Project Rodzina

Hello

Let's continue with a few more chapters in Ilian's life, in which we'll have some small revelations about his past and how strong he is for being functional in the present.

Please forgive the long post; I'll try to make shorter posts next time.

I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you very much for the feedback and happy 2026 to all!

Chapter 22: The First Workout

Morning arrived like a silent promise, but laden with a cold apprehension. Ilian woke, but his mind was focused on a single point in time: nine in the morning. The time of his first physical therapy session. Not another assessment, but the beginning of the real work.

He followed his morning routine like an automaton, every gesture an attempt to arm himself for what was to come. The hot shower, the long-sleeved shirt, the black coffee, the first dose of meds for the day. And the waiting. Sitting at his work table. The silence of the house was heavy, expectant.

The doorbell rang promptly. It was David and Ben. Their energy was different. There were no measuring cases, just an aura of purpose that filled the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Jansen," David said firmly. "Ready to start?"

Ilian just nodded, his stomach tightening.

"Great. Let's go to the new room," David commanded.

They guided him to the back room. The sight made him stop in the doorway. The space was now a cold, impersonal rehabilitation clinic. The smell of new rubber and metal filled the air. A treadmill, parallel bars, a therapy table, a pulley system on the ceiling.

David looked at the loose cotton trousers Ilian was wearing. His voice was neutral, clinical. "Mr. Jansen, before we begin, I need you to wear more appropriate clothing. Shorts and a T-shirt. The Agency provided some in your wardrobe. I need to see your musculature and the knee joint working."

The request was like a blow. His long clothes were his armor. The idea of exposing his scarred legs, the grotesque scar on his knee and thigh, was a violation. A lifetime of obeying orders fought against the new and fragile sense of dignity he had begun to feel in that house.

The word formed in his mind and, to his own surprise, escaped his lips, low but firm.

"I prefer to stay in these clothes."

The sound hung in the silence of the room. Ben stopped what he was doing. David turned slowly to Ilian. His calm expression didn't change, but his eyes became harder, colder.

There was a long pause. "Mr. Jansen," David said, his voice still calm, but now with the unyielding weight of authority. "With all due respect, this is not a request. These are the orders we received for your rehabilitation plan. Agent Miller was very clear about the need to follow protocol. Orders must be obeyed."

The name. Miller.

The word hit Ilian like an electric shock; the small, fragile spark of rebellion he had felt was instantly drowned out by a wave of icy dread. His mind, in an instant, made the brutal analysis he had learned to make to survive. He weighed the consequences.

On one side, the consequence of yielding: the pain of exposure, the violation of having his scars and his weakness on display for these strangers. It was a sharp, immediate, humiliating pain.

On the other side, the consequence of resisting. He saw Miller's cold face. He heard his cold voice: a return to that place can be arranged. The memory of that hole - the suffocating heat, the smell, the absolute darkness - rose in his throat like bile.

The choice wasn't a choice. It was a survival calculation. The pain of exposure was temporary, bearable. The pain of that other place was the end of everything. A lifetime of being treated like an object had taught him that disobedience had a price he could no longer afford.

The fight drained from his body, visibly. His shoulders, which had straightened in an act of defiance, slumped. The glint of resistance in his eyes went out, replaced by the familiar blank expression of acquiescence. He lowered his gaze to the floor, defeated.

He turned and limped slowly back to his room. The walk was one of pure shame, not for his body, but for his failed rebellion, for the speed with which he had been put back in his place.

Inside, he performed a final act of silent rebellion: he put on the dark, functional shorts, but kept his long-sleeved shirt. Looking at himself in the mirror, the sight of his scarred leg, exposed to strangers, was a shock. The feeling of vulnerability was so overwhelming that he started to run out of air. A wave of nausea rose in his throat, and he leaned against the wall, head spinning, fighting not to vomit, not to give them one more proof of his weakness.

The bedroom door was closed. On the other side, David, impatient with the delay, knocked firmly. "Mr. Jansen? Is everything alright? We need to start."

The sound of the knock startled him. Ilian fought to control his breathing, to swallow the nausea. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, composed his mask of indifference, and opened the door.

David immediately noticed the sheen of sweat on his face, his accentuated pallor. Knowing his medical history, he asked, professionally but without warmth: "Did you have a panic attack?"

The question was a violation. Ilian stared at him, eyes cold. "No."

He walked past David, limping with a defiant stiffness toward the physical therapy room.

The hand session began. But Ilian was different. His body was rigid, tense, uncooperative. Every instruction from Ben was met with passive resistance. He went through the motions, but without the necessary concentration, his eyes empty and distant, fixed on a spot on the wall.

David, watching, lost patience. "Mr. Jansen," he said, his voice cutting. "If you don't cooperate, the session is useless. And I will be forced to report that you demonstrated infantile and non-collaborative behavior. I'm sure Agent Miller won't be pleased."

The word "infantile." The threat of the "report." It was the last straw. The final confirmation that he was just an object.

Ilian stopped what he was doing. The metal pin he was holding fell from his hand with a sharp click. Without a word, without looking at any of them, he stood up from the therapy table with a clumsy and painful movement. He grabbed his cane, which was leaning against the wall.

"Mr. Jansen? The session isn't over," David said, his voice now a mix of irritation and surprise.

Ilian ignored him. He limped out of the room, crossed the living room, went into his bedroom, and locked the door.

He leaned against the cold wood of the door, his entire body contracting. The safety of the locked room was his only victory. He crossed the few meters to his bed and didn't lie down, he collapsed. He fell sideways onto the duvet, face buried in the pillows. And from inside him, from the depths of his soul, came a sound he hadn't made in years. A long, low, guttural moan, a sound of pure pain and defeat, muffled by the fabric.

He stayed there, motionless, the outside world gone. The sound of David knocking on the door became a distant, unimportant noise. He needed to escape. And, as always, the escape was in his mind. He forced himself to go somewhere else. To the day before.

He imagined himself back in the car, parked in front of the lake. He reconstructed the scene with desperate precision: the golden sunlight, the reflection of the trees in the water, the sound of the wind. And Professor Anderson's calm presence beside him. He clung to that memory, to that feeling of peace, like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. He lay there, body broken on the bed, but his mind was far away, in a quiet park, watching ducks, in the only place in the universe where he had felt, for a brief moment, safe.

On the other side of the locked door, the world continued to turn without Ilian's participation. David, the physical therapist, stood in the hallway for a moment, his face a mask of disbelief and irritation.

Ben approached, his expression more concerned than angry. "David, maybe we should..." Ben began.

"I know what I have to do," David cut in, his voice hard. He knocked on the door again, harder, the sound echoing through the silent house. "Mr. Jansen, open the door. Our session is not over. This behavior will be reported."

The only response was silence.

David tried the handle, finding it firmly locked. This wasn't just a difficult patient anymore, it was an incident of insubordination. With a grim expression, he took out his phone.

Ben suggested: "Shall we call Dr. Evans?"

"No," David replied, searching for a number in his contacts. "The chain of command is clear. The person responsible on site is the professor. He needs to be informed of the incident."

Miles away, in the quiet, academic environment of his university office, Professor Richard Anderson was in the middle of a meeting with two doctoral students. They were discussing the complexities of a theory and its equations. His cell phone, lying face down on his mahogany desk, vibrated.

Discreetly, he turned it over. The name on the screen was "David Green (Physical Therapist)."

His expression changed instantly. The academic warmth vanished, replaced by a focused seriousness. He raised a hand to his students. "Excuse me. I need to take this."

He stood up and walked to the window of his office, back to the students. "David," he said, his voice low and controlled.

On the other end, David's voice was cold, factual, and laden with contained accusation. Richard listened in silence, his face hardening with every word. Uncooperative... refusal to follow dress protocol... emotional instability... locked himself in the room... session was not concluded.

Richard closed his eyes. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side. He imagined the scene: the pressure, Ilian's desperate reaction. "Understood," he said, his voice thin ice. "The session is over for today. You can go. I'll take it from here."

He hung up without waiting for an answer. He turned to his students, who were looking at him with curiosity. The fury inside him was perfectly masked by a steely calm. "I apologize, gentlemen, but a family emergency has come up."

Without another word, he grabbed his car keys and strode out of the office, leaving his students stunned. The drive back home was a race against time, his mind replaying David's words. Emotional instability. Uncooperative. The anger he felt wasn't at Ilian. It was a cold fury at Miller, at the Agency, at a system that took a brilliant young man and demanded too much.

Inside the bedroom, Ilian was on the bed, lost in the memory of the park. The sound of knocking had ceased some time ago. He was in a state of dissociation, his defense mechanism protecting him from reality.

Then, he heard a new sound. A different voice, one that pierced his mental barrier like no other.

"Ilian?"

It was Richard's voice, calm, but full of worried urgency. He was there.

"Ilian, it's me, Richard. It's okay. They're gone. I asked them to leave."

Ilian remained motionless.

"Ilian, please. I know you're in there. Open the door. You are safe."

The professor's voice was an anchor, slowly pulling him back from his dissociative fog to the painful reality of the room. He heard the sincerity, the absence of anger. It wasn't an order. It was a request.

Slowly, very slowly, he moved. His body was a lead weight. He turned on the bed and sat up. That was when he remembered. He looked at himself. The long-sleeved shirt, yes. But the shorts. His legs, pale, marked by old scars, were exposed. A wave of shame hit him, but it was a distant emotion, secondary to the turmoil of the moment. There was no time, no energy, to "rearm."

He stood up, and limped to the door. His hand hovered over the lock for a long second. Trust. It was a risk. But the voice on the other side was the only thing that sounded like safety in that world.

With a hesitant movement, he turned the small metal key. The click of the lock was a tiny sound, but it broke the tension like thunder. The door opened slowly.

Richard saw Ilian standing there, a figure of pure fragility in the gloom of the room. He was wearing shorts and the usual long-sleeved shirt, his face pale and stained with sweat, his eyes like those of a cornered animal. His legs, covered in a map of pale scars, were exposed, and he seemed painfully aware of it.

Richard showed neither shock nor pity. His face was a mask of calm and compassion. He entered, his large, solid presence filling the space, and closed the door softly behind him, creating a sanctuary, sealing out the outside world.

"Come, Ilian," he said, his voice a gentle murmur.

He didn't guide him to the living room. Instead, he indicated the bed. Ilian sat on the edge, body stiff. Richard didn't sit next to him, which would be too intimate. He pulled the small chair from the desk and sat facing him, at a respectful distance. And waited.

Silence stretched, filled only by the sound of Ilian's still ragged breathing.

"David called me," Richard began, breaking the silence carefully. "Tell me what happened. From your point of view."

The words came out of Ilian in fragments. His voice was a hoarse whisper. "I'm sorry... I made a mistake."

When Ilian fell silent, head down, the professor leaned forward.

"It was human. You were pushed to your limit, and you reacted. They have no right to speak to you that way," he said, his voice firm, full of unwavering conviction.

The validation, the unconditional defense, was something so new to Ilian that he didn't know how to react. Disarmed, the emotion that followed was shame. "I'm sorry, I interrupted your work," he murmured. "You had to come."

Richard waved a hand. "My work can wait." He looked around, saw the time on the clock. "You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

Ilian just shook his head.

"Neither have I," Richard said. He stood up, his movement slow and deliberate so as not to startle Ilian. "Helena is out. I'm going to the kitchen to heat up one of those meals from your fridge." He stopped in the bedroom doorway and looked at Ilian. "Come have lunch at the kitchen table... when you're ready."

The phrase "when you're ready" gave all the power back to Ilian. It was an invitation, not an order.

Richard left, leaving the bedroom door ajar. Ilian was alone. He heard the distant sounds of the professor in the kitchen, the click of a cupboard, the beep of the microwave. He looked at himself, at his exposed legs. He couldn't. He couldn't sit at the table like that. He needed his armor.

With painful slowness, he stood up. He opened the drawer and took out a pair of his dark, loose trousers. The act of taking off the shorts and putting on the trousers was a ritual. The sensation of the long fabric covering his skin, hiding his scars, was like a sigh of relief. It was a necessary barrier between him and the world. Now, feeling a little less exposed, a little more in control, he grabbed his cane.

He made the slow walk from his room to the kitchen. Richard was sitting at the small dining table, two plates of food on the table. He looked up when Ilian appeared and gave him a small, understanding nod, making no comment on the change of clothes.

Ilian sat down. They ate in silence at first. The food was simple, but its warmth began to calm Ilian's body. After a few spoonfuls, the professor spoke, his tone now strategic, that of a mentor.

"Listen, Ilian. David is going to have to write a report. Miller will see it. And he will use it against us."

Ilian put down his spoon.

"So," continued Richard, "we're going to give them something different to report." He looked Ilian in the eye. "On Friday, at the next session, you are going to cooperate. But you're not going to do it for them. Nor for me. You're going to do it for you. It's your way of fighting."

He leaned forward. "Every repetition, every painful stretch... is not submission. It is you getting stronger. Every step you take on that treadmill is a step away from them. The strength you build in that room is your weapon. It is what will give you the independence to, one day, not need them anymore. We are going to turn their tool of pressure into your tool of liberation. Understood?"

Ilian looked at the professor, at the passion and intelligence in his eyes. Physical therapy. The pain. He had never seen it that way. A way of fighting.

He couldn't speak. But slowly, with a new determination, he gave a firm nod.

Richard smiled, understanding that his message had been received. He didn't get up immediately. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, his tone becoming more contemplative.

"Good," he said. "It's a hard road, Ilian. There will be days like today. Days when your body won't cooperate, when your mind will say it can't take anymore." He paused. "But what defines us is not how often we fail. It's the stubbornness to keep trying."

Ilian was silent for a long moment, processing the words. He looked at his own left hand, resting on the table. He flexed the stiff fingers, the movement limited and painful. Richard's word, spoken with such kindness, collided violently with the memory of Orlov's cold voice in the Russian laboratory. The visual memory of the pneumatic clamp coming down, the crushing pressure... all because he had been "stubborn."

His voice, when he spoke, was casual, devoid of any self-pity, his expression neutral, almost academic.

"Stubbornness," he said, "was what left my hand like this."

The phrase, spoken with such simplicity, hit Richard with the force of a punch to the gut. The air seemed to thin in the kitchen. The professor's understanding smile vanished, replaced by a mask of pure, incredulous horror. He opened his mouth to say something - "I understand," perhaps, or another empty word - but no sound came out. He just stared at Ilian, brain struggling to process the monstrous implication of those words. The quality he had just praised as a virtue, in Ilian's world, had been a crime punishable by mutilation.

Silence stretched, heavy and terrible. And for Ilian, that silence was a condemnation. He saw the shock on Richard's face, the way the warmth had vanished from his eyes. In his life, an inconvenient truth was always followed by a negative consequence. He had ruined everything. He had crossed a line, shared a fragment of darkness that was too ugly for that world of light. He needed to fix it. He needed to retreat.

"I'm sorry," he said hurriedly, his eyes dropping to the table. "I didn't... I didn't mean to disagree with you, sir. It was inappropriate. I'm sorry."

The apology, so sincere and so terribly wrong, was what finally broke Richard's immobility. He blinked, as if waking from a trance. The sight of that broken young man apologizing for telling the truth about his own torture was one of the most painful things he had ever witnessed.

He reached across the table, but stopped before touching Ilian.

"No," Richard said, his voice hoarse, full of an emotion he could barely control. "Ilian, look at me."

Hesitantly, Ilian looked up.

"Never," said Richard, his voice now firm, every word heavy with conviction. "Never apologize for telling the truth. I am the one who apologizes. I was insensitive."

He leaned back in the chair, running a hand over his face, visibly shaken. A heavy silence settled between them, filled with the terrible truth they now shared. Ilian watched the professor. He saw the pain in the older man's eyes, a pain that was a reflection of his own. He felt the impulse not to shrink and hide his own pain, but to alleviate someone else's pain. He needed to change the subject, pull them out of that abyss, for both their sakes.

"Professor..." Ilian began, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the heavy silence. Richard looked up, surprised. "That project of yours..." Ilian continued, choosing his words carefully. "The one you mentioned at dinner. The algorithm that helped doctors with children."

Richard frowned, confused by the change of subject, but attentive.

"Do you..." he hesitated for an instant. "Do you have the documents? The calculations? I would like to see them."

The question pulled Richard out of his emotional spiral. It was a request so unexpected, so purely scientific in the midst of that emotional turmoil. It was a lifeline, offered by the very person he was trying to save. A visible relief washed over the professor's face. That was their territory. That was their safe harbor.

"The documents?" he repeated, his voice regaining strength. "Yes, of course, Ilian. Of course I have them. They are at the university. I can bring them tomorrow." A genuine, grateful smile finally returned to his lips. "It would be a pleasure to discuss them with you."

Richard then began to explain the project, carried by the enthusiasm of sharing a passion. He leaned forward, his eyes shining with the energy of a professor explaining his favorite topic. While the professor spoke, Ilian visibly relaxed. The knot of emotion in his throat undid itself. He was no longer the focus of the conversation. His mind engaged immediately.

"So you used an adaptive filter?" Ilian asked, his first proactive contribution to the conversation. "To isolate the frequency of the pulsatile flow?"

Richard's face lit up with the pleasure of mutual understanding. The tension in the room dissipated, replaced by intellectual anticipation. With the atmosphere now lighter, they talked for a few more minutes until Richard looked at his watch.

"Look at the time!" he said, this time with a renewed naturalness. "Now I really need to go, or I'll miss my meeting."

Ilian felt a pang of disappointment, a sudden anxiety at the thought of being alone after that connection. Richard seemed to notice.

"Helena and Elara will be around here. You won't be alone," he assured him. "Just... try to rest your body. Let your mind work on something enjoyable."

With a final word of encouragement, the professor left, leaving Ilian in the now silent guest house, with the echo of a new strategy resonating in his mind.

Chapter 23: A Different Sky

Alone again, Ilian felt adrift in the silence. The exhaustion of the morning, both physical and emotional, weighed on him like a cloak of lead. He cleaned up the small mess from lunch, an act of normalcy that helped him anchor himself, and then went to the sofa. He didn't pick up one of the Agency manuals. Instead, he reached for one of the books, a dense volume on interpretations of quantum mechanics.

It was a familiar refuge. He immersed himself in the complex theories. It was a world of ordered chaos, of rules that defied logic but were, nonetheless, rules. It was a much safer place than the world of men. He spent the afternoon there, adrift in a sea of equations and theoretical possibilities, his mind traveling to parallel universes while his body healed slowly in the quiet of the house.

Later, when the daylight began to fade, he stood up. His body still ached, but his mind was calm. He took a hot shower, the water washing away the day's weariness. The nightly routine was becoming a comforting ritual.

He was already dressed, in his usual armor of dark trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, and was sitting on the sofa, the physics book open on his lap, but with his eyes lost in the growing darkness outside the glass door. His mind still processing the day.

That was when he heard a light knock on the front door.

The sound startled him, but not with dread. Just surprise. With his usual slowness, body protesting, he stood up, grabbed his cane, and limped to the door.

It was Elara. She was holding a plate covered with a cloth. The smell coming from it was delicious.

"My mother made your dinner," she said with a soft smile. "She insisted you eat real food."

She held out the plate. Ilian took it, the warmth traveling through the porcelain and warming his hands. He remained on the threshold, his body creating a subtle barrier, the door ajar just enough for the interaction. He wanted to be alone.

Elara seemed to hesitate for an instant, perhaps waiting for an invitation to come in. "It smells good..." she began. "If you don't want to eat alone, I..." The sentence hung in the air, a delicate offer.

Social panic hit Ilian. Another meal. Another conversation. It was too much. He didn't have the energy. He gripped the plate tighter. "Thank you," his voice more formal than he intended. "Thank your mother for me." The words were of gratitude, but his posture was a door closing.

Elara understood the message. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Of course. No problem. Good night, Ilian." She turned and left. Ilian closed the door, feeling a mixture of relief and a strange, uncomfortable feeling of guilt.

He ate alone, at the small kitchen table. The food was, once again, perfect. After washing the plate and taking his meds, he went to the glass door of his bedroom, opened it, and stepped out onto the dark patio.

The night was cold and incredibly clear.

He tilted his head back, his secret passion taking over him. It was a habit born of captivity. From a window in an orphanage in Poland, from a slit in a German base, from a ventilation opening in a Russian cell, from a patch of sky seen from a walled courtyard in the desert, the stars had been his constant companions.

He looked for the familiar patterns. Ursa Major, Cassiopeia. They were there, like old friends. But they were... different. His mind, accustomed to maps and angles, noticed immediately. The North Star was much lower on the horizon than he remembered from Europe. And, looking south, he could see entire constellations, like the top of Sagittarius and the heart of Scorpius with the star Antares shining red.

It was visual, astronomical proof that he was in another part of the world. A different place. A question arose in his mind. Would that place, under that different sky, be a place he wouldn't need to miss in the future?

He stayed there, in the cold, for a long time, mapping the new sky. The universe was vast, but ordered. And in that order, he felt not his smallness, but a fragile sense of possibility. With the cold seeping into his bones, he finally went back inside, mind calm, and went to sleep.

Chapter 24: The First Trail

The next morning arrived like a silent promise. Ilian woke with the sunlight, it had been a good night's sleep. The conversation with Richard the day before had planted a seed. Pain was no longer just a symptom of his weakness, it could be the price of his strength.

He followed his morning routine. The hot shower. The black coffee, drunk slowly while looking at the schematics on his desk, the meds. After coffee, he prepared for the day. He put on his usual long-sleeved armor and the light hiking boots the Agency had provided. And then, he remembered David's "order," which now sounded different in his head: the ten-minute daily walk.

In previous days, he had limited himself to the safe patio. But today, driven by Richard's new strategy, he felt a cold determination. The trail was no longer a place of fear, it was a training ground. It was his first endurance exercise.

He grabbed his cane and went out. The morning air was fresh and clean. He didn't stop at the patio. He crossed the damp lawn, his pace slow but steady, until he reached the beginning of the trail, where the trees began. He stopped there for a moment, on the border between light and shadow, his heart beating a little faster. Then, he took the first step inside.

The world changed instantly. The sunlight disappeared, replaced by a green shade. The air became cooler, damper, laden with the rich smell of earth, decaying leaves, and the sharp scent of pine. The sound of his own footsteps changed, the dry thud on gravel replaced by a soft crackle on dry twigs and fallen leaves.

The path was narrow, uneven. Loose stones hid beneath the carpet of leaves. Every step was a challenge to his balance. His cane probed the ground ahead. His left leg, the good leg, served as an anchor. And his right leg was dragged with conscious effort, muscles aching in protest.

The silence of the forest was deep, but not empty. It was full of small sounds: the sharp song of a bird he couldn't see, the sudden rustle of a squirrel in dry leaves, the groan of a high branch swaying in the wind. His hypervigilance, a trait born of constant danger, was on high alert. Every sound was a potential threat.

A stronger gust of wind swept through the woods, making the trees creak around him. The sound was strangely human, like a lament. Ilian froze, his entire body stiffening, hand gripping the cane. For an instant, he wasn't in a forest in Boston. He was back in another place, another time. His breath caught in his chest.

He closed his eyes. You are safe, said Richard's voice in his mind. He forced air in and out of his lungs, once, twice, three times. He opened his eyes. It was just the wind. Just trees. He was here.

He needed to continue. The pain in his leg was now a constant flame. Sweat began to form on his forehead, not just from effort, but from pure concentration. He stopped, leaning against the rough trunk of a large tree to catch his breath. And allowed himself, not just to survive the environment, but to really look at it.

Leaning against the tree trunk, Ilian felt the rough, real bark against the palm of his hand. His breathing, previously panting from exertion, began to calm. His focus, previously limited to the next safe step on the ground, expanded. He looked up.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves, creating columns of golden light dancing in the forest gloom. The air smelled of damp earth and decaying life, a rich and primordial scent. That was when he heard a sound, quick and sharp. He looked for the source and saw it, a small bird with a gray chest and a black cap, hopping from branch to branch with an energy Ilian envied. Its movements were quick, precise, free. Ilian watched, fascinated by its simple and uninhibited existence.

The bird flew away, and Ilian's gaze followed it until it disappeared, then slowly descending to the forest floor. And that was where he saw it.

Near the base of the tree, among fallen leaves and exposed roots, was a pinecone. Not just any pinecone. It was small, perfect, its wooden scales arranged in a flawless mathematical spiral. The filtering sunlight hit it, highlighting its shades of brown and its symmetrical shape.

A sudden, childish desire seized him. The first thing he thought was: The notebook. He could draw that. Not from a photograph or memory, but from the real object. It would be a keepsake, a trophy of his first foray onto the trail.

The decision was instant. He needed to pick up the pinecone.

The slow and calculated engineering of movement began. He leaned his left hand on the tree trunk. His right hand held the cane, using it as a third point of support. He needed to crouch. His brain traced the trajectory, but his body protested immediately.

He bent his good knee, the left one, starting to lower his body. The pain in his right leg was immediate. The muscles of his left thigh, overloaded, began to tremble violently under the strain. He held his breath, face contorted in a mask of pain.

He was halfway there. His right hand reached out, fingers searching for the prize. The pinecone was right there, so close. Four inches. Just four inches away.

He tried to go a little deeper. His body screamed. The pain in his right knee became blinding, and a tremor ran through his whole body. He realized, with cold clarity, the risk. If he reached further, he might not have the strength to get up. He could fall, lie there, alone and helpless in the forest. Prudence, stronger than desire, won.

With a muffled groan of frustration, he stopped. And, with an even greater effort, began the reverse movement, pushing his body up, back to a vertical position. When he finally straightened, he was panting, sweat running freely down his face.

He looked at the perfect pinecone, four unreachable inches away. But the frustration he felt was different. It wasn't the helpless anger of the physical therapy session. It was a cold, analytical frustration. A realization.

This is what it's for, he thought, the image of the new physical therapy room, the machines, David's orders, surfacing in his mind. It's not for Miller. It's not for the Agency. It's for this. To have more independence. To be able to stretch my arm four more inches. To be able to pick up a simple pinecone from the ground.

He had just found the most powerful motivation in the world.

With a last look at the small treasure he couldn't have, he etched the image into his memory, every detail of its shape, its texture. He turned and, with a new determination fueling his steps, began the slow walk back.

He turned his back on the pinecone, leaving it behind on the forest floor, but its image was burned into his mind. It was his goal. His prize.

The path was the same, the treacherous roots and loose stones hadn't disappeared. His body was even more tired, muscles protesting with a more intense burn. The pain in his right leg was a constant flame. But something fundamental had changed. His perception of the pain.

Before, every twinge was a message of failure, a reminder of his condition. Now, as he concentrated on every agonizing step, the pain began to sound different.

He stepped on a root, his ankle twisted slightly. Pain shot up his leg. This, he thought, breath held, is the weakness that prevents me from bending. He used the cane to propel himself forward, the effort making the muscles of his shoulder and back scream. This, he thought, is the lack of strength that would make me fall.

Pain was no longer just suffering. It had become information. It was a diagnosis. Every burn, every tremor, every twinge was a weak point to be identified, an enemy to be named. And the physical therapy room, once a torture chamber, transformed in his mind into a forge. A place to turn pain into strength.

Professor Anderson's strategy, which before was an intellectual concept, now became visceral, real. Turn their tool of pressure into your tool of liberation. Ilian finally understood. His recovery wasn't to meet Miller's deadline. It was to be able to pick up a pinecone from the ground.

With this new purpose inside him, the walk back became an act of defiance. He was no longer just surviving the course. He was training.

When he finally saw the sunlight shining through the trees, announcing the end of the trail, he felt on the verge of collapse. He emerged from the shadow of the forest into the light of the garden, blinking, panting. He was soaked in sweat, his shirt sticking to his back, his right leg barely supporting him.

The crossing back across the lawn to the guest house was the hardest part. Every step was agony. He opened the living room door, entered, and collapsed onto the first surface he found: the sofa.

He lay there on his side, his whole body in spasms of exhaustion, breath coming in noisy gasps. The pain was immense, overwhelming. But it wasn't a pain of defeat.

After several minutes, when his heart began to slow and his breathing to normalize, he opened his eyes. His gaze crossed the room and fixed on the closed door of the physical therapy room at the end of the hall. It was no longer a door hiding a monster. It was the door to his training ground.

He felt victorious, but completely drained. All he wanted in that moment was silence. A day of peace, no more tests, no more demands. Today was Thursday, a day without intensive physical therapy. It would be his recovery day. His day of peace.

He was in this state, drifting between pain and triumph, when he heard a light knock on the front door.

A sigh of frustration escaped his lips. His day of peace was about to be violated. He ignored the sound, wishing it would go away. But the knock repeated, a little more insistent. With a monumental effort, he began the slow and painful process of sitting up. Leaning on the cane, he limped to the door, his face already forming a mask of defensive neutrality. He didn't want company.

When he opened the door, he found Elara.

"Sorry to bother you, Ilian," she said, her expression a little awkward. "My father asked me to come."

He didn't answer. He remained standing on the threshold, his body physically blocking the entrance, the door ajar just enough. His exhaustion was so great he could barely stay upright.

Elara seemed to understand his posture. "Dr. Evans called my father. He was trying to call you, on your cell phone, but you didn't answer." She looked at his state, at the sweat-damp shirt, at his pallor. "He got worried and asked me to tell you he needs to speak with you about an adjustment to your medication. He'll call again in half an hour."

Ilian closed his eyes for an instant. The phone. He kept it in complete silence, except for the meds alarm. "Thank you very much," he said.

His answer was a clear full stop. But Elara hesitated. "He seemed worried, Ilian. Please, answer this time, okay?"

The concern in her voice was genuine, but to Ilian, it sounded like yet another demand. He just nodded, wanting her to leave. With a last uncertain look, she left. Ilian closed the door. He limped to the kitchen counter, picked up the Agency cell phone, and returned to the sofa. He sat down, the device cold and strange in his hand, his peace shattered.

The wait was tense. He didn't want new routines. He just wanted a single day of silence. The phone vibrated. He answered.

"Ilian?" said Dr. Evans's calm voice.

"Yes, Doctor."

"Ah, good. I was worried. Are you alright? I called several times."

Ilian didn't want to go into details. He didn't want to talk about the walk, about his exhaustion. He just wanted the conversation to end so he could have his day of peace. "I'm fine, Doctor," he replied, voice neutral and a little distant.

There was a small pause on the other end of the line. The doctor seemed to realize Ilian didn't want to talk. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, his tone a little more serious. "Listen, Ilian, I heard what happened at your physical therapy session."

Ilian's body stiffened. He expected a reprimand.

"I understand your frustration, Ilian," he continued, his voice gentle, without any trace of judgment. "That kind of therapy is painful. And, knowing your history, your reaction was... understandable." He paused again. "David and Ben are the best, but they are results-focused. I need to ask you, in the next session, on Friday, to try... try to cooperate with them. Do it for you. Every small victory is a step toward your independence."

After a moment, he replied: "I will cooperate."

"Great," Dr. Evans's voice filled with genuine relief. "I'm much calmer hearing that. The other reason for my call is quick. Your blood tests came back, and we're going to resume using the immunosuppressant, for the chronic inflammation. Administration is every two weeks."

Ilian was silent. One more thing. One more invasion.

"The nurse is coming over today to administer the first dose," the doctor continued. "It's an injection."

Today. The word dropped like a stone in Ilian's stomach. His day of peace. Destroyed. And a new voice, born of exhaustion, of the morning's victory, and of Richard's promise of truce, spoke for him.

"Doctor," he began, voice surprisingly firm. "May I ask for a day? Just one day. Today. I need a day of silence. No visitors."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Ilian held his breath, waiting for the denial.

But the doctor's voice, when it returned, was understanding. "I understand, Ilian." He sighed. He seemed to be thinking. "Alright. One day. For your mental health, which is as important as the physical. John can go tomorrow morning, after your session. But, without fail, Ilian. This medication is important."

The relief was so deep Ilian felt his shoulders relax. "Thank you very much."

"Rest, then," said Dr. Evans. "Enjoy your day of peace."

The call ended. Ilian turned the phone off completely. He had asked. And he had been heard. He had defended his small territory of silence, and won. And with that second victory of the day, he leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and, for the first time, felt that maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to learn the rules of this new world.

Lunch was quiet and the afternoon passed in a productive silence. After his conquered day of peace, Ilian felt surprisingly focused. He worked on his schematics, not out of fear, but out of a genuine desire to solve the puzzle in front of him. The pain in his body was a constant presence, but his mind was free.

When night began to fall, he stopped. He was feeling hungry again, soon it would be dinner time. He thought about the promise he had made to the professor. Nervousness began to bubble in his stomach. It would be today. His second dinner with the family. Could he do it?

He went to the bathroom, washed his face, combed his hair. Small rituals to prepare for the crossing. He was in this state of nervous anticipation when he heard the doorbell. His heart jumped. He limped over, opening the door he saw Professor Anderson's silhouette, cut against the garden lights. Under his arm, he held a square wooden object.

"Good evening, Ilian," said Richard, with a slightly awkward smile. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Professor," was all Ilian managed to say.

"I know you promised to come have dinner with us tonight," Richard began, "but there was a last-minute change of plans. Helena and Elara had to go out and won't be back anytime soon." He paused. "And, to be totally honest, I'm a terrible cook. So I remembered you have a stock of first-class Agency meals there. Do you mind sharing one with a hungry old professor?"

The request, so self-deprecating and so warm, caught Ilian by surprise. He wouldn't have to face the dynamic of three people. It would be just him and the professor. It seemed... easier. He stepped back, a silent invitation.

"Great," Richard said, entering. He placed the object he brought on the coffee table. It was a beautiful, old wooden chessboard, foldable. "I thought we could have a challenge for the mind after dinner."

The board sat there, a silent promise of the true purpose of that visit.

While Richard sat comfortably in the armchair, Ilian went to the kitchen. The scene was almost comical. He opened the refrigerator, took two identical packages, pierced the plastic film with a knife, and placed them, side by side, in the microwave. There was no smell of Helena's herbs, just the neutral smell of food being heated.

He served the two identical meals on two white plates and took them to the small kitchen table, Richard didn't offer help, letting Ilian exercise a bit of his independence. He sat down.

"So," Richard said, looking at the plate of functional food. "It's nutritious, I suppose."

Ilian took a small bite. The flavor was bland, familiar. But eating that meal, sharing it with the professor, transformed the act. It was a moment of solidarity, of camaraderie. Richard ate his "ration" without complaining, making small talk about the weather, about the university, keeping the atmosphere light.

When they finished, Ilian stood up to take the plates to the sink.

"Leave that there for now," Richard said, standing up too. He nodded toward the living room, to the chessboard waiting for them.

"Now that we've survived dinner," he said, his eyes shining with anticipation, "how about a challenge for the mind?"

Chapter 25: Playing to Lose

Ilian looked at the chessboard resting on the coffee table, then at Professor Anderson’s expectant face. A game. An activity with no purpose other than intellectual challenge. He gave a small nod.

Richard’s smile widened. "Great."

They moved to the living room. Ilian sat on the sofa, and the professor in the armchair. Richard opened the board. The wood was dark and weathered by time, its varnish gleaming softly under the lamp’s light. He opened a drawer on the side of the board, revealing the chess pieces, heavy and carved, nestled in faded red velvet slots.

"It was my father's," Richard said as he set up the pieces. "He taught me to play on this very board."

Sharing that small personal story created an atmosphere of solemnity. This wasn’t just a game, it was a ritual, an inheritance. Ilian watched in silence. The pieces were beautiful. He picked up a black knight. The wood felt smooth and cool against his fingers, its weight surprisingly real.

"White or black?" Richard asked.

"Black," Ilian answered without hesitation. He always chose black. He preferred to react rather than attack.

The game began. The silence in the room was filled only by the soft, heavy clack of wooden pieces moving across the board. Richard played a classic, academic game. His opening was solid, his movements logical. Ilian responded... strangely. His defense was impeccable, almost impenetrable. Every attack from Richard was met by a subtle barrier, an unexpected move that neutralized the threat. But he didn't counter-attack. There were opportunities, small windows that Richard, like a good player, left open on purpose to test him. But Ilian ignored them.

They played for nearly half an hour. Richard was gaining ground, not through brilliance, but through sheer persistence. He had captured more pieces, and his positions were more aggressive. Ilian, on the other hand, seemed content merely to defend, to delay the inevitable.

Finally, after capturing one of Ilian’s bishops, Richard couldn't contain his curiosity. He leaned back in his armchair. "You play very well, Ilian," he said, his voice genuinely intrigued. "But you hesitate. It seems you avoid attacking. Why?"

Ilian didn't raise his eyes from the board. He looked at the decimated battlefield, at his disadvantaged pieces. "I like to play, Professor," he said, his voice low. "But I always lose."

The sentence was a contradiction. His skill was obvious. "What do you mean, you always lose?" Richard asked gently.

Ilian finally looked up. There was an expression in his eyes that the professor couldn't decipher. It wasn't sadness, nor shame. It was an analytical calm, like that of a scientist describing a natural phenomenon.

"It’s a strategy," he explained. "I developed it a long time ago. At the orphanage." He paused. "I was small, but I learned the game fast. The older, stronger boys... they didn't like losing to me. If I beat them, they got angry, or simply wouldn't play anymore."

Richard listened, stunned by the enormity of what was being revealed.

"So, I learned," Ilian continued, his monotone voice devoid of emotion. "I learned to lose on purpose. To make the game interesting, challenging, but to make a crucial 'mistake' at the end. They felt good, felt smart for having won a hard game. And they wanted to play again."

He looked at his left hand, the injured hand. "Later, in other places... I played with people at night. They would get bored and decide to play with me. Some liked chess. Beating those people was never a good idea. But losing too quickly wasn't either. So, the strategy became more solidified. I like playing this way."

He looked back at the professor. "The real victory... happened in my head. I would see checkmate in five moves. But on the board... I would make the move that led to my defeat in ten. The game continued. And I had my secret. My private victory."

Richard fell silent. He was listening to the most tragic and brilliant survival strategy he had ever encountered. This young man didn't just play, he had transformed it into a complex intellectual exercise to keep his mind sane. His genius lay not just in winning, but in the art of losing.

The sadness the professor felt was overwhelming. He looked at the young man in front of him, at his calm face describing years of psychological subjugation as if it were a math problem, and his heart broke.

Richard remained silent. He looked at the board, at the wooden pieces representing a battle, but his mind was far away. He was trying to comprehend the depth of what he had just heard. The idea of a boy turning self-sabotage into an art form to survive, finding secret victories in his own staged defeat... it was the most tragic and brilliant thing he had ever imagined. The sorrow he felt for Ilian was crushing, a physical pain in his chest.

He looked up at the young man before him. Ilian had retreated into his cocoon of silence, his face a neutral mask, as if he had just reported the weather. Richard realized that any expression of pity would be an insult. This young man didn't need compassion, he needed a new battlefield, with new rules.

With a paternal determination hardening his voice, Richard leaned forward, his presence filling the small space between them.

"Ilian," he said, his voice low but intense. "Listen to me. Here..." he tapped his finger on the wood of the coffee table, "...in this house, you don't need to do that. With me, you don't need to lose to be safe. There is no punishment for victory."

He looked Ilian in the eyes, his sincerity unshakable. "I don't want to play against the ghost you created to survive. I want to play against you. Play to win, Ilian. Please. Just this once. Show me how you really play."

The request hung in the air, heavy and monumental. It was an invitation to break the habit of a lifetime. Ilian looked at the professor, at the seriousness and kindness in his face. He looked at the board. And, after a silence that seemed to last an eternity, he gave a single, slow nod. "I'll try."

They started a new match. And everything changed.

It was as if a dam had broken. Ilian’s moves, previously hesitant and purely defensive, became fluid, sharp, and creative. A rook slid down the side of the board, creating an unexpected threat. A knight leaped into a position Richard hadn't foreseen, forcing a disadvantageous trade. His defense was still masterful, but now it was an active defense, setting the stage for devastating attacks.

Richard, who had been playing in a relaxed manner before, was forced to retreat, to defend himself. A smile of pure admiration began to grow on his face. He was being completely outplayed. He wasn't playing against a survivor, he was playing against a master. He was finally seeing Ilian’s mind in operation, free from the chains of fear.

The game reached its climax. With a series of brilliant moves, Ilian sacrificed a minor piece to open a fatal line of attack. Richard looked at the board and saw the end. His king was cornered. Checkmate in two moves. Inevitable. He leaned back in his armchair, a low, wonder-filled laugh escaping his lips, and waited for the blow.

Ilian’s right hand hovered over his queen, the piece that would deliver the final strike. He looked at the winning move. Then, he raised his eyes and looked directly at Richard. The eye contact was long, silent, full of a meaning that transcended the game.

And then, he moved a different piece.

He moved a pawn. A subtle move, not an obvious mistake, but a move that silently opened an escape route for Richard’s king. A move that renounced victory.

Richard stared at the board, astonished. He couldn't believe it. He looked at Ilian, who watched him with a calm expression. The professor, confused, took the opening he had been given. In three moves, it was he who cornered Ilian’s king.

"Checkmate..." Richard said, his voice full of disbelief. He looked at Ilian. "But... Ilian... you had me. Your queen... it was checkmate in two moves. Why?"

Ilian didn't answer with words. He just looked at the professor and, for the first time, smiled a genuine smile. It wasn't the spasm of pain or the shy nod from before. It was a small, slightly crooked smile that lit up his face and reached his eyes. A smile full of intelligence, a hint of mischief, and a deep, shared understanding.

And seeing that smile, Richard understood everything.

Ilian had won. His victory wasn't the checkmate. His victory was proving he could deliver the checkmate. His victory was reaching the top of the mountain and choosing not to take the last step. He had maintained control of the game, control of the outcome, until the very end. He hadn't lost, he had chosen not to win.

Richard leaned back in the armchair again, and then he began to laugh. A loud, genuine laugh, full of pure admiration and joy. He had just witnessed the most extraordinary mind he had ever met.

In the midst of the professor’s laughter, Ilian, still with that new smile playing on his lips, spoke. His voice was low, but with an inflection of dry wit Richard had never heard before.

"Professor..." he said. "If you keep coming here for dinner, the agency will think I'm eating too much. They'll cut my rations."

The joke, so unexpected, so subtle, made Richard laugh even harder.

Richard Anderson’s laughter filled the small room, a rich and genuine sound that seemed to chase the shadows from the corners. Ilian watched, his own small, discreet smile still on his lips, and felt something loosen inside his chest. That sound, the sound of pure and shared joy, was the strangest and most welcome thing he had ever heard.

When the professor’s laughter finally subsided into a satisfied sigh, he shook his head, marveling. "Incredible, Ilian. Simply incredible."

He began to pack the chess pieces back into their velvet case, every movement slow and careful. "That was the best match I've played in years," he said, his voice still holding a tone of admiration. "Thank you for the game... and for the dinner." He smiled at Ilian. "Don't worry about your rations. If necessary, I'll cook for us myself. Although, for everyone's sake, it's better if we don't reach that point."

Richard stood up, the folded chessboard tucked under his arm. Ilian also stood to walk him to the door, his movements a little less stiff than before, as if the joy of the moment had momentarily alleviated the pain.

The farewell at the door was simple but full of a new, unspoken understanding. "Rest well, Ilian," Richard said. And with a final warm look, he was gone.

Ilian closed the door and leaned against it, the house now silent. He expected the silence to be empty, as always. But no. The silence wasn't empty. It was filled by the echo of Richard’s laughter, by the memory of the weight of a chess piece, by the warmth of sincere praise. The small guest house felt less lonely.

He was exhausted, but it was an exhaustion that held a vibrant energy. There was a lightness in his chest, a sensation he hesitated to name but recognized as happiness. He needed to keep this. To record it before it vanished.

With renewed purpose, he went to the sofa. Sliding his hand behind the back cushion, he retrieved his secret notebook. His sanctuary.

He sat in his usual spot, in the pool of light from the lamp, and opened to a new page. He wrote, in Polish, not about his pain or his fear, but about the strange and wonderful night he had had. He wrote about the logic of chess, about the surprise in the professor’s eyes, about the sound of genuine laughter filling a room. He wrote about his own little joke. They were his victories.

Then, he turned the page and picked up a pencil. He wanted to draw the moment, but not the faces, not the room. He wanted to draw the feeling. His gaze fell upon the empty spot where the board had been. He closed his eyes, reconstructing the final position in his mind.

With quick, precise strokes, he drew the chessboard seen from above, focusing only on two pieces: his own king, cornered in a corner, and Richard’s white king, victorious in the center. But beside his fallen king, he drew his queen, the powerful piece he had chosen not to move, the true silent winner of the game. The drawing was a secret, a diagram of his control, of his private victory that was now shared by one other person.

A powerful new thought began to form in his mind. The gratitude he felt was a new energy inside him, too big to be contained in a simple "thank you" or a drawing. He wanted to give back. He wanted to give Richard a real victory, one that mattered in the professor’s world.

His mind traveled back to Germany, to Professor Albrecht Kessler. And to the flaw. The flaw in Kessler’s theory that he had seen, but which his master, an established genius, had failed to accept. Richard, a man of the same stature as Kessler but with an infinitely larger heart, also revered that flawed theory.

And then, Ilian saw it with crystal clarity. A new game. The most beautiful and complex game of chess he would ever play. The board would be Albrecht Kessler’s theory. The pieces would be the equations, the questions, the intellectual "accidents." And his opponent, or rather, his partner, would be Richard. He wouldn't give him the answer. That would be easy, almost an insult. No. He would guide him. He would move a pawn here, sacrifice a bishop there, ask innocent questions that would lead to inevitable paths. He would prepare the board, move by move, over weeks, perhaps months, until Richard himself, with his own brilliant mind, looked at the board and saw the checkmate. The discovery would be Richard’s. The victory, the awards, the revolution in the field of physics... it would all be his.

And that, the joy on Richard’s face upon making his greatest discovery, would be Ilian’s secret victory. His true thank you. His gift.

With a new determination burning inside him, a purpose that wasn't about survival but about generosity, he closed the notebook.

With the same care as before, he stood up and hid the notebook back in his secret sanctuary inside the sofa.

He went through the rest of his nightly routine, the medicines, the trip to the bathroom, but his movements were now driven by a new energy. As he lay in bed, he didn't need to search for a happy memory to calm himself. He was planning one. And, with the echo of the professor’s laughter and the anticipation of his new, long game filling his mind, he fell asleep, happy.

Chapter 26: The Witness

On Friday morning, the fifth day of his month of truce, Ilian woke up with a cold apprehension in his stomach. Today was physical therapy day. He went through his routine, every gesture an attempt to arm himself for what was to come: the hot shower to loosen his muscles, the long-sleeved shirt, and the black coffee.

After coffee, he didn't sit down to read. He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. Twenty minutes to nine. The previous session replayed in his mind: the order, his refusal, the humiliation, the panic attack, the locked door. And then, Richard's words: "It's your way of fighting."

He took a deep breath. Today would be different. He would be ready.

With grim determination, he limped to his room. He opened the drawer and looked at the pile of exercise clothes the agency had provided. He picked up a clean long-sleeved T-shirt, his armor, his non-negotiable condition. And then, he picked up one of the dark, identical pairs of shorts. The feel of the light synthetic fabric was strange.

He dressed slowly. The long-sleeved T-shirt, covering the scars on his arms. Then, the shorts. As he put them on, the sensation of the cold air on his legs, the peripheral vision of his own exposed scars, brought back a wave of vulnerability. But he pushed it down to the depths. Today, exposure was a choice. It was part of his new weapon. He sat on the edge of the bed and put on a pair of thick dark socks with small rubber grips on the soles, another functional item provided for training. He was ready.

He didn't wait in the physical therapy room. He stayed in the living room and sat on the edge of the sofa, his back straight, hands on his knees, waiting for the confrontation not as a victim, but as a soldier awaiting the start of battle.

The doorbell rang punctually. Upon opening the door, he was surprised. David and Ben were there, but with them was also Professor Anderson.

"Good morning, Ilian," Richard said, his voice calm. "I thought I'd sit in on today's session, if you don't mind. Just to observe and understand the process better."

Ilian froze for an instant. The dread of having his weakness exposed to the professor fought against a new sensation: that of having an ally. The second sensation won. Richard’s presence wasn't a threat, it was a support. He felt a surge of determination. He needed to be strong. He needed to show him that his trust hadn't been in vain. He simply nodded and stepped aside.

They went to the physical therapy room. Richard sat in a chair in the corner, silent. Ilian felt hyper-aware of his presence.

The session began with the hand. Richard watched Ben manipulate Ilian’s scarred hand. He saw the scars, the missing fingers, the way Ilian tensed up to endure the pain of the stretches. When Ben forced a particularly sharp stretch, a low groan escaped Ilian’s lips, and he immediately bit down on them to stifle the sound.

The sound cut through the silence. Richard stiffened. He stood up and approached, his face a mask of clinical interest to hide his horror. "Ben," he began, "what is the main objective of this exercise?"

"It's to break down scar tissue," he replied. "We need to break up the adhesions so the tendons can glide freely again."

The clinical conversation continued, an exchange of technical jargon that Richard used as a shield, a way to distance himself from the silent agony he was witnessing. He was trying to view it as a problem to be solved, a data set, rather than the wounded hand of a young man being stretched to the limit of pain.

Then, it was David’s turn. The leg.

"Lie down on the table, please," David said.

Richard retreated to his chair in the corner, feeling a knot of apprehension forming in his stomach. The hand therapy had been subtle, a torture of details. The leg therapy, he knew, would be a matter of brute force.

He watched Ilian lie down, his movements slow and careful. The shorts he wore exposed his right leg in a way Richard hadn't yet seen. He had seen the scars, yes, but not like this, under the cold, clinical light of the therapy room. It was a map of violence. The main scar, long and thick, ran down the knee, the the ridge of an old fracture. But it was crossed and surrounded by newer, sunken marks where shrapnel had penetrated. His musculature, compared to the left leg, was visibly thinner, atrophied.

David began the stretches. He lifted Ilian’s leg, and Richard saw the muscles of Ilian’s thigh, shockingly thin, contracting into knots of tension.

"Tell me when you feel the tension," David instructed.

"Here," Ilian gasped, his voice tight.

But David didn't stop. He forced it a little further. Ilian’s body arched on the table, an involuntary movement. And then Richard heard it. A sound that wasn't a word, nor a scream. A low groan, an animal sound of pure pain that Ilian tried to stifle but which escaped his clenched teeth.

The sound hit Richard like a punch. His facade of clinical detachment shattered. This wasn't a patient. It was Ilian. The young man who had sat at his table, who had offered a glimpse of his soul while talking about ducks, who had smiled for the first time while sharing a joke. And here he was, watching him be methodically tortured in the name of "recovery." A cold, impotent fury began to rise in his throat. They were long minutes.

The session progressed to the treadmill. "Five minutes," David said.

Richard watched Ilian get up from the table, his body trembling. He saw the fear in Ilian’s eyes as he looked at the treadmill belt. He saw his scarred hands, knuckles white, gripping the support bars as if his life depended on it.

The treadmill began to move, at a speed that to Richard was ridiculously slow, but to Ilian seemed like a desperate race.

And then, hell began. Richard witnessed the struggle. Sweat started to bead on Ilian’s pale forehead, then trickled in thick drops down his temples, plastering his hair to his skin. His T-shirt quickly became stained with dampness on his back and chest. Richard could hear his breathing from across the room, a raspy sound. He could hear the soft drag of Ilian’s right foot on the belt, every time he failed to lift it high enough for the next step.

Ilian’s face was a mask of agony. His lips were white, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. But his eyes... his eyes held an expression of determination. He wasn't just doing an exercise. He was at war with his own body.

Richard couldn't take it anymore. The room suddenly became small, the air thick and unbreathable. That sound, the sound of Ilian’s suffering, was unbearable.

Silently, so as not to disturb Ilian’s agonizing concentration, Richard stood up. He walked slowly to the door, his own heart tight in his chest. He stepped out into the living room, closing the door. The click of the handle was the sound of his escape. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed, his own breathing unsteady, the muffled sound of the treadmill and Ilian’s effort still echoing in his ears.

Ilian, amidst his haze of pain on the treadmill, saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. The professor... had left. For an instant, his concentration broke, and a wave of momentary confusion hit him, causing him to falter on the moving belt. Why? His mind, conditioned to expect the worst, reached the most painful and immediate conclusion: It was my weakness. The moans. I disappointed him.

That thought was a stab wound, sharper than the pain in his muscles. Shame threatened to suffocate him, the urge to simply give up was almost crushing. But then, Richard’s other voice, the calm and strategic voice from the kitchen conversation, echoed in his mind with surprising clarity. It's your way of fighting.

And resolution took the place of confusion. The thought shifted. Stopping now would be the true disappointment. Stopping now would be proving that the "non-collaborative attitude" David had accused him of was true. The fight was about not giving up.

He gripped the treadmill bars harder. He straightened his back. His gaze fixed on the digital timer. He would finish. He would show himself, and the absent professor, that he wouldn't break.

The machine's high-pitched beep announced the end of the five minutes. The belt slowed and stopped. The silence that followed was filled only by the raspy, gasping sound of Ilian’s breathing. His legs gave out almost completely, and he hung supported by the handrails, his body shaking, head down, sweat dripping from his chin onto the machine's mat.

David approached and handed him a clean towel, his face impassive as always. "Breathe deep, Mr. Jansen," he said, making a note on his tablet. Ilian took the towel but didn't have the strength to use it.

David finished his note and looked at Ilian, who was still fighting for air. There was a new tone in his voice, a professional respect. "Your determination at the end... was impressive. That is the attitude that will get us results."

The compliment, coming from that man, was so unexpected Ilian barely registered it. David gestured toward a chair. "Sit there for a few minutes. Let your heart rate come down."

With a monumental effort, Ilian let go of the treadmill and limped the few steps to the chair, sitting down with his body hunched over, completely exhausted.

While Ilian sat there, trying to control the tremors, David and Ben began to pack up their equipment with silent efficiency. They prepared to leave.

"Ice on the knee and hand for twenty minutes," David said from the doorway. "We'll see you on Monday, same time."

Ilian heard their footsteps fading through the living room, heard David’s voice speaking briefly with the professor. "The session was hard, but he responded well in the end. Monday, same time." Richard’s voice responded with a muffled "Understood." Then, the sound of the front door closing.

The house fell completely silent. Ilian remained seated, alone, in his new torture chamber, too exhausted to move.

The door to the physiotherapy room was open. Richard entered, he said nothing. His expression was somber. He walked slowly to a small bench in the corner and sat down, at a respectful distance, near Ilian.

The silence between them stretched out. It wasn't an awkward silence. It was a vigil. Richard wasn't there to question or to console with words. He was just there. Sharing the space, witnessing the aftermath of the battle. After long minutes, when Ilian’s breathing finally became less ragged, the professor got up, went to the kitchen, and returned, handing him a glass of water.

Ilian took it with trembling hands. The water was cold. He drank, and the liquid seemed to extinguish a little of the fire inside him. The silence between them was full of a shared and brutal truth that neither knew how to express.

Ilian remained sitting on the edge of the chair, the empty water glass in his hands. Richard watched him, his face a mask of contained worry.

"You need a bath, Ilian," the professor said finally, his gentle voice breaking the silence. "It will help relax the muscles."

The idea of more movement, more effort, seemed impossible. But the image of water washing away the sweat and pain was a promise of relief. With a slow nod, Ilian agreed.

The journey from the physiotherapy room to the bathroom was a new ordeal. Richard offered his arm, and this time, Ilian accepted without hesitation, leaning on the professor with almost his full weight. Every step was agony, his right leg on fire. Richard felt the tremors running through Ilian’s body, the fragility behind his stubborn determination.

When they reached the bathroom door, Richard informed him, "I'll wait here in the living room. Call if you need anything."

Alone, Ilian leaned against the sink and looked at his reflection. A disaster. His pale face was flushed red from exertion, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked like a man who had just walked off a battlefield. And, in a way, it was true.

The bath was a ritual of pain and relief. The hot water, at first, was almost painful on his hypersensitive muscles, but gradually, the heat penetrated, and the tension began to subside. He dried himself with difficulty and, with a sigh of relief, put on a pair of loose cotton trousers. The feeling of the fabric covering his legs, hiding his scars, restoring his armor, was deeply comforting. He was starting to feel minimally human again when he heard the doorbell.

The sound, sharp and clear, cut through the tranquility of the room. His body stiffened. No. Not again. One day of peace. He heard Richard’s footsteps heading toward the front door. Then, the sound of low, professional voices.

He stepped out of the bedroom, cane in hand, and limped slowly toward the living room. He found Richard talking to a man in a white uniform holding a small cooler box. It was John, the same nurse who had taken him to the hospital.

"Ah, Ilian," Richard said, turning. His expression was calm, but Ilian noticed a new layer of weariness in his eyes. "This is Nurse John. You remember him."

John gave a professional nod. "Mr. Jansen. Dr. Evans asked me to come and administer your medication."

Ilian froze. The injection. With the chaos of physical therapy, he had completely forgotten. The truce he had negotiated with the doctor was over. Today was Friday. The protocol was resuming its course. There was no escape.

"Ilian, why don't you sit on the sofa? It will be more comfortable," Richard said, taking control of the situation.

Ilian obeyed. He sat down, and the professor remained standing nearby, a silent and protective presence.

John opened his box with clinical efficiency. The smell of alcohol. The tearing of a syringe wrapper. The click of a small glass vial. These were sounds Ilian knew too well.

"Left arm, please, Mr. Jansen," John said.

Ilian extended his arm over the armrest of the sofa. With tired resignation, he pulled up his sleeve. And he turned his face away, fixing his gaze on the dancing shadows of the trees on the wall, his old trick of dissociation.

Richard, standing with his arms crossed, watched everything. And that was when he saw it.

It wasn't the pale, accidental scars he had glimpsed before. With the arm fully exposed under the living room light, he saw the patterns. Fine, white, perfectly parallel lines crossing the skin of the forearm, like the strings of a macabre instrument. And, higher up, near the elbow, a series of small, round, sunken scars, aligned with geometric precision.

But what made Richard's stomach turn were the deep marks on the forearm and the wrist.

There were four depressions, like small craters in the skin. The skin there was thin, shiny, and silvery, and seemed to have been sucked inward, toward the bone. They were symmetrical: two aligned mid-arm, two locking the wrist.

When Ilian moved his fingers slightly, the skin around these craters pulled inward, tethered to the skeleton, revealing that the scar went deep.

Richard's scientist mind recognized the engineering of it immediately. These weren't battle wounds. They were fixation marks. They were the traces of steel pins that had pierced through living flesh to hold crushed bones.

The air seemed to rush out of Richard’s lungs. His scientist's mind, trained to recognize patterns, saw this not as the chaotic result of an accident, a fall, or an explosion. This was method. This was intention. The lines were from something sharp. The circles... were cigarette burns. It was torture.

A wave of nausea rose in his throat. The agency's story, the lie about the "accident," crumbled to dust in his mind. He looked at Ilian’s face, which continued to stare at the wall, completely oblivious to the horror playing out on his protector’s face. Ilian was so exhausted, so used to this violation, that he didn't even notice the professor catching a glimpse of the hell he had endured.

"All done, sir," the nurse said, withdrawing the needle. He placed a small bandage on the spot. "It’s normal to feel some fatigue or body aches tomorrow. A low fever and nausea are also expected reactions, but they should pass quickly."

"Thank you very much. We will ensure he rests," Richard said, his voice holding a tone of steel that made the nurse look up for an instant.

Richard walked John to the front door. The moment he opened it, Elara appeared on the garden path, walking hurriedly toward them.

"Dad?" she called. "We need to talk to you in the kitchen, it's about the plumbing."

"I'm coming, honey," Richard replied. He said goodbye to John and closed the door.

Ilian, from the sofa, heard the exchange but didn't react. His mind was starting to drift away.

Richard returned to the living room, his face a mask of worry. He looked at Ilian, curled up on the sofa, pale. "Listen, Ilian. I need to go see what Helena needs. I know you're exhausted. The best thing now is to rest." He hesitated. "I'll be back later. I'll bring you something to eat. Don't worry about anything."

With a final word of encouragement, the professor left, leaving Ilian alone. He didn't hear the door close. He curled up on the sofa, closed his eyes, and, like a survival mechanism, his mind simply shut down, dissociating, floating to an empty place without pain.

Chapter 27: Confidential Records

Richard crossed the lawn, his mind racing. The image of Ilian’s arm was branded behind his eyelids. The parallel lines. The aligned circles. Torture. The word echoed in his head. He entered his own kitchen, where Helena was waiting for him with a worried expression about a leaking pipe. He heard her, gave an automatic reply, promised to call the plumber. But his mind wasn't there.

He excused himself and went straight to his study. He closed the heavy wooden door, an act to create a barrier against the normal world. He didn't sit down. He began to pace back and forth like a caged animal, fury and helplessness growing inside him.

The agency's story. An "accident." A lie. A lie so blatant, so insulting. They had manipulated him, using his compassion, his position, to make him complicit in something he didn't understand. And Ilian... that young man... what else had he endured?

He stopped. Anger gave way to cold determination. He needed to know. Not out of curiosity. Out of necessity. To protect Ilian, he needed to know the true extent of the wounds.

He picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Evans’ personal number.

"Robert, it's me. Sorry to call like this, but it's urgent."

"Richard? What happened? It's Ilian?" the doctor’s voice on the other end sounded immediately alert.

"He's resting," Richard said, choosing his words carefully. "I was with him when the nurse administered the injection." He paused. "I saw his arm, Robert. The scars."

The silence on the other end of the line was its own form of confirmation.

"That wasn't an accident," Richard continued, his voice rising. "What happened to that young man?"

"Richard..." the doctor’s voice became immediately cautious, professional. "You know I cannot discuss his medical details. It's confidential."

"Confidential? I have a young man on my property who was clearly and methodically tortured, and you talk to me about confidentiality?" Richard’s anger was now palpable. "I need to know. As the project leader and his host, I have the right to know!"

Dr. Evans' response was vehement, almost a warning. "No, Richard, you don't. And I can't. That medical file is classified above my clearance level, and certainly far above yours. Asking questions about it would be considered a security breach."

Richard stood speechless, the weight of those words sinking in. He had been deceived.

"Richard, listen to me," the doctor’s voice softened, but the urgency remained. "For your own sake, and especially for Ilian’s sake, pretend you didn't see it. Continue to treat him as someone who suffered an accident. Do you understand?"

The call ended. Richard stood in the middle of his silent study, holding a mute phone. He had just hit an invisible wall. Now he understood that the system "protecting" Ilian was also his prison, and that the agency held secrets far darker than he had imagined.

Frustration gave way to a cold, cutting clarity. He realized that, for the agency, Ilian wasn't a person to be healed, but a resource to be managed, a secret to be contained. And in that moment, in the silence of his study, something inside Richard shifted. His loyalty was no longer to the project, nor to the agency. His loyalty was to the young man.

Confidential. Security breach. Pretend you didn't see. The helplessness was suffocating. He was a man of influence, a respected academic, but before that wall of agency secrecy, he was nothing.

He left the study and went to his own kitchen. Helena was no longer there. The house was quiet. He opened the refrigerator, his mind working. Ilian hadn't eaten since the night before. He needed care, not solitude. Richard found the vegetable soup Helena had prepared, ladled a generous portion into a bowl, and heated it slowly. He placed the steaming bowl on a tray, along with some soft bread.

Tray in hand, he made the crossing back across the lawn. The midday sun was high, the day outside beautiful, a brutal contrast to the darkness he felt inside. Upon reaching the guest house door, he didn't want to use the doorbell, the sound would be an assault. He knocked very lightly with his knuckles on the door. There was no answer. With a tight heart, he turned the handle and entered as quietly as he could.

The scene he found broke his heart.

Ilian was exactly as he had left him, curled up in the same position on the sofa. His body was turned toward the back of the couch, in an almost fetal position. But his eyes were open. Glazed. Staring at nothing, or at the pattern of the cushion fabric inches from his face. He didn't move. He didn't register Richard’s presence. He was completely dissociated, a rudderless ship adrift.

Richard set the tray on the coffee table, the soft clink of the spoon on porcelain the only sound in the room. He understood that forcing an interaction would be useless, perhaps even harmful. Ilian’s mind had retreated to a place where words couldn't reach him. It needed to feel that the space was safe to return on its own.

So, the professor did the only thing he could. He pulled the armchair closer to the sofa, sat down, and waited.

A silent vigil began. Time passed, marked only by the way the sunlight moved across the room, creating patterns of light. The only sound was Ilian’s shallow, almost imperceptible breathing. Richard didn't pick up a book, didn't look at his phone. He just stayed there, his presence an anchor of patience and protection, a silent guardian watching over the young man. He watched him, seeing the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.

Minutes passed.

Then, something shifted. Ilian blinked. Once, twice, then turned. His eyes moved, slow, registering the room as if seeing it for the first time. And then, his gaze landed on Richard.

Confusion. That was the first visible emotion on his face. He frowned, his mind struggling to reconnect with the present. He tried to sit up, his movements weak and disoriented. His voice, when it came out, was a dry, rasping whisper.

"Are they gone?"

Richard leaned forward, his voice a calm, reassuring murmur, as if speaking to a frightened child. "Yes, Ilian. They're all gone. It's past lunchtime. Everything is quiet now. It's just me here."

Ilian looked at the professor, then at the tray on the coffee table, at the soup steaming gently. Reality began to settle in. He was safe. The professor was with him.

"I brought your lunch," Richard continued. He didn't get up, made no move to force him to eat. He just waited.

Slowly, with an effort that seemed monumental, Ilian managed to sit up on the sofa. He was back. He looked at the soup, then at Richard, a universe of confusion and a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. The vigil had ended, but the slow journey back from that traumatic day was just beginning.

"Eat a little," Richard said, his voice a gentle murmur. He pushed the small coffee table closer so the tray was within Ilian’s reach. "Helena made it this morning. Vegetable soup. It's light."

He sat in the armchair, not with the posture of a judge like Miller, but relaxed, projecting a sense of calm. He picked up a book that was on the edge of the table but didn't open it. He just held it, giving Ilian the privacy of not being directly observed while he ate.

With visible effort, Ilian picked up the spoon. His hand trembled slightly. He managed to bring it to his mouth. The sensation of the hot liquid going down his throat was the first truly physical sensation he had felt since the gray fog of dissociation. He took another spoonful, and then another, his movements slow and mechanical.

Richard, realizing the silence might be too heavy, began to speak, his voice filling the space with comforting banalities. Simple things, the leaking sink pipe in his house.

He spoke about things that didn't matter, and that was exactly what Ilian needed. There were no questions. There were no demands. Just the sound of a calm voice talking about the normal world while he focused on the primal task of eating.

Gradually, the hot soup and Richard’s quiet presence began to take effect. The tremor in Ilian’s hands lessened. He ate almost half the soup, more than he had eaten in days. And he stopped.

Richard watched him, seeing a little color return to his face. But he also saw the deep exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders were slumped. He realized his presence, though well-intentioned, was also a social demand. This young man needed silence. He needed to be alone to process the grueling morning he'd had.

The professor stood up slowly. "I'll let you rest." He picked up the tray with the bowl.

"You don't have to, I..." Ilian began, trying to get up to clean.

"I insist," Richard said with firm kindness. He took the dishes to the sink and washed them quickly, the sound of the water the only thing breaking the silence.

Back at the door, ready to leave, he turned. "I'll come back at dusk to bring your dinner, alright? Don't worry about anything." He paused, hand on the doorknob. "Ilian, leave the door unlocked for when I return, please."

Ilian looked at him, an expression of mild confusion on his face. "The door is always unlocked, Professor."

The sentence, spoken with disarming simplicity, hit Richard. With a heavy nod, he left.

Ilian heard his footsteps fade away. Finally alone. The house was silent. The exhaustion, which he had kept at bay with adrenaline, crashed over him like a wave. He limped slowly toward his bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and surrendered to the darkness.

The afternoon passed in a blur. The fatigue promised by the nurse had arrived, not as a wave, but as a tide of lead filling his veins. His muscles, already weary from physical therapy, now ached with a deep, feverish pain. Nausea was a constant companion. The day had become a prison of malaise.

As evening began to fall, the guest house plunged into gloom. Ilian didn't turn on any more lights. The darkness was a comfort, a cocoon for his suffering. He decided to go back to the living room to wait for the professor's return, a mixture of uncertainty about the interaction and a desire not to be alone.

He heard the sound of soft footsteps on the gravel path. Then, a light knock on the door. He didn't move. He had no strength.

The door opened slowly. "Ilian?" Richard’s low voice called out as he entered the dark room. Under one arm, he carried a book, and in the other hand, a small cooler bag.

He turned on the small lamp beside the sofa, and the soft light revealed the scene. Ilian was curled up, his face pale and sweaty, his brow furrowed in discomfort. Richard set down the book and the bag and approached, his expression a mask of concern. He lightly touched Ilian’s forehead. It was hot.

"Low fever," he whispered to himself. "Just like the nurse said."

Ilian opened his eyes. They were unfocused. "Professor?" he murmured.

"I'm here," Richard said. "I brought your dinner." He pointed to the bag. "But it doesn't look like you have much of an appetite. Can you eat something?"

Ilian shook his head slowly, a gesture that required visible effort. "I can't... nauseous."

"That's alright." Richard’s face became serious. "Stay still. I'm just going to call Robert."

He took out his cell phone and dialed the doctor’s number. Ilian heard Richard’s side of the conversation, his voice tense with worry. "Robert, it's Richard. I'm here with Ilian. He has a fever, looks very nauseous... Yes, exactly as John described. Are you sure there's nothing I can do?"

Richard listened to the doctor’s reply. From the sofa, Ilian, hearing the concern in his protector’s voice, gathered his strength.

"Professor..." he called, his voice hoarse. Richard turned to him. "I've taken this before. At the hospital. The treatment was... interrupted. It's just how it is."

Richard turned his attention back to the phone. "Wait, Robert. He's saying he's taken this medication before... Yes, he seems to know what to expect."

There was a pause as Dr. Evans spoke. Ilian heard Richard’s voice again, now firmer. "No, Robert, that's not necessary. I don't want anyone else from the agency here today. He needs peace." Another pause. Richard’s voice became the embodiment of paternal resolve. "I'll stay with him."

The sentence echoed in the quiet room.

"Understood," Richard said finally. "Just observe. And call if anything changes. Right. Thank you."

He hung up. He was calmer now, his mission for the night clear. He knew nothing could be done except to wait.

He went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. He went to the bathroom and came back with a face cloth, which he dampened with cold water. With infinite gentleness, he folded the cloth and placed it on Ilian’s hot forehead. The cool, damp touch was a shock of relief. Ilian sighed, his body relaxing a millimeter. Richard helped him drink a few sips of water.

He saw that Ilian showed no desire to talk. So, he pulled the armchair closer to the sofa and picked up the book he had brought.

"I brought a book," he said, his voice a calm murmur. "It's a biography of an astronomer. His writing is almost... poetic. I'll read a little to you, quietly. You don't need to pay attention. Just rest."

Richard opened the book and began to read. His voice was a deep, steady sound, a vibration filling the room. For Ilian, the world was a blur of pain and nausea, but above it all was that voice. It wasn't a voice that asked, that ordered, or that evaluated. It was a voice that simply was there. It was an anchor in his storm of sickness.

He could understand the words, but what really mattered was the sound. At moments, he opened his eyes and saw the silhouette of the older man sitting in the armchair, watching over him, and a part of him, a very old and hungry part, felt a pang of something he couldn't name.

The night wore on. Ilian’s fever fluctuated, but Richard’s voice never stopped. It was a vigil. An act of pure and simple care. In the end, Ilian truly fell asleep, and Richard remained there, keeping watch over his night, ensuring that, for at least once in his life, he wasn't completely alone.