to maintain a conversation, being under the warm and compassionate gaze of Helena and Richard, was simultaneously incredibly tempting and absolutely terrifying.

Not today, he thought. Not yet.

The step he had taken at lunch was big enough for one day. He didn't have the strength for another. With a silent decision, he dried himself, put on clean clothes, and, instead of following the smell of home-cooked food, went to his own kitchenette. He opened the refrigerator and took one of the anonymous, vacuum-packed meals. The act was solitary, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a sentence. It felt like a choice.

He didn't sit at the work table, now a territory of pressure and intellect. Instead, after the microwave beeped, he took the hot plate to the living room. He turned on only a small lamp by the sofa, creating an island of soft, amber light in the darkness. He sat there, in the comfort of the cushions, and ate in a peaceful silence.

The food was the same as before, functional and soulless, but it tasted different. There was no weight of shame, no tension of a strange presence. It was just him, his food, and the silent night outside. Solitude was not a synonym for abandonment, but for peace. A refuge he himself had chosen.

When he finished, he took the plate and cutlery to the sink. The idea of leaving them there for the next day seemed wrong. There was a new impulse inside him, a will to take care of that small space, to impose a minimal order on his own chaos. He turned on the faucet. The hot water ran over his scarred hands, and he washed the dishes calmly. The friction of the sponge, the sound of the water, the shine of the clean plate under the dim light—these were simple sensations, acts of normalcy he hadn't practiced in a long time. It was a way to feel useful, even if only to himself.

With dry hands, he felt ready. Not to sleep, but to work. He went to his desk and didn't pick up the heavy books. Instead, he selected a large sheet of technical schematic and his notebook. Materials in hand, he returned to the cocoon of light in the living room.

He settled into the corner of the sofa, facing the large glass door. The night outside was a dark mirror, reflecting the scene: the silhouette of a man bent over his papers, illuminated by a single lamp. He unfolded the schematic on the coffee table and opened the notebook. The work was an obligation, a chain binding him to the Agency, but there was also an undeniable pleasure in it. Ilian's mind, accustomed since childhood in the orphanage to finding refuge in the cold logic of numbers and the elegance of systems, felt at home in that labyrinth of lines and calculations. It was the only place where the world made sense, where every problem had a solution waiting to be discovered.

His finger traced a data flow line on the main technical schematic. The power system for the main actuator. He paused. His mind analyzed the logic of the safety diagram. It was based only on software. There was no redundant physical lock, no mechanical block.

A cold, familiar shiver ran through him, the phantom memory of metal crushing bone, the excruciating pain in his left hand. He remembered the manual lock he himself had checked and which had been rendered useless by a malicious software subroutine.

This was the same. The same dangerous flaw. His mind, now in a state of hyper-vigilant focus, latched onto this problem with an obsessive intensity.

No. One lock wasn't enough. There had to be total redundancy. A mechanical block, yes, but also an independent power cut-off circuit, perhaps even a second diagnostic sensor that didn't pass through the main control. Two, maybe three layers of security. He picked up his notebook and began to sketch the solution to the problem.

And there, in the comfortable silence of his own company, he immersed himself in work, oblivious to the world.

The only light in the guest house came from the small lamp by the sofa, creating a golden pool of light in a sea of shadows. Within this circle of warmth, Ilian's world had shrunk to the surface of the coffee table. The silence was absolute, broken only by the rustle of a large sheet of technical schematic being unfolded, by the smooth glide of his pencil over the notebook. He was in a trance state of concentration that was his oldest refuge. Equations and diagrams were not an obligation in that moment, they were a language he understood, an ordered universe that contrasted with the chaos of his memories.

That was why the sound of the doorbell surprised him.

A sharp, clear sound that shattered his bubble of silence. He started, the pencil scratching a black, irregular line through a delicate calculation. His heart gave a painful leap in his chest, hammering against his ribs. The icy panic from before didn't come, but was replaced by a confused adrenaline. It couldn't be Miller at that hour. The Agency was methodical, not impulsive. With cautious curiosity, he prepared for the arduous task of getting up.

First, he placed the pen carefully beside the notebook. He took a deep breath, preparing his body for the effort. He placed his palm down and pushed against the sofa upholstery, propelling himself upward, a slow, controlled movement. A low groan escaped his lips as the weight transferred to his right leg. The first step was the worst. A current of fire ran along the nerve from ankle to hip, a dull shock that made him stop and gasp, waiting for the pain to subside to a tolerable throb.

He reached out and grabbed the cane leaning against the side of the sofa. The touch of smooth wood was like the handshake of an old friend. He began the slow crossing of the room. The rhythm of his fragility echoed on the rug. The distance to the door, which Elara would cover in three seconds, seemed to him a long journey. Finally, he reached the door. He paused, breathing a little short, and reached for the cold metal handle. He turned it, the click sounding loud, and opened the door.

It was Professor Anderson. He had a gentle smile on his face.

"Good evening, Ilian," he said. "Sorry to bother you at this hour. I came to see if we could drag you to dinner."

Ilian's heart tightened with a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. The simple kindness of the act was overwhelming. "I'm sorry, Professor. I've already eaten."

"No problem," Mr. Anderson replied. "I imagined that might happen. But may I come in for a minute?"

Ilian stepped back, opening the door wider. The professor entered, bringing with him the fresh night air.

The journey back to the sofa was equally slow. Ilian moved with deliberate care, conscious of every step, and executed the controlled maneuver of sitting down. Mr. Anderson sat in the nearby armchair, waiting patiently for him to settle.

For a moment, the professor said nothing. He just watched him. It wasn't a look of pity, nor of idle curiosity. It was a scrutinizing look, the calm assessment of an experienced scientist. Ilian felt dissected under that gaze, but in a strange way, it wasn't threatening. The professor seemed to be cataloging the signs: the pallor of the skin, the breathing still a little rapid from the effort, the way he protected his leg as he sat, the tension in his shoulders. It was a look that saw everything, and Ilian felt simultaneously completely exposed and, for the first time, truly seen.

"Elara told us about lunch. And that she had invited you to dinner," he said finally, his voice breaking the silence. "I just wanted to reinforce, Ilian. I want you to know the invitation is absolutely sincere. We would consider it a pleasure to have you with us." He paused, his gaze full of understanding. "But, above all, everything in your own time. No pressure at all."

The professor's gaze then fell on the papers scattered on the coffee table. "I see you're immersed in work." He leaned forward, his finger tracing a line in the air over a section of the schematic. "Interesting how they're trying to modulate the phase signal here. It's a known bottleneck."

The technical observation, made so naturally, opened a door for Ilian. For the first time in a long while, someone looked at him and saw not a patient, but a colleague. "Yes," he said, feeling a flicker of his old confidence. "The error correction algorithm is inefficient. It causes a lot of noise."

"Exactly!" exclaimed the professor, satisfied. "It's a pleasure to have you on the team, Ilian. And I know the Agency is in a hurry, but I'm not. Take the time you need to adapt, to heal. The work will come naturally."

The man's kindness was a constant, reassuring force. Encouraged by that moment of intellectual connection, Ilian took a risk. "Tomorrow..." he began, his voice low, almost testing the words. "I think tomorrow I can manage dinner. I don't want to be a burden."

Professor Anderson smiled, a paternal smile. "You will never be a burden, Ilian." He leaned in a little closer, his voice becoming more serious, more intimate, filling the small space between them. "I know the Agency brought you here as part of a project, as a specialist. But for us, Helena, Elara, and me... we would like you to think of us as... well, as your new family, if you'll allow us."

The impact of the word was immediate, physical. Ilian's eyes widened visibly, pupils dilating as if he had been startled. There was a small, almost imperceptible, sharp intake of breath, as if the air had suddenly been stolen from his lungs. The mask of neutrality he wore so well disintegrated for an instant, revealing a deep vulnerability, a stunned disbelief.

Richard saw it. He saw the shock run through the young man's body, the way the word "family" hit him not as an invitation, but as an unknown and perhaps dangerous force. The professor felt the immense weight of what he had said, the depth of the wound he might have unintentionally touched.

The words hit him with a force that left him breathless. Family. A word he didn't know as a life experience. A wave of emotion rose in his throat, hot and thick, making breathing difficult. He lowered his gaze abruptly as if the intensity of the moment was unbearable.

"Thank you, Professor," he managed to say after a long silence, his voice choked and weak, the words almost lost in the effort to control the emotion. "I... I've never been treated so well." He looked around, at the safe little house, at the man in front of him, still avoiding direct eye contact. "I'm happy to be here. And I intend to strive to contribute to the team, to the project."

"I know you will," Mr. Anderson said, standing up. "Well, I'll leave you in peace. Helena and Elara are waiting for me, and if I take any longer, there won't be anything left for me."

This time, when Ilian stood up, the movement was driven by gratitude. He walked him to the door. "Good evening, Professor."

"Good evening, Ilian."

He closed the door. Then, he went to the large glass door. He rested his forehead against the cold glass, watching the professor's figure cross the dark lawn. He saw the door of the main house open, spilling warm light into the night, and the professor being swallowed by it before the door closed again.

He returned to the sofa. He sat down and looked at the schematics. But now, they didn't seem like a sentence or an obligation anymore. They seemed like an opportunity. A way to give back, to belong. And with a sense of calm he hadn't felt in years, he picked up his pencil and went back to studying.

Hours slipped by, and the small cocoon of light in the living room became Ilian's entire universe. The schematics and equations were a complex language that silenced the noise of his memories, a fortress for his mind. He worked until the words and numbers began to blur, exhaustion seeping into his concentration like a fog. That was when a sharp, insistent electronic sound cut through the silence.

The beep of the Agency cell phone, forgotten on the kitchen counter. The last round of meds for the night.

With a sigh, he put down the pencil. The simple act of preparing to stand up was a ritual. First, the mental preparation, then the physical effort. He leaned on the back of the sofa, back muscles protesting, and pushed himself up before reaching for the cane. Every step from the living room to the kitchen was a negotiation with pain.

On the counter, under the dim light, was the night dose, already separated into a small plastic container. A chemical cocktail to dull the pain, fight inflammation, and, he suspected, force a sleep his body and mind were still reluctant to accept. He took a glass from the cupboard, the cold glass in his hand, and filled it with water.

He poured the pills into his palm. One white, one yellow, two blue. He looked at them for an instant, the little architects of his daily functionality. He swallowed them, one by one, feeling the path they took down his throat.

Then, he headed to the bathroom, completing the nightly routine before finally heading to the bedroom. He didn't turn on the main light, just the small lamp on the bedside table, which bathed the room in a soft, intimate light. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the soft mattress give under his weight. The day flashed through his mind in sensory bursts. The surprise on Elara's face, the heat of shame on his own face, the sound of water as she washed the dishes, the comforting weight of Professor Anderson's words. Family. The word still echoed, strange and powerful.

His gaze turned to the large glass door that took up almost the entire outer wall of the bedroom. Outside, the darkness wasn't total. The moon, almost full, cast a silver light through the leaves of large, old trees guarding the property. The wind blew, a gentle breeze making the branches dance in a slow, silent choreography. The shadows moved across the floor of his room, alive, hypnotic.

And an overwhelming feeling, one he hadn't felt so strongly in years, flooded him: gratitude.

It was a visceral sensation. It started with the awareness of the room around him. A room just for him. A door he could close. A space that was his, and no one else's. He remembered the hospital, the lack of privacy, the constant beeps. Being here, in this silence, was an unimaginable luxury.

He ran his hand over the duvet. The fabric was soft, heavy. The clean bedding smelled of flowers. The realization of that simple comfort opened a floodgate in his memory. He remembered so many nights he slept cold. Nights in the orphanage, curled up under a thin, rough blanket, the winter chill seeping through the cracks in the window. Nights lying on a concrete slab, where the cold was a constant torture that seeped into his bones and made him shiver until dawn. Cold was an enemy he knew intimately.

And now... now he was warm.

Grateful, he lay down. He pulled the duvet up to his chin, his body sinking into the softness of the mattress. He turned on his side, facing the glass door, watching the silent dance of the trees under the moonlight. The pain in his leg was still there. The pressure of the project still existed, waiting for him in the other room. But, in that moment, wrapped in clean sheets, in a room alone, with the promise of a family dinner the next day, they seemed distant. With these thoughts of gratitude, sleep wrapped around him like an embrace.