Rodzina Project

 Hello everyone,

I've been visiting this blog for many years but this is the first time I've written. I have one book already completed and I'm writing the second volume. It's a large book and I intend to post a few chapters here every Tuesday. Please let me know if there are any errors. Thank you very much.

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Rodzina Project

Chapter 1: The Meeting Point

Rain hammered against the roof of the vehicle, a constant and hypnotic drumming that masked the tense silence inside the car. Richard Anderson looked through the windshield, where the wipers swept the water in rhythmic arcs. They were parked at an executive aviation terminal, a place that smelled of kerosene and wet asphalt.

Beside him, Elara sighed, the sound loud in the confined space.

"Dad, it’s already past seven," she said, her voice loaded with the impatience of someone dragged into a mystery. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

"They’re coming, dear. This is the place," Richard replied, not taking his eyes off the darkness of the tarmac. He was more anxious than impatient. The Agency had been clear: Wait for contact. Do not exit the vehicle.

He reviewed the facts for the hundredth time. A colleague. A brilliant scientist from Germany, 34 years old, who had suffered an accident. A valuable asset to the project. He and Helena had agreed to host him, to offer the Guest House. But the level of secrecy was... unusual. The insistence on a private meeting at an executive terminal, rather than an airport lobby, seemed excessive for a simple academic, even one involved in military research.

Richard’s cell phone, resting on the console, vibrated. He picked it up immediately. A short message.

Landed. Hangar 3. Follow the support vehicle.

"They’ve arrived," Richard said. Elara started the engine. The lights of a small service car approaching flashed in the darkness, and they followed it slowly along the wet tarmac, moving away from the terminal toward the larger hangars looming in the background.

Hangar 3 was vast, gray, illuminated by cold industrial lights high up in the metal ceiling. The rain drummed on the roof with the force of a storm.

As soon as they entered, a black, anonymous car, parked under the main light, flashed its headlights, blinding them momentarily. The support car disappeared, and Elara stopped the Andersons' car a short distance from the other one.

Inside the black car, Ilian sat in the back seat, his body a collection of pains. The short flight from Washington had been torture, not because of the duration, but the confinement, the vibration, a constant trigger for memories of other forced transports. He was exhausted, the pain in his right leg throbbing in sync with the nausea from the medication.

Ilian watched through the dark, wet window, raindrops distorting the cold industrial light of the hangar. The other car, a civilian SUV that looked strangely soft and out of place, parked at a distance.

He watched, motionless, as the doors opened.

His mind, trained by the necessity of assessing threats, cataloged them instantly. An older man, tall, moving with the restless authority of an academic, just like the photo he had seen in the hospital. A younger woman, agile, looking around the vast, empty hangar with nervous curiosity. They looked... normal. Dangerously, absurdly normal. They did not belong to this world of sterile transfers. They. The next stage.

Ilian shrank imperceptibly into the cold leather seat, eyes fixed on them, tracking their smallest movements, when Agent Marcus's voice, dry and monotone like the click of metal, cut through the sound of the engine. He had remained a tense and indifferent presence throughout the trip.

"Professor Anderson and his daughter," he said, as if reading a report. "The HPP really outdid itself this time. A family environment." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "You should thank Dr. Hayes every day, Jansen. If it were up to me, you’d be going straight from Walter Reed to a secure room on a military base, not to a professor's house."

The agent received no answer. Veiled threats, provocations... it was the only language Ilian knew from The Agency. He simply prepared himself for the next transfer.

"They’re waiting," Marcus said. "Get out."

Ilian opened the door. The cold, damp air of the hangar hit him, bringing the smell of metal and rain. He swiveled on the seat, a movement that made his hip protest. He leaned forward, grabbing the cane with his right hand. He pushed his painful right leg out, placing it stiffly on the cold concrete.

Then, he drove the tip of the cane into the ground with his right hand, creating a leverage point. He placed his left foot firmly beside it. With an effort that made him hold his breath, he managed to hoist himself out of the vehicle. Finally, he stood, wavering for an instant, his body trembling slightly with the exertion and the cold, now fully leaning on the cane.

Richard and Elara waited near their car, the muffled rain outside seeming distant. They watched as Ilian emerged from the other vehicle.

What they saw shocked them. They expected a 34-year-old man, an academic colleague, a brilliant physicist. The figure steadying himself painfully under the cold light of the hangar was frighteningly thin, yes, but also completely unkempt. He wore baggy clothes. His hair was a little too long, falling over his forehead, and a beard of several days shadowed a pale face with taut features.

Ilian began the walk. It was perhaps ten steps between the cars, but for him, it felt like a mile. Every step on the concrete was a negotiation with pain. The cane, the good left leg, and then the agonizing drag of the right leg. He felt the stares of observation, a silent evaluation that made him feel like an animal on display.

Agent Marcus was already holding the canvas bag that Ilian recognized with a knot in his stomach, his meds. When he finally reached the Andersons' car, stopping at a safe distance, Marcus made the formal introduction.

"Mr. Anderson. This is Ilian Jansen."

Richard, recovering from the initial shock, extended his hand. "Welcome, Ilian," he said, his voice deep and resonant.

Ilian froze. His gaze dropped to Richard’s extended hand and stayed there. His right hand was gripping the handle of the cane, his only point of balance on the cold concrete. Offering the left, the damaged one, was unthinkable. He was trapped, unable to complete the simplest social ritual.

Richard kept his hand in the air for a second that felt like an eternity. He saw Ilian’s paralysis. Understanding the situation immediately, or at least, the physical impossibility of it, Richard retracted his hand slowly, discreetly, trying to dissipate the awkwardness.

"Ilian," he continued, trying to fill the tense void, gesturing to the young woman beside him. "This is my daughter, Elara. She insisted on coming with me to welcome you."

Elara took a minimal step forward. She watched him with pragmatic curiosity, perhaps intimidated by the aura of fragility and tension he emanated. She offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Welcome," she said.

Ilian did not answer. He did not even look at her. His gaze passed through her, focusing on some point on the vehicle parked behind. His mind was overloaded by pain, by exhaustion. Her voice was just another noise, irrelevant sensory data that his brain, focused on immediate survival, discarded.

Elara’s smile froze and vanished. The rejection was clear, silent, and total. She exchanged a quick, uncomfortable glance with her father.

Feeling suddenly unnecessary and constrained by the silence, Elara took a step back. "I... I will wait in the car."

Richard nodded, his face tense. Ilian watched her walk away and occupy the driver's seat, feeling a slight relief that one of the variables had left the equation.

Agent Marcus handed the canvas bag to Richard, who placed it in the trunk of his own car.

"He is your responsibility now, Professor," Marcus said, loud enough for Ilian to hear. Without another word, Marcus returned to the black vehicle, and disappeared into the darkness of the hangar, the sound of the engine fading quickly.

Ilian stood still, the void left by the agent was almost palpable. He was a delivered package. The receipt had been signed.

"Let's go," Richard said, his gentle voice breaking the tension. "Let's get you out of this cold."

Elara was already in the driver's seat. Richard opened the rear door for Ilian, on the side opposite the driver. The rain outside beat against the metal of the hangar, a curtain of sound. Ilian was exhausted. The trip, the effort to leave the plane, the tension of the meeting, the painful ten-step walk... everything had drained his energy. He looked at the car seat. It looked like a mountain.

Richard, seeing the hesitation, the visible pain on the pale face, the way his body trembled, acted on paternal instinct. "Do you need help?" he asked, his voice kind.

"No," Ilian answered.

The process was an agony of clumsy movements. He had to pivot on his left foot, a precarious turn, and then lower himself slowly onto the car seat. A wave of nausea rose in his throat from the pain and extreme effort.

He lowered his body slowly, inch by inch. His muscles screamed. His back, rigid from the flight, protested with spasms. Finally, he managed to sit on the edge of the seat. The relief was so immediate he almost collapsed. But the ordeal was not over. The right leg was still outside, straight and useless. Using both hands, the left one only precariously aiding the right, he grabbed his right leg by the trousers, just below the knee. With an effort that left him breathless and sweating despite the cold, he lifted it and pulled it into the car. The pain was nauseating, white spots dancing in his vision.

As soon as the leg was inside, a long, trembling sigh escaped his lips. He closed his eyes, the sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears. The battle to enter the car had left him more exhausted than the entire trip.

Richard Anderson closed the door with a soft, muffled click, sealing the silence inside the car. Ilian remained with his eyes closed, head resting against the cold leather of the seat. Every fiber of his being vibrated with the effort and residual pain. He could feel the tremor in his hands, even though they were still in his lap. It was an internal vibration, a phantom echo of the trauma that lived in his nerves.

The professor was quick to get into the car, Ilian remained with his eyes closed, waiting. The car engine started with a soft, almost inaudible purr. The heater began to blow warm air that smelled of new leather and a subtle air freshener. It was a clean, artificial smell. Elara adjusted the mirrors. Ilian heard the click of her seatbelt, then her father’s in the passenger seat. He didn’t move to fasten his own. The mere thought of twisting to reach the buckle was too exhausting.

The car began to move, gliding smoothly out of the airport parking lot. The windshield wiper blades began their rhythmic ballet, sweeping the curtain of water in hypnotic arcs. The sound became a constant beat, a metronome for his exhaustion.

Ilian opened his eyes a little, just a slit. The outside world was an abstract painting. The lights of other cars, streetlamps, and buildings were smears of color,—yellow, red, white—dragging and merging into one another through the wet glass. It was as if he were moving through a fever dream.

His mind began to wander. The movement of the car, the rhythm of the wiper, the darkness... everything conspired to pull him back. Fragments of memory surfaced uninvited. The swaying of a different vehicle, a military truck, on a rough road. The smell of diesel. The cold of a different metal against his back. Voices shouting in Russian. He blinked hard, trying to push the images away. He focused on the feel of the leather beneath his back, the gentle airflow from the vents, anything to anchor himself in the present.

No one spoke. The silence in the car was not uncomfortable, it was dense. It was a silence that acknowledged his exhaustion, that gave him space to simply exist. He was grateful for it. The last thing he wanted was to try to force a conversation, to dig words out of a well that felt dry.

He rested his head against the cold glass of the window. The blurred landscape passed by. Lights. Darkness. Lights. Darkness. His chest rose and fell in a slow, shallow breaths. Slowly, without realizing it, the tension in his shoulders began to lessen, and the blurred world outside lulled him into a state of near-sleep, a place suspended between the pain of the present and the ghosts of the past.



Chapter 2: The Sanctuary and the Fall

The shift in sound woke Ilian from his trance. The hum of tires on wet asphalt gave way to the soft crunch of gravel. The car slowed and stopped. The engine was turned off, and the silence that followed was profound, broken only by the gentle sound of rain dripping from the trees.

Ilian opened his eyes. Through the windshield, he saw a small house, separate from a larger, more imposing one. A warm, yellow light glowed on the porch of the smaller house, illuminating a door and a stone path. It looked like a sanctuary.

"We're here," Mr. Anderson’s calm voice said.

The words hung in the air. Here. The end of one journey. The beginning of another. He took a deep breath, gathering the little strength he had left for the next challenge: getting out of the car.

Mr. Anderson turned in his seat. "Can you walk to the entrance?"

Ilian raised his eyes slowly. The reflection of the dashboard lights illuminated his face, accentuating his pallor and exhaustion. His voice was a dragged whisper. "Yes... I can. Just... a moment. It's been two days since they released me from the hospital." The confession slipped out unplanned, a piece of his vulnerability offered in the darkness.

The professor nodded, his face expressing genuine understanding. "I know. I was told you had an accident. Don't push yourself more than necessary. I'm here to help you."

Ilian didn't answer. He just began the slow, painful process of getting out of the car, reversing the battle he had fought to get in. He pushed his leg out, gritted his teeth against the pain, and used the car frame and his cane to hoist himself into the cold night.

His body swayed dangerously for an instant. Richard, seeing him falter, instinctively took a step forward and placed a firm hand on Ilian's elbow to steady him.

The effect was instantaneous. Ilian stiffened as if he had been shocked. A guttural, harsh sound escaped him – "Nie!". At the same time, he jerked his arm away from the touch with a sudden movement, stumbling a step back. His eyes, previously empty with exhaustion, were now wide with panic, fixed on Richard.

Richard stepped back immediately, raising his hands in a universal gesture of peace. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice calm, though visibly surprised by the strange word and the intensity of the reaction. He attributed it to extreme fatigue and pain, a startled reaction to almost falling.

He watched Ilian recover his composure, lowering his gaze, holding his breath, gripping the cane.

The professor, now keeping a respectful physical distance, retrieved the bag from the trunk and waited for him. "The path might be uneven," was all he said, indicating the gravel.

They walked slowly along the stone path, not exactly together, but with Richard following a step behind, giving him space. With each step, Ilian felt the gravel shift under his feet, demanding a balance he barely possessed, the echo of that single Polish word still hanging in the cold air between them. The porch light grew closer, a promise of shelter.

"Go in, sit down for a bit," the professor said, after opening the door and pointing to the sofa.

There was a living room with a comfortable sofa and armchairs, a compact kitchen, and a hallway that likely led to the bathroom and bedroom. The air was clean and smelled of a faint lavender scent. It contrasted violently with the stiffness and fear Ilian carried inside him.

Ilian didn't need convincing. He moved toward the sofa and let his body fall slowly onto the soft cushions. It was a surrender. The weight of his own body, which he had been carrying for so many hours, was finally transferred to the sofa. His breathing was short, panting. He closed his eyes, feeling the world spin.

While Mr. Anderson placed the bag on a table, Elara, who had followed them silently, went to the spacious refrigerator. She returned with a glass of cold water and held it out to him.

"Here," she said, her voice low.

Ilian took the glass with both hands to steady the tremor. The water was ice-cold and went down his dry throat like a balm. "Thank you," he managed to say. "I feel... a little feverish. But I have medicine in the bag. The doctor said... it could happen."

Elara simply nodded and, without another word, left the guest house, closing the door softly behind her. Mr. Anderson returned from the bedroom and stood near the sofa.

"It must be tough leaving the hospital and facing a trip like this right away."

Ilian sighed, the sound getting lost in the silence of the room. But he didn't answer.

The words hung in the air. The professor spoke with a firm but gentle voice. "I know the accident was serious, but I also know that hope is a powerful force. You still have a lot of recovering to do."

Ilian looked up. "I want to get better."

At that moment, Elara returned with a small tray. There was soft bread and some cut fruit. The sight of the food made Ilian's stomach turn. He thanked her, but only managed to take a bite of the bread. His body didn't crave sustenance, only rest.

Ilian looked at Professor Anderson, his face pale and sweaty. Exhaustion was a wave drowning him. Instead of simply stating his condition, he gathered his last strength, like a prisoner addressing a guard.

"Sir... with your permission..." he murmured, his voice almost inaudible. "May I... may I lie down?"

Richard frowned for a fraction of a second, the formality of the request sounding strange. He attributed it to the extreme fatigue of the trip and perhaps a cultural language barrier.

"Of course, Ilian," he replied, his voice soft, deciding not to comment on the strangeness of the request. "I'll help you to the bedroom."

The professor guided him to the bedroom, where the bed was already made. Ilian sat on the edge, his body hunched over. The simple act of taking off his shoes seemed impossible. His fingers were numb and clumsy.

"Let me, I'll help." Mr. Anderson knelt in front of him. Ilian froze for an instant, the gesture making him deeply uncomfortable. But he didn't have the strength to refuse. The professor untied the laces and removed his shoes with a care that was both comforting and paternal.

Richard noticed the peculiar knot with which the laces were tied, clearly adapted to be done with a single functional hand, but kept the observation to himself.

"Thank you," Ilian spoke. "I... need to lie down."

"Of course. Rest."

He lay down, still dressed. Mr. Anderson pulled a blanket over him. The weight of the fabric was like a final shovelful of earth on a coffin. Exhaustion overcame him before he could think of anything else. His eyes closed, and he fell into darkness.



Chapter 3: The Silent Fever

Silence was the first thing that pierced his consciousness. Not the filled silence of a plane or a moving car, but a deep, absolute silence. Ilian opened his eyes to total darkness. For a moment, panic seized him. Where was he? The gray walls, the smell of mold, the lumpy mattress...

No. He took a deep breath. The air was clean. The mattress was soft. He was in the guest house. Alone. The professor and his daughter had left.

He didn't know what time it was, but he felt the weight of the early morning hours. A cold sweat covered his forehead, but beneath the skin, he felt a heat radiating from within. The fever. The doctor had warned him. The trauma to his body, the long journey, the stress... anything could trigger a response.

He turned in bed, and a wave of sharp pain in his leg made him gasp. It throbbed with a life of its own, a hot, relentless pulsation that rose up to his hip. The blanket over him felt like it weighed a ton, and the fabric of his clothes clung to his damp skin.

He needed the medicine. The bag. It was in the living room, somewhere. He sat up, the movement slow and deliberate. The world spun, and he had to close his eyes and wait for the vertigo to pass. The house was silent. Every small sound – the creak of the bed, the rustle of the sheets, his own ragged breathing – was amplified, echoing in the void.

Leaning on the headboard, he forced himself to stand. Every step was a journey. He dragged himself out of the bedroom, the darkness broken only by a thin sliver of moonlight coming through the living room window.

He found the canvas bag on a table. His fingers were trembling so much now that he could barely open the zipper. The sound of metal scratching seemed like a scream in the stillness. Inside, the pill bottles clinked against each other. He knew each one by shape. He took the fever reducer and the strongest painkiller.

Bottles in hand, he limped to the kitchenette. He opened one drawer, then another, searching for a glass. The clatter of utensils was another sound cutting through the silent night. He found a glass, filled it with water, his hands shaking so badly that water splashed into the sink.

He swallowed the pills dry first, the bitter, chemical taste coating his tongue, and then drank the water in large gulps. The cold water was a shock to his overheated system. He leaned against the sink, head down, breathing wearily.

Loneliness hit him with the force of a physical blow. In that moment, in the middle of the night, in a strange house, in a strange country, with his body burning and his mind tired, he felt completely alone. There was no one to call. No hand to hold. Just him, the pain, the fever, and the crushing silence. Nothing different from the normalcy of his life.

He went back to bed, a return trip that felt even longer. He let himself fall slowly onto the sheets. He curled up under the blanket and waited. Waited for the medicine to take effect. Waited for the night to end. Waited for a relief that seemed like it would never come.

Sleep, when it finally came, was not a refuge. It was a descent into a feverish purgatory where reality and memory dissolved into a murky haze. The drugs dulled the physical pain, but in exchange, they tore down the gates he kept so zealously locked in his mind.

He didn't dream of events, but of sensations.

First, the cold. A cold that penetrated the bones, not like the night air, but like the touch of damp concrete against bare skin. He felt the rough floor scratching his back, the smell of dust in his nostrils. There were no images, just the crushing sensation of lying on a cold floor in a dark place.

Then, the sounds. Fragments of voices in Russian, not words, but timbres. A voice shouting orders, hard and metallic. Another whispering threateningly. The sound of a metal door slamming, the echo resonating in a confined space. The sound of water dripping, slow, rhythmic, maddening.

The tremor in his right hand manifested in his dream, but it was different. It wasn't his hand. It was someone else's hand on his shoulder, shaking him hard. He could feel the fingers digging into his muscle, the urgency, the violence. He tried to pull away, but his body was paralyzed, a dead weight.

The taste of metal. Blood in his mouth, or perhaps just the taste of fear. It was strong, overwhelming, making him choke in his sleep.

The images, when they appeared, were disjointed flashes. A pair of muddy boots. The glow of a wristwatch in dim light. A red stain spreading on a gray shirt. A ceiling with cracks that looked like a map of an unknown country.

He tossed in the sheets, trapped between wakefulness and nightmare. The fever made him sweat, soaking his clothes and bedding, but the chills shook him as if he were freezing. In a moment of semi-lucidity, he opened his eyes. The room was dark, shadows twisting into menacing shapes. The chair in the corner looked like the silhouette of a man standing, watching him. His heart raced. He blinked, and it was just a chair again.

He muttered words in his sleep, words in Polish, broken sentences, pleas.

The medication fought the fever, but also dragged him deeper into this delirium. It was a battle fought on the field of his body and mind. And somewhere in the middle of that long, terrible night, the fever finally broke. The intense heat began to recede, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion and a sense of absolute fragility, as if he were glass that had been heated to the melting point and now risked shattering at the slightest touch. The darkness remained, but the monsters retreated into the shadows, waiting.

The first awareness that returned to Ilian was silence. The storm in his mind and body had passed, leaving behind a heavy, hollow stillness. He opened his eyes. A pale gray light filtered through the edges of the curtain, announcing a morning he wasn't sure would come.

He felt emptied. The fever had left him weak, his muscles aching. The sheets were damp and cold against his skin. He moved slowly, every gesture requiring great effort. The pain in his leg was still there, a constant, dull presence, but the feverish throbbing had subsided.

He looked at the digital clock on the bedside table. The red numbers glowed: 9:45. He had slept for hours on end, a heavy, dreamless sleep after the delirium had passed.

That was when he heard it. A clear, insistent sound cutting through the silence of the house. The doorbell.

The sound startled him. It took him a moment to process what it was, to remember where he was. The doorbell rang a third time, more urgently. He needed to get up.

Pushing himself out of bed, he felt the floor beneath his feet, firm and real. The world wasn't spinning anymore. He grabbed the cane he had left by the bed, and the contact with the familiar wood was comforting. He crossed the living room, body stiff, steps dragging. The light coming through the window was soft, but still hurt his sensitive eyes.

He turned the handle and opened the door slowly. Mr. Anderson was standing on the porch, his face marked by evident concern.

"Good morning, Ilian," he said, his voice calm, but his eyes examining him closely. "You took a while to answer. I was getting worried."

Ilian lowered his gaze, feeling ashamed of his condition. "I'm sorry. I slept very heavily," he replied, his voice hoarse. "The medicine was strong." The fever, the nightmare, the loneliness... he kept it all to himself.

"I understand." The professor lifted a small tray he was carrying. There was a steaming cup of coffee, a roll, and a small bowl of fruit. The smell of coffee was rich and real. "I brought breakfast. Thought you might need it."

A wave of unexpected emotion rose in Ilian's throat. Such a simple, thoughtful gesture. "Thank you," he managed to say, gratitude making his voice thick. "Thank you very much."

"Take care. I'll leave this on the table." The professor entered, placed the tray on the small dining table, and withdrew, giving him the space he needed.

The shower was an ordeal. Undressing was exhausting, every piece of clothing a weight to be overcome. But the hot water cascading over his shoulders and back was restorative. It washed away the fever sweat. The water revealed the map of his history on his skin: the jagged scar on his chest, the faded marks on his arms, and the long, ugly purple line on his leg, a vivid reminder of the most recent trauma. He ran his fingers over it, not with revulsion, but with a kind of resignation. They were part of him now.

Dressed in clean clothes he found in the bedroom closet, he felt a little more human. He returned to the living room, left the front door ajar to let in the fresh air, and sat at the table. The coffee was already cold. He drank it in slow sips.

When Mr. Anderson returned, he found Ilian sitting, paler than the night before, but with a new quietness in his eyes.

"May I sit?" the professor asked.

"Yes," Ilian replied, his voice a little steadier.

Mr. Anderson spoke about the doctor who was still coming in the morning as informed by the agent who had accompanied him at the airport. He asked no invasive questions. His silence was as comforting as his words. Ilian just sat quietly listening.

When he was alone again, Ilian saw some books and notebooks on a table. He picked up one of the books and a notebook, sat at the table, and opened the notebook to a blank page, about to start his work, his refuge since the orphanage days.

The sun finally broke through the clouds, and a ray of pale light illuminated the page. The silence was no longer oppressive, it was peaceful. For the first time in a long while, Ilian didn't feel the weight of the past nor the fear of the future. There was only that moment. The blank page. And the silent promise that, perhaps, word by word, he could begin to write a new chapter in his life.

Just before noon, the doorbell rang again. Ilian looked up from his book, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach. The medical team. He feared the cold clinical scrutiny, the reduction of his being to a list of symptoms. He walked slowly to the door.

Standing on the porch was a middle-aged man, with graying hair at the temples and a look that, behind glasses, was remarkably gentle. He didn't wear a white coat, but a casual shirt, and carried a leather bag.

"Mr. Jansen?" he asked in a calm, baritone voice. "I'm Dr. Evans. The Agency asked me to come see how you were feeling this morning."

Ilian simply nodded, opening the door wider, the tension in his shoulders lessening a bit before the doctor's tranquil presence.

Dr. Evans entered and placed his bag on the center table with a deliberate, unhurried movement. He didn't start preparing instruments immediately. Instead, he sat in the armchair opposite Ilian and simply looked at him with an expression of serene compassion.

"Agent Marcus told me the trip was long and you had a fever last night," the doctor said. "That's not uncommon. The body has been through a lot of stress. How do you feel now?"

The direct and human approach disarmed Ilian. "Tired," he admitted. "But... the fever broke."

"That's a great sign. Do I have your permission to examine you?" Dr. Evans said. With a calm that invited trust, he conducted his exam. It was a surprisingly discreet process. He checked Ilian's pulse with warm fingers on his wrist, not a cold device. He asked questions about pain levels and sleep quality, listening with genuine attention to Ilian's hesitant answers.

After a few minutes, he leaned back with a satisfied nod.

"Well, Ilian, from what I see, everything is proceeding as expected," he stated. "The fever has subsided, which is excellent. The swelling in the leg is consistent with the trauma and the stress of a long flight. Your body is exhausted, no doubt, but it's doing exactly what it should be doing: it's healing."

A weight Ilian didn't even know he was carrying seemed to lift.

"The most important thing now is patience," the doctor continued. "Rest. Keep the leg elevated. Let time and the medications do their work. Remember to follow the recommended diet, and in time your kidney will get better and the exhaustion won't be so intense."

While packing his few things into the bag, Dr. Evans took a small business card from his wallet and placed it on the coffee table.

"This is my card. It has my personal number," he said, meeting Ilian's gaze. "If the fever returns, if the pain increases suddenly, or if you simply feel... unwell... I want you to call me. Any time of day or night. Don't hesitate, okay?"

"Thank you," Ilian whispered, genuinely touched by the gesture.

"You're welcome." With a final warm smile, Dr. Evans left.

Instead of feeling exposed, Ilian felt... cared for. For the first time in a long while, he had been treated not as an asset or a problem, but simply as a person who needed help. He picked up the small card, the rectangular paper feeling surprisingly solid and comforting in his trembling hand.