Project Rodzina - Part 9

Here are a few more chapters about my beloved Ilian Jansen.

Chapter 62 is one of my favorites, I hope you like it too.

I know the book is very detailed, but I can't write any other way. I like the details :)

Chapter 53: The Catalog of Peace

The guest house was silent, but for Ilian, the air vibrated.

The morning had been a struggle, as always. David and Ben had arrived, executed their protocol of pain, and left. Ilian had paid the required price: tired muscles, aching knee, throbbing left hand. He had eaten lunch, the agency ration, swallowed mechanically, and completed the ice ritual on the sofa, his body trembling with exhaustion.

A cold, creeping anxiety wouldn't leave him alone. A stranger. An "expert." A man coming to evaluate his ideas, his brain. His utility. The expectation of performance, however controlled Richard promised it would be, made his stomach knot.

Unable to sit still, unable to relax in his own skin, he forced himself into the preparation routine much earlier than necessary. The escape into the logic of work was blocked by the anticipation of the visit. Only the ritual remained.

He limped to the bathroom. The hot shower wasn't a relief, it was a rushed task, a way to wash the weakness from his body. He shaved with almost feverish precision, his right hand steady despite the internal tremor. He combed his damp hair. He dressed in his clean clothes.

When he left the bathroom, ready, he looked at the clock on the kitchen wall.

It read 2:37 PM.

Almost an hour and a half until Richard and Dr. Finch arrived. He was already ready. And now, there was nothing left to do. Just wait.

The silence of the guest house, which was usually his refuge, suddenly became oppressive, a vacuum filled by his anxiety. Focusing on anything technical proved impossible; his mind was simply too agitated for cold logic. It required something else. An anchor. With a decisive movement, Ilian limped to the sofa, his sanctuary, and reached into the dark gap behind the cushion to retrieve his personal notebook. The book of his heart.

He went back to the work desk. He sat down, already ready for the meeting, and opened the notebook, passing the page with the drawing of the duck, the analysis of the chess game, the image of Helena’s hands in the soil. He needed to remember that the truce was real. He needed to go to a place where he had felt safe: the cabin.

He turned to a clean page and picked up a graphite pencil.

He didn't think. He just began to draw, his right hand moving with a certainty born of sensory memory. The agonizing waiting time became an exercise in emotional regulation.

First, the stones. The three smooth stones he had taken from the icy river. He focused on their shape: the gray oval, the white one with dark veins, the smaller, reddish one. He shaded the curves, trying to capture not just their appearance, but the sensation of their weight in his hand.

Beside the stones, he drew the small wooden trout. Arthur’s gift. He lingered on the small precise cuts that defined the scales, on the fluid curve of the tail. A gift given without reason.

On the same page, he drew the lure George had shown him, the one that looked like a hairy, sick insect. He smiled slightly, remembering the seriousness with which the man had explained its secret power.

Finally, he turned the page and dedicated it to a single object. The cap. Richard’s gift at the café. He drew the curve of the brim, the simple stitching, and carefully shaded the small embroidery of the autumn leaf.

He stopped, pencil resting. He looked at the pages. The catalog of his journey. The anxiety about the four o'clock meeting hadn't disappeared, but it was now tamed, muffled by the real warmth of those memories. His heart, previously racing, beat at a calmer rhythm. The ritual had worked. He was anchored.

He looked at the clock. 3:45 PM. Not long now.

Carefully, he put the notebook back in its hiding place. He was no longer the exhausted patient trembling on the sofa. He was the scientist. Calm, focused, and ready to receive Dr. Finch.

The official project workbook was open on the desk, next to a notepad and two perfectly sharpened pencils. He was ready for battle.

At 4:00 PM sharp, the doorbell rang.

Ilian took a deep breath, just once. He stood up, his body protesting, grabbed his cane, and limped slowly to the door.

Richard was there, as promised, with his calm and encouraging smile. Beside him was a man shorter than Richard, perhaps in his fifties, with bright blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. He wore a sweater over a dress shirt and held a stuffed leather briefcase with the reverence of someone carrying a sacred artifact. He looked less like a military engineer and more like a professor.

"Ilian," Richard said, voice tranquil. "This is my colleague and good friend, Dr. Alistair Finch."

Dr. Finch took a step forward, his face opening into a genuine smile. "Mr. Jansen. It is an indescribable pleasure to meet you in person. Your notes... are extraordinary."

He extended his hand.

Ilian froze. The eye contact. The extended hand. His mind screamed. But the protocol he had practiced at the cabin took control. In a quick movement, he pinned the cane between his arm and his ribs. His balance faltered for an instant on his good leg. He extended his right hand.

Finch’s grip was quick, warm, and dry, a handshake of a man more used to holding pens than asserting dominance.

"Thank you for coming, Doctor," Ilian said, formality a shield.

"No, no, I thank you," Finch said, already looking over Ilian’s shoulder. "Shall we... may we?"

Ilian stepped back, making way. Richard entered first, his presence an anchor of safety. Finch entered right behind, his bright eyes scanning the schematics on Ilian’s desk.

They sat down. Ilian in his usual spot, in his chair. Richard and Finch pulled up chairs, sitting side by side in front of Ilian. For an instant, Ilian felt surrounded, his hypervigilance spiking.

Richard, sensing the sudden tension in Ilian, began to mediate. "Well, Alistair, as I said, Ilian is still recovering from the accident in Germany, so..."

Finch interrupted him, not out of rudeness, but pure intellectual enthusiasm. He opened his briefcase, taking out the sheets Richard had given him, now covered in red ink annotations.

"Richard told me about the accident, Mr. Jansen. A tragedy. But what you did here..." he pointed a finger at Ilian’s notes, "...is genius. Pure and simply genius. The way you visualized the filter architecture... We were stuck, trying to force Kessler’s model. You simply bypassed it."

Dr. Finch looked at Ilian, not like Miller, an evaluator, or Kessler, a judge, but like someone genuinely interested in what he had to say.

"My entire team is jaw-dropped," Finch said. "But I have a question. Here, in this diagram..." he pointed, "...you introduce a phase correction variable that, frankly, seems to come out of nowhere. But it works. Mathematically, it works. How did you arrive at it?"

Ilian, who was totally seized up with social anxiety, suddenly managed to relax. Finch’s question wasn't a test, it was an invitation. It was the language he understood. Fear disappeared, replaced by the cold adrenaline of logic.

The "switch" flipped.

"It is not out of nowhere," he said, his voice losing hesitation, becoming firmer. He picked up a pencil, his right hand moving with a certainty his body didn't possess. "The problem is that everyone tries to filter the harmonic resonance. They treat it as noise, as garbage."

He flipped his notepad to a clean page and, with a speed and precision that made Finch lean forward, his hand began to fly.

"I didn't try to filter it," he continued, his voice now full of calm authority, while drawing a data flow diagram. "I treated it as a second data set. If resonance is a predictable consequence of wave interaction with the medium, it is not 'noise,' it is an echo."

He drew two parallel data paths. "If you process the main signal here, and at the same time process the 'echo' of the resonance here, and then compare the phase shift between the two..."

Richard leaned back in his chair, a proud, silent smile on his face, watching the scene. The oyster had opened. And the pearl was blinding the room.

Alistair Finch was mesmerized. He picked up his own pencil. "You aren't filtering. You are using the resonance as... as a real-time calibration signal!"

"Exactly," Ilian said. "The phase correction variable doesn't come out of nowhere. It is the result of the phase shift between the two signals."

What followed wasn't a meeting. It was an explosion.

The "one hour" Richard had promised disappeared. Two hours. Three. The small guest room transformed into the beating heart of Project Argus. Ilian, now in total control of the intellectual environment, filled page after page with calculations.

At one point, Ilian, to explain a point, wrote quickly in his notebook: Problem not filter. In premise. Noise filter: Wrong premise. Finch read the sentence. He frowned for a millisecond, perhaps noting the strange grammar, the lack of articles. But his brain ignored the form and focused on the content.

At one point, Finch stopped, scratching his hair, frustrated. "Ilian, I understand your filter architecture, it's brilliant. But this premise..." he pointed to one of Ilian’s original notes. "You are introducing a 'ground echo' variable, ground clutter, that my team spent weeks trying to eliminate. And you are treating it as a constant."

Ilian stopped. His mind, which saw different fields as one, tried to find the analogy. He grabbed his official notebook and, with handwriting perfectly aligned and frighteningly precise, an echo of Kessler’s relentless discipline, wrote a quick note, the telegraphic grammar of someone thinking faster than language allows:

ARGUS does not see Target. Sees (Target + Ground). Ground not Noise. Ground = Constant Mirror. Calculation: (Total Signal) - (Mirror Signal) = Clean Target. Use Echolocation.

"What you do not understand," Ilian said, his voice calm, taking control, "is that you are trying to find the target in the middle of a storm. What I say is: use the storm as a reference."

Alistair Finch was silent for a long moment. Then, a strange sound, half-choked, came out of him. It was a laugh of pure astonishment. The idea hitting him with the force of a revelation. He looked at Richard, stunned. "He isn't filtering. He is using the clutter as a calibration baseline! He is doing real-time signal subtraction!"

When the clock passed seven in the evening, it was Richard who had to interrupt. "Alistair," he said gently. "It's been three hours. And I think Ilian needs to rest."

Finch blinked, as if waking from a dream. He looked around, at the pages covered in math, at Ilian, who was sitting in his chair, pale and visibly exhausted, but with shining eyes.

"It was a good conversation, Dr. Finch," Ilian said.

Finch stood up, his energy as if he had drunk ten coffees. "Mr. Jansen... Ilian... this was... was one of the most productive afternoons of my career."

"Wait," he said. His voice was low, but lost the quality of "conversation." It became clinical. "There is one more thing. The safety protocol," Ilian said, as if stating an obvious fact. He pointed to one of the original Project Argus schematics on the table. "The main actuator. The safety lock is based only on software. It is a flaw. It is not safe." The memory of his left hand, of metal crushing bone.

Finch frowned with genuine academic perplexity. "A flaw? Mr. Jansen, that is the industry standard protocol. We are using all recommended safety standards."

"It is not enough," Ilian said, his voice almost cold. "Software protocols can be bypassed. If the diagnostic sequence is compromised... the lock fails. It needs redundancy. A mechanical lock independent of the central system. And a physical power cut-off circuit. Two locks."

Richard, who was watching Ilian’s sudden and almost obsessive intensity, intervened softly. "Ilian raises a valid safety point, Alistair. He has an incredibly rigorous eye."

Finch nodded, looking at Ilian with respect. "Absolutely. It is an excellent observation." He tapped his briefcase friendly. "We can analyze that in the next design phase."

Richard smiled, satisfied with the resolution. "Great."

But Ilian remained silent. He lowered his gaze to the schematic. Next phase. Analyze. For them, it was a future item on a schedule. For him, a flaw that existed now. He felt the familiar cold of his own experience, the memory of Orlov. They didn't understand the danger they were willing to postpone. Ilian said nothing more. He just closed off slightly, his contribution finished.

"I have a lot to think about and a lot to do with this new approach. I can only thank you for seeing me. Thank you very much," Finch said, already heading to the door with Richard.

"Ilian, I'll walk him to the car and be right back," the professor informed. Richard accompanied his colleague to the gravel path. "So?" Richard asked, when they were far enough away.

Alistair Finch stopped and looked at his friend, his voice full of reverent awe. "Richard... He sees the math. He doesn't calculate it, he sees it."

Richard smiled. "I know. I'm also very impressed with the reasoning. We'll talk more about these calculations later. Drive safely. See you next week."

He returned to the guest house. Ilian was sitting on the sofa, the glow of intellectual adrenaline beginning to fade, revealing the deep exhaustion underneath.

"You were magnificent, Ilian," Richard said, voice full of pride.

Ilian looked at the professor. He was tired, his leg ached, but he didn't feel defeated. He had been fully himself, in front of another person, and the result had not been punishment.

He gave a small nod. "It was... productive."

Richard smiled, understanding the euphemism. "More than productive." He looked toward the kitchen. "You must be hungry. Let me see what Helena has for your dinner..."

"No need, Professor," Ilian interrupted, voice low but firm. "I can manage. I am fine."

Richard paused, surprised by the quiet refusal, but understanding it was an act of independence, not rejection. He nodded and sat in the armchair opposite Ilian.

"Thank you, Ilian," he said, tone now more personal. "I know today was... a lot. Bringing Alistair here, the pressure... you handled it incredibly well. What you did this afternoon was already an immense contribution to Project Argus." Ilian just listened, absorbing the praise. "And," Richard continued, a smile now forming in his eyes. "I called my colleague at the observatory. Tomorrow night is perfectly clear. No clouds. I reserved the main telescope just for us. Your visit to the observatory... is tomorrow night. If you're feeling up to it, of course."

Ilian’s tiredness seemed to evaporate. His eyes widened visibly, the shine Finch had seen returning with full force. The observatory. Tomorrow. It was the most extraordinary thing he could imagine. He was silent for a moment, processing the joy. Then, his analytical mind connected the dots. He remembered dinner, the conversation about flowers.

"Professor..." he began hesitantly. "And Elara?"

Richard blinked, surprised by the question. "Elara? What about her?"

"At dinner," Ilian explained. "She said that... she would like to go."

Richard was genuinely touched. He had no idea Ilian had registered that. "Ah... yes, she mentioned it," Richard said, choosing his words carefully, not wanting to pressure Ilian. "But I told her this first visit would be just us two. To be calmer for you."

Ilian looked at his hands in his lap. He still felt intimidated by her, yes. The idea made him nervous. But the afternoon’s success with Finch, the feeling of competence, had made him stronger. And the promise he had made to himself - to try to do better - echoed in his mind. Richard had given him the observatory. He could give Richard... this.

"No problem, Professor. She can come. If she wants."

Richard stared at him, astonished. That offer, coming from Ilian, was a social sacrifice greater than any equation he had solved that afternoon. "That is... very kind of you, Ilian. I will talk to her. I'm sure she will be very happy." He stood up, knowing this was the perfect moment to end the day. "Now, rest. You earned it. See you tomorrow."

Ilian nodded, a small, tired smile on his face. He had survived the day. And he was looking forward to the next.

Chapter 54: The Observatory

Saturday dawned with an electric stillness. It was a rest day from physical therapy, and Ilian woke feeling the familiar ache in his muscles, but his mind was focused on the night. The observatory.

He spent the day in his mental fortress. He tried to focus on Projekt Rodzina, but his mind kept slipping to the anxiety of the approaching visit.

At three in the afternoon, he gave up working. Waiting became a physical task. He prepared hours in advance: the shower, the shave done with precision, the combed hair.

When the clock read seven, he was already ready, sitting on the edge of the sofa, the Celestial Atlas open on his lap, though he wasn't reading. He heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel. He stood up, grabbed his cane, and limped to the door.

It was Richard, alone, wearing a thick coat.

"Good evening, Ilian," he said, his voice full of enthusiasm. "The sky is crystal clear. Dr. Jennings is already waiting for us. Elara has gone to start the car so the heater can run. Ready?"

Ilian nodded. "I am ready, Professor."

He picked up his own coat, the same one from the trip, functional, provided by the agency, and began to put it on.

Richard watched him, and his smile vanished, replaced by a sudden expression of guilt. He saw the thin fabric, inadequate. The cardboard box. The fishing coat. How could he have forgotten again?

"Ilian, wait," he said in a practical tone, but with a tinge of self-reproach. "That coat won't be enough. Where we're going is much higher, and the telescope dome is open. You'll freeze."

Ilian stopped. He looked at the thin fabric, then back at Richard, not understanding the commotion. For him, the cold was just a fact, a condition to be endured. He had survived Russian winters with less. His voice came out completely neutral, as if stating a variable in an equation. "It is what I have."

"Wait here a second. Don't come out," Richard said, decisive. He turned and hurried out of the guest house, crossing the dark lawn back to the main house. Ilian stood in the open doorway, confused. He looked at the wall clock. They were running late. The professor’s logic in breaking the schedule for a variable as trivial as thermal comfort was something his mind, trained by Kessler to focus only on the objective, simply couldn't process.

A few minutes later, Richard returned, carrying a heavy, dark blue winter coat. "Here," he said, voice firm but full of apology, as if the fault were his. "This is one of my coats. It will be a little big on you, but I guarantee it's warmer. Please, Ilian. Put it on."

Ilian looked at the coat. It was heavy, high quality. An act of care so blatant. He took off his thin coat, putting on what Richard offered. The warmth was immediate, enveloping him.

"Great," Richard said, satisfied. "Now let's go."

The walk to the car was slow, Ilian leaning on his cane, Richard by his side. The light from the main house illuminated the vehicle. As they approached, Richard opened the passenger door for Ilian.

Ilian paused for an instant, preparing for the entry maneuver. It was only then, bending down to get in, that he saw her. Elara was already sitting. In the back.

He froze for a fraction of a second. She was there. "Good evening, Ilian."

"Good evening," he replied, voice low, almost a murmur, and continued the maneuver to get in.

"I'm happy to be able to come along. I love the observatory," she said, voice calm.

The drive to the hills was quiet. Richard, now back at the wheel, kept up a light conversation, telling stories about the region. Elara remained quiet in the back seat. Ilian truly relaxed. The weight of Richard’s coat, the warmth of the heater, and the anticipation of what was to come kept him anchored.

When they left the main road, the car began to climb a dark, winding gravel path. Tension returned to Ilian’s body. Darkness. Gravel. An unknown place. Richard seemed to sense it. "Almost there, Ilian. We are at the Wallace Observatory. Totally safe."

The car stopped in a small gravel parking lot, plunged in total darkness, far from any city lights. Richard parked as close as he could to a small low building with a rounded dome on top. The night cold was intense. The stars, in a moonless sky, seemed within arm's reach.

"Wow," Elara whispered from the back seat, looking up.

Ilian didn't even move. He just looked through the windshield. He was stupefied.

The walk from the car to the dome door was slow. The gravel was uneven, a challenge for Ilian’s cane. The cold was biting. A door opened, spilling weak red light. An older man in glasses and a sweater waited for them.

"Richard. Elara. Good evening," he said, voice low. His eyes landed on Ilian. "And this must be Mr. Jansen."

Richard made the introduction. "Dr. Jennings, this is Ilian Jansen. Ilian, this is Dr. Jennings, he will be our host tonight."

"Mr. Jansen," Jennings said, with a quick, professional handshake. Which Ilian managed to return. "Richard told me you are an enthusiast."

Ilian just nodded.

"Everything is ready," Jennings said, clearly understanding the situation. "I pointed it at Jupiter to start. The dome is open. Make yourselves at home. I'll be in the control room."

Dr. Jennings disappeared through a side door. The social threat was neutralized.

Richard guided Ilian and Elara inside the main dome. The space was circular, pitch black, lit only by the ghostly glow of red lights on the control panels. And it was freezing, the temperature inside equal to outside so as not to distort the view.

In the center was the telescope, a massive white tube pointed at the open slit in the ceiling, where a patch of starry sky shone.

Ilian heard the low hum of the tracking motors and, occasionally, the deep, heavy creak of the metal dome rotating a few millimeters to track the Earth’s rotation. The sound was mechanical and industrial. For an instant, it took him back to the German base, to Russia. He stopped, hand gripping the cane.

"It's okay." Richard’s voice, low and firm beside him. "It's just the motors. Come."

Richard pointed to the telescope eyepiece. Beside it was a small movable metal platform with three steps.

"Elara, you go first."

Ilian looked at the ladder, then at Elara, and took an instinctive step back, grateful not to be first, to have a moment to observe the protocol of that interaction. The practical, contained young woman seemed to disappear, replaced by a younger version, her movements agile and full of almost childish anticipation. She climbed the steps quickly, leaned over the eyepiece, and was silent for a long moment, her body still in the red gloom.

"It's beautiful," she said, full of genuine wonder.

When she finished and came down the steps, turning to them, her face was transformed. Her eyes shone in the darkness, and her smile was open, radiant, forgetful of any awkwardness.

"It's... it's incredible, Dad. Every time," she said, voice low but vibrant. "I never get tired of coming here. You can see the stripes! And the moons look so real."

Ilian watched her reaction. Her joy was so pure, so uninhibited. It was the same energy her father had described, that of the girl running after ducks in the park. It was an emotion he didn't know, a total surrender to the moment that intimidated him almost as much as the telescope itself.

Richard smiled at his daughter, satisfied. He then turned to Ilian, who had instinctively retreated another step. His voice was gentle. "Your turn."

Ilian looked at the platform. It was narrow. Steps of grated metal, barely visible in the red light. His right leg throbbed in protest. It is for this, he thought, the memory of the unreachable pinecone surfacing in his mind. It is for this that all the pain of physical therapy serves.

With cold determination, he turned, focusing only on Richard. He held out his cane.

"Professor," he said, voice low.

Richard understood the gesture instantly. It wasn't a request for help, it was an act of deep trust. It was Ilian voluntarily handing over his only tool of stability.

"I'll hold it for you," Richard said, voice firm. He didn't position himself to help, but rather as a safety guard at the base of the platform.

Ilian turned to the platform. He took a deep breath and grabbed the cold metal railings with both hands. The right one, firm. The left one, weak, stiff fingers barely able to close, serving more as a balance hook than a support.

"I am right here behind you, Ilian," he said, his voice an anchor in the darkness. "I won't let you fall."

The climb was a silent agony.

First step. He put his weight on his arms and hoisted his left leg, the good one, feeling the burn in his quadriceps. Second step. He had to drag his right leg, knee locked, pain. The metal platform swayed a millimeter under his awkward weight.

He froze, breath caught in his chest, the danger of imminent fall.

"You are safe, Ilian. I am here." Richard’s voice, calm and close. The professor was climbing with him, step by step, his solid presence a physical and psychological barrier against the fall.

He climbed the last step. He was there. Trembling, panting, but there.

Richard climbed behind him, stopping on the second step, his body close enough to be a support but without touching him. The small metal platform was now dangerously crowded, but Ilian felt, paradoxically, safe. He wasn't alone up there.

His hands still gripped the metal railings tightly. He needed to let go of at least one to bend to the eyepiece, but the fear of losing balance paralyzed him.

"Use my arm," Richard said, positioned slightly behind and to the side of him. "The left one. Use it as support. It is steady."

Ilian looked at the professor. He saw the certainty in his face. Slowly, in an act of pure trust, he released his left hand from the railing and, instead of touching the sensitive telescope, rested it on Richard’s arm. It was a balance point.

He leaned slightly, now anchored to the professor, finally stable enough to bend toward the eyepiece. He closed one eye and looked.

The universe opened up.

It wasn't a photo. It was real. A perfect disk of pale gold, sharp as glass, floating in velvet darkness. Across it, two dark, turbulent bands of clouds. And beside it, like diamonds thrown on velvet, four perfect points of light, aligned.

Ilian stopped breathing. The cold, the pain, the fear... everything disappeared. The pure math of Newton and Kepler was alive in front of him. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Richard whispered.

On the floor of the dome, watching the two men on the platform, Elara took her cell phone from her coat pocket. In a stealthy, silent movement, she raised it and captured the image: her father and Ilian, illuminated by the faint light of the controls, one looking at the sky, the other being his anchor. She lowered the phone, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Ilian didn't respond for a long time. When he did, his voice was a whisper choked with emotion. "It is... real."

He pulled away from the eyepiece, reluctant, and looked at Richard in the gloom. "Professor..."

"Yes?"

"The nebula... M42. In Orion. Is it possible?"

Richard smiled in the darkness, marveling at the specific request. "Dr. Jennings!" he called to the intercom on the wall. "Can you take us to M42?"

A metallic voice replied: "With pleasure, Professor. Adjusting."

The dome groaned and rotated. The telescope moved silently. "Try now," the voice said.

Ilian leaned into the eyepiece again. What he saw took his breath away. It was a ghostly smudge, an ethereal gray-green, a cloud of pale light. And in its heart, shining like four small diamonds, the stars of the Trapezium. The place where stars were born.

"It is incredible," he whispered.

"It is where they are born," Richard said, voice low, knowing exactly what Ilian was thinking.

Ilian looked one last time, and then pulled away.

"Professor... just... just one more. Please. M31. Is it possible to see it?"

Richard, again marveling, made the request over the intercom. The dome rotated.

Ilian leaned into the eyepiece for the last time. What he saw wasn't bright. It was a pale, elongated smudge, almost like a piece of luminous cloud. But it was huge. It filled the entire field of view. He could distinguish the brighter central core and the ghostly dust of the spiral arms.

The immensity. The scale. The silence. This time, when he pulled away from the eyepiece, he was ready. His mind was full.

"Thank you," he whispered to Richard, voice emotional. "I... I can go down now."

Richard helped him down, body trembling not from cold, but from pure adrenaline and emotion. When Ilian was on the solid floor of the dome, Richard returned the cane to him. Ilian was visibly overwhelmed.

Elara, who had watched everything in silence, acted. Without saying a word, she quickly left the dome and returned a moment later, pushing an office chair with wheels. She positioned it near Ilian. "You can sit if you want," she said, voice low and practical.

Ilian looked at the chair, a gesture of care so simple and so deep. He nodded, grateful, and sat down, his body finally giving in to exhaustion.

He stayed there, sitting in the chair, wrapped in Richard’s large coat, both hands finally steady on the handle of his own cane. He watched the silhouettes of Richard and Elara taking turns at the eyepiece, listening to their low murmurs of admiration. He didn't look up anymore, he looked at them. And, in the cold stillness of the observatory, surrounded by the silent math of the universe, he processed the night. He had climbed. He had seen. And he wasn't alone.

After a few more minutes, Richard pulled away from the eyepiece with a final, satisfied sigh. The adrenaline of discovery was beginning to give way to the fatigue of the cold night. He looked at Ilian, who was quiet in the chair, visibly exhausted, but calm.

"I think we've abused Dr. Jennings' goodwill enough for one night," he said softly.

After saying goodbye and thanking Dr. Jennings, the three went out into the cold night. The walk back through the gravel parking lot, in almost total darkness, was even slower than the arrival. The cold was intense. Ilian focused obsessively on every step, the tip of the cane digging into the loose gravel, his right leg dragging with painful stubbornness. Richard and Elara walked beside him in silence, a silent honor guard, not rushing him, their presences a mute guarantee against the darkness and uneven terrain.

Finally, they reached the car. Richard opened the passenger door. Ilian, now familiar with the maneuver, entered with a controlled but visible effort, body protesting the movement.

Richard sat at the wheel, started the engine, and turned the heater to maximum. The car began to move slowly, leaving the dark parking lot, dashboard lights softly illuminating Ilian’s tired but serene face.

The world shrank to the four walls of the vehicle, warm and silent, cutting through the cold darkness of the hills. Richard drove calmly, Elara was quiet in the back seat, and Ilian, in the passenger seat, was vibrating.

His mind was on fire. Jupiter. M42. The ghostly smudge of Andromeda. He was home, in the universe of pure physics, of math made visible. He was silent for a long time, eyes fixed on the dark road ahead, but his mind was millions of light-years away, replaying the images.

From the back seat, Elara watched him. She saw his profile, dimly lit by the faint dashboard light.

It was Ilian who broke the silence, his voice so calm and clear in the stillness of the car that it made Elara startle slightly. He didn't turn around. He spoke directly forward.

"Professor."

"Yes, Ilian?" Richard replied, voice equally low, recognizing the importance of the moment.

"Thank you," he said. It wasn't the awkward mumble from before. It was a statement. "For what you did today. It was..." He stopped, searching for the word. "It was important."

"It was a pleasure, Ilian. I'm glad you liked it."

There was another long pause. Ilian looked ahead, but his mind was cataloging, organizing. "I will keep this moment," he said almost to himself, as if making a note in a permanent record. "In my mind." He turned slightly, his focus entirely on the driver, completely ignoring the back seat. "Along with the other one."

Richard frowned, confused. "The other one?"

"The fishing," Ilian explained, with simple logic. "The river. The sound of the water. The stones." He paused, connecting the two points of peace. "The water and the stars. They are good moments. Whenever I want I will be able to return to them in my mind."

From the back seat, Elara held her breath. The oyster.

He was opening up. Not to her, who had tried to connect with gingerbread cookies and light conversation. He was opening up to her father, sharing his inner world, his secret catalog of good moments. His voice was different, sure, limpid, devoid of hesitation. He seemed nothing like the frightened man who had recoiled from her in the garden. It was like watching a rare nocturnal creature emerge under the safety of a specific moon.

"Dr. Jennings said the primary mirror is 61 centimeters," Ilian continued, now moving to the safe territory of physics, his voice gaining even more confidence. "What is the focal length? The spherical aberration seemed almost nil..."

Richard laughed softly. "Ah, now you are speaking my language..."

For the rest of the drive back, the two talked. Or rather, Ilian asked precise questions about optics, about the telescope’s equatorial mount, about the tracking software, and Richard answered with the pleasure of a colleague.

Elara remained in absolute silence in the back seat, forgotten. She listened to that voice she had never heard, a voice full of bright curiosity. She finally understood. The oyster was real. But its shell only opened in a very specific ocean, an ocean of logic and trust that, for now, only her father knew how to navigate. And she couldn't tell if what she felt was fascination or a pang of sadness.

When they arrived at the guest house, Richard stopped the car. Silence returned, filled only by the engine.

"Well, we're here," Richard said softly.

Ilian, still floating in cosmic euphoria, began his slow maneuver to get out of the car. He turned to Richard. "Professor. Thank you. For this night."

"Sleep well, Ilian."

He was halfway out of the car when Elara’s voice came from the back seat, quiet, almost hesitant, not wanting to break the moment she had witnessed: "Good night, Ilian."

Ilian stopped, hand on the doorframe. He didn't ignore her. He didn't just give a nod. He turned enough so she could see his face in the gloom of the dashboard light.

"Good night, Elara," he said. And then, something Elara had never seen happened: a small and genuine, though tired, smile formed on his lips. "It was... beautiful."

Elara lost her breath for an instant, surprised by the direct interaction and the glimpse of the man behind the shell. "Yes," she managed to whisper. "It was."

Ilian finished getting out of the car, took the cane Richard handed him, and limped into the house. He closed the door, but didn't go to the bedroom. He didn't turn on the main light. He sat on the sofa, in the dark, Richard’s coat still on his shoulders, and closed his eyes.

He was back in the dome. The gray-green smudge of M42. The ghostly dust of Andromeda. Richard’s calm voice. Elara’s surprised smile. He replayed every second, every image, cataloging his precious new memory.

Chapter 55: The Cell Without Walls

The Sunday morning sun streamed through the large glass window, bathing the guest room in clear, warm light. It was ten in the morning. The house was immersed in absolute, peaceful silence.

Ilian was at his work desk.

He felt very good. The triumph of the previous night at the observatory still vibrated within him, an undercurrent of euphoria. The visit to the freezing dome, the sight of Andromeda, the easy conversation with Richard in the car, Elara’s surprised smile, all of it had cemented something new inside him. A sense of safety.

Richard had stopped by earlier, before leaving with Helena and Elara, and informed him they were going to church and then would have lunch with friends, returning only around three in the afternoon.

Ilian was enjoying the silence. He was working on the schematics for Project Argus, but the nature of the work had changed. It was no longer a task executed under Miller’s invisible whip. It was a challenge. The meeting with Dr. Finch had been intellectually stimulating. Ilian saw the errors in the filters, the flawed premises, and his mind, now free from the fog of constant panic, delighted in finding the solutions.

He was sitting in his usual spot at the work desk, from where he had a clear view of the front door and the living room glass window. He was calm, focused. His hexagonal graphite pencil glided over the paper, drawing a data flow diagram with elegant precision. The only sound was the soft scratching of graphite.

That was why the sound was so violent.

The absolute silence of the morning was broken. A sound. The crushing of heavy tires on the gravel path.

Ilian’s hand stopped halfway through a line. The pencil froze. He looked up from the paper. And then he saw three cars. His body reacted first. A discharge of intense cold adrenaline. He didn't move. He just listened.

Engines turning off in sync. Car doors slamming. Closing with muffled precision. He heard footsteps on the gravel. Heavy, deliberate. Several men.

His gaze was fixed on the front door. His breath suspended. The pencil was still trapped in his right hand, knuckles suddenly white. He saw, through the glass beside the door, dark silhouettes stopping on the porch.

There was no knock. There was no doorbell. The handle turned. The door opened.

Two men entered first. Tall, impassive, dressed in dark suits, perfectly cut. They didn't look at Ilian. Their eyes swept the room, marking exits, the window, the hallway. Like machines. Then, they positioned themselves on either side of the open door, motionless, transforming the entrance into a guarded portal.

Ilian was frozen in the chair. His body was stone.

Then, the other two entered.

Ilian recognized one of them instantly: Agent Leo, from his transfer from the hospital. His face was tense, professional, and his eyes deliberately avoided the man beside him. Leo was the only one who looked at Ilian and, in a quick, almost imperceptible gesture, gave a brief, tense nod. It was an acknowledgement. Perhaps a warning.

The second man was the center of everything.

He was older, perhaps in his sixties, with gray hair cut close with military precision. His suit was charcoal gray, impeccable, of a cut that suggested immense power. He didn't exude Miller’s volatile threat, he exuded absolute authority, cold as ice. The way the security guards behaved in his presence, the stiffness, the silent deference, made it clear he was the commander.

Ilian didn't breathe.

The older man didn't speak. He didn't look at Ilian. To him, Ilian wasn't there.

With deliberate slowness, almost casual, the man in the gray suit began his inspection. He walked to the small table near the window. Ilian, paralyzed, followed him with his eyes. The man stopped in front of the amaryllis. He raised a gloved hand, thin black leather gloves, and touched one of the firm green leaves, sliding a finger along its surface. A gesture of possession.

He turned. His gaze landed on the coffee table. The Celestial Atlas. Elara’s gift.

The man in the gray suit approached, picked up the book. His movement was economical, unhurried. He opened it to a random page. Looked at the illustration for a moment, his expression indecipherable. Then, he closed the book with a soft sound and placed it back, perfectly aligned.

His inspection of the living room was complete. Now, he turned to the work desk. To Ilian.

Ilian smelled him before he arrived. A subtle cologne, with notes of cedar and something metallic. His body screamed for him to run, to shrink away, but his mind, the fortress that had resisted torture, kept him fixed in the chair. Rigid. Motionless. The pencil still trapped in his hand.

The older man stopped beside his chair, looking down. His gaze swept over the schematics on the table, the complex calculations, the notes. Ilian felt the look like a physical violation.

Then, in a gesture of pure, disdainful dominance, the man extended his gloved hand. Not to take the papers, but to push them away. He slid his hand over the sheets where Ilian was working, slowly pushing them aside.

Satisfied, he withdrew his hand.

His gaze passed down the hallway, toward the physical therapy room and the bedroom. He seemed to consider it, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. Then he turned, without a word, and walked toward the door.

Agent Leo, who had watched everything with a tense, professional expression, cast a last quick glance at Ilian, a look Ilian couldn't decipher, perhaps pity, perhaps a warning, before turning and following his superior. The two guards left last, like shadows retreating. The door closed with a soft, final click.

Silence returned to the room.

Ilian heard the sound of car doors slamming. Heard the engines starting. Heard the heavy sound of tires on gravel, moving away, disappearing.

He remained seated. Motionless. The refuge had been desecrated. Safety, an illusion. Richard’s truce, irrelevant. They could enter at any time. Touch his things. Touch Helena and Elara’s gifts. They could push his work aside as if it were trash. The cell had no walls, but it was absolute.

His right hand, which gripped the pencil so tightly his knuckles ached, began to tremble. A violent, uncontrollable tremor. He forced his fingers open. Set the pencil on the table. The tremor traveled up his arm.

The adrenaline of freezing disappeared, giving way to physiological collapse. His chest tightened, an invisible iron band. Air wouldn't go in. He tried to pull a breath, remembering the technique taught in the hospital, but all he managed was a short, shallow gasp. Panic was a cold wave, rising.

A trembling hand went to his face, finding a familiar warmth. The metallic, salty taste coated the back of his throat. Pulling his fingers away revealed a bright red smear against his pale skin.

His nose was bleeding. The physical cost of his mental resistance.

Staring at the blood on his fingers, then at his left sleeve, he made a slow, almost resigned movement to wipe it onto the dark fabric of his shirt. There he remained, seated and trembling, the stain settling into the cloth.

He had resisted Orlov. Resisted torture in the desert. He would resist this.

His mind, that familiar fortress, was already working to raise the walls. Richard would return at three. Concealment was essential; no one could know. Act normal. That was the only rule. Closing his eyes tightly while his body still vibrated, Ilian sought an anchor. Ignoring the pain in his leg and the copper taste in his throat, he retreated to the trail.

The image was summoned with desperate precision: the silent clearing, the fallen moss-covered log, the sound of wind in the leaves, the filtered sunlight creating golden columns. Act normal. By forcing his brain to replay the sensory details of peace, his heart rate finally began to slow to heavy, controlled beats. The tremor in his hand subsided.

Rage gave way to focus. He opened his eyes. Panic had receded. Only the cold logic of survival remained. There was evidence to be erased.

Standing up was agony, his body protesting against the sudden tension. He limped to the bathroom. His face in the mirror was even paler, eyes deep and dark, with a trickle of dried blood under his nose. The stain on his shirt sleeve was dark and obvious.

The shock of cold water against his face helped anchor him in reality. Stripping off the stained T-shirt, he stared at it for an instant, the proof of his weakness. The laundry basket was not an option, with Harris in charge, that would be like filing a report on his own failure.

Instead, he folded the garment methodically and buried it at the bottom of the empty cardboard box in the wardrobe, beneath other agency clothes. Invisible for now.

He put on a clean, identical shirt. The armor was back in place.

He returned to the living room. The air still seemed to carry the faint scent of the intruder’s cologne. A contamination. His gaze went to the work desk. His papers, his work, pushed aside like trash.

With obsessive precision, he began to tidy up. He took the stack of schematics and realigned every sheet, corners perfectly adjusted. He put the pencil back in its place, parallel to the notebook. He went to the coffee table. Picked up the Celestial Atlas that had been touched. With the clean sleeve of his shirt, he wiped the cover, erasing the ghost fingerprint of the leather glove. He did the same with the Amaryllis pot, wiping the profaned leaf.

He was reclaiming his territory, erasing the unwanted presence, imposing his own order on the chaos they had left.

When he finished, the house looked normal. But it didn't feel safe. The air was stale. He couldn't work there. He needed to get out.

He went to the bedroom and grabbed Richard’s heavy, dark blue coat. The one he had worn the night before. He put it on, pulling the cap onto his head. He left the guest house, pulling the door shut behind him.

He went to the trail. The walk was fast, driven not by the discipline of physical therapy, but by a desperate need for escape. He didn't stop until he reached his clearing, the fallen log.

Sitting down, chest heaving, he allowed the cold, clean forest air to finally fill his lungs. There he stayed for hours, forcing his mind to focus on the natural world, anchoring himself in the physics of light and the pattern of ants.

Return came only when his internal clock told him it was nearing three in the afternoon. Richard’s time. The walk back was slow, controlled. No longer prey on the run, he was the actor returning to the stage.

Upon entering the guest house, he drank some water and went straight to the work desk. An alibi for his exhaustion was needed, a performance of normalcy. Spreading out the project papers, he picked up the pencil and forced his mind to focus. The diagram was halfway done when he heard the familiar footsteps on the gravel.

The light knock on the door. Ilian didn't get up. "Ilian?" called Richard’s voice from the other side.

"Come in."

Richard entered, his usual Sunday smile... which died slowly upon seeing the scene.

The room was cold. Ilian was sitting at his work desk, but still wearing the heavy winter coat he had lent him for the observatory. He didn't turn when Richard entered, just remained focused on his papers.

"Good afternoon, Ilian," Richard said, voice now cautious. "How was your Sunday? Peaceful? Did you manage to rest?"

"It was peaceful, Professor. Thank you," he replied without looking up from his work.

He approached. Ilian was pale. He was rigid, shoulders tense under the thick coat. When he finally looked up, Richard saw. The eyes were empty. Ilian closed off with a force the professor now recognized as a sign of danger or distress.

Richard, seeing the young man was clearly "shut down," decided not to press. He attributed the scene to work fatigue.

"You look tired," he said, voice gentle, trying to find a bridge. "Did you overdo it today?"

Ilian lowered his gaze again. His voice was monotone, almost a murmur, eyes fixed on the diagram. "I am fine."

Richard recognized the wall. That wasn't the Ilian from the observatory, nor the Ilian from the chess game. A total retreat. He felt his heart tighten, having no idea what could have caused that on such a quiet day.

"Right," Richard said, backing off, giving him the space he seemed to demand. "Well... Helena is making dinner. Come around seven, if you're up to it."

"Thank you."

Richard waited another second. There was nothing else. With a silent sigh of concern, he left, closing the door softly.

Ilian remained motionless.

He released the pencil.

The object rolled silently across the table. He closed his eyes, he had survived the inspection. The mask had worked. But the price of being a fortress, he realized, was an internal war that left him exhausted.

Chapter 56: The Performance

The clock on the kitchen wall read 6:50 PM.

Ilian was sitting at his work desk, but he wasn't working. The silence in the guest house was absolute. His body was tense, mind miles away, in a deliberate effort of suppression.

He had "buried" the morning's trauma, as he had learned to do. The acute panic and the bleeding had been contained, cleaned, hidden. The stained T-shirt was at the bottom of the cardboard box in the wardrobe. The drop of blood on the project schematic had been smudged and hidden under other sheets. His refuge had been cleaned, evidence of the violation erased. But the violation remained, a layer of ice beneath his skin.

He was executing his known survival technique.

His right hand held the small wooden trout carved by Arthur, thumb methodically tracing the smooth curves of the wood, feeling the texture. In front of him, next to his notebook, the three smooth river stones formed a small row.

He wasn't there. His mind, his fortress, was miles away, lying on his back on the wooden deck warmed by the cabin sun. He forced himself to feel the heat on his back, the smell of pine and cold water, the constant sound of the river running over the stones. He was compartmentalizing, burying the memory of the man in the gray suit under the real weight of the weekend's kindness. He was using his new data, his good memories, to nullify the bad data.

The memory of the cabin faded. His mind returned to the guest house. The task was beginning.

Act normal. It was the only rule.

He looked at the clock. 7:00 PM. Dinner time. His instinct screamed for him to go to the bedroom, lock the door, turn off the lights. Disappear. Staying in his refuge, however profaned it was, was the safe move.

But his logical mind, the fortress, took command. Not going would be admitting defeat. It would be letting the silent commander win, proving his visit had broken the "asset."

He wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

With cold determination, Ilian set the wooden trout on the table, next to the stones. Standing up, his body protested, tired not from physical therapy, but from the tension of hours maintaining control. Grabbing the cane, he left the guest house, closing the door behind him.

The night was cold and clear. The short walk across the lawn, now dark, seemed like an eternity. He forced his body to move at its usual rhythm, slow and dragging. His mind was locked, focused on a single task: reach the kitchen, execute normalcy.

He reached the glass door of the main house. The warm light and muffled sound of voices inside seemed to belong to another universe. He stopped at the edge of darkness and light, before his familiar physical barrier: the three kitchen steps, without a handrail.

He tapped lightly on the glass. And waited.

The door opened almost immediately. Richard was there, his face illuminated by a welcoming smile. "Ilian! Glad you came!"

The professor stepped out immediately onto the small landing, the gesture of help now a familiar ritual between them, and offered his arm to assist him. Ilian accepted the support, his left hand gripping Richard’s arm, and made the climb, focusing purely on the mechanics of the movement.

The kitchen was as always, smelling of homemade food and safety. Helena and Elara were near the stove, both smiling at him. Ilian felt his shoulders stiffen. The performance had begun.

"Good evening, Mrs. Anderson," he said with his controlled voice, perhaps a little lower than usual. He gave a brief nod toward Elara. "Elara."

Richard, watching him closely, felt a small relief. Ilian no longer looked as pale or "empty" as hours before. He looked like his usual "normal." Quiet, reserved, but present. Great, he thought, he was just tired from work this afternoon. Back to normal.

"Ilian, dear, come in!" Helena said, indicating the table. "You can sit down, dinner is almost ready."

As he sat in his usual spot, Helena approached, eyes warm. "Ilian, how is your amaryllis?"

It was a safe topic. He managed to focus on that. "It is fine, Mrs. Anderson. I checked the soil today. It seems healthy." His voice was calm, factual.

"Did you spend the day thinking about the excitement of the observatory?" Elara asked from her chair, trying to use the safe topic they had shared on Saturday. "Or reading the Atlas?" she amended with a broad smile.

Ilian looked at her for a brief instant. "The Atlas is very detailed. Thank you again."

The answer was polite, controlled, but visibly shorter than his euphoric conversation in the car. Elara noticed, but Richard interpreted it as his usual shyness. Ilian’s mask was working perfectly.

Helena served dinner. Ilian looked at the plate. The food looked good, but his stomach was a knot of ice. He picked up the fork. Act normal. He began to eat, mechanically. The food had no taste. It was just fuel for the performance. He was spending one hundred percent of his energy keeping his hand steady, chewing at a normal rhythm, breathing calmly.

The family conversation flowed around him. Elara spoke about a university assignment. Ilian listened, the sound of their voices a comforting noise he used to anchor himself in the present.

Richard, remembering the intensity with which Ilian was focused on work earlier when he visited, turned to him, curious. "So, Ilian? Did you manage to advance on those schematics this afternoon? It looked like you were in the middle of something important."

Ilian raised his eyes from the plate. The mask was perfect. The voice came out calm, factual. "Yes, Professor. It was productive."

Richard smiled, visibly satisfied and relieved. Ah, great, he thought. The stiffness of the afternoon, the coat inside the house... it was just focus. He was just focused on work. Back to normal.

But the energy required to maintain that facade was immense. The tension of "acting normal" for almost an hour was excruciating. Voices started to sound louder, the light brighter. He needed silence.

He waited for a lull in the conversation. Placed the cutlery carefully next to the plate. He had barely touched the food.

"Excuse me..." he began, his voice quiet but firm. Richard, Helena, and Elara turned to him. "Professor. Mrs. Anderson." He looked at them, his mask of politeness impeccable. "Do I have permission to be excused? Physical therapy is early tomorrow."

"Of course, Ilian!" Helena said immediately. "Go rest, dear."

Richard, completely oblivious to the real drama, smiled, satisfied with the "normal" evening. "Of course, Ilian. Sleep well. Good luck tomorrow with David." He stood up to help him with the steps.

"Thank you for dinner."

The descent was fast. He crossed the lawn back. Entered the guest house. Closed the door.

Mechanically and slowly, he went to the kitchen, drank a glass of water. Went to the bathroom, changed clothes, took his night medicines. Every movement was heavy, robotic. His mind was hollow.

Entering the bedroom, he lay down on the bed. He was physically and mentally exhausted. He closed his eyes, anxious for the oblivion of sleep.

Chapter 57: The Weight of Questions

Monday dawned cold and gray, a perfect reflection of Ilian’s state. He was torn from a light, restless sleep. The night had been long, his mind unable to find rest. He wasn't afraid, he was tense.

When he put on his long-sleeved T-shirt and shorts, his mind was already focused, the fortress raised. Sunday’s trauma was compartmentalized, buried. Act normal.

He executed his physical therapy routine with cold determination, his body protesting against David’s relentless orders. His mind was focused on the pinecone, on the river, on the promise of independence. He fought through every stretch, conquered every minute on the treadmill. When David and Ben finally left, he was soaked in sweat but felt victorious.

He had no time to rest. He had barely finished wiping his face with a towel when he heard his name being called.

"Ilian?" Dr. Evans’s calm voice from the living room.

Ilian limped slowly out of the physical therapy room. Dr. Evans was there with his leather bag and a small cooler box.

"Good morning, Ilian," the doctor said, his professional gaze assessing Ilian’s post-therapy state. "Tough day?"

"Productive," he murmured as he sat on the sofa.

"Glad to hear that," he said, opening his bag. "Well, let's do this in stages. Today is your bi-weekly dose day, but before that, I need to do the routine blood draw and check on things."

The process was familiar. Sleeve rolled up, tourniquet tightened, the cold prick of the needle.

"Has your appetite improved?" he asked while swapping glass tubes. "Richard mentioned you've been having dinner with them."

"Yes. A little," Ilian admitted. "Mrs. Anderson cooks very well."

"So it seems," the doctor said with a slight smile. He finished the collection and pressed a cotton ball to the young man’s arm. "You're looking much better, seems you managed to gain some weight. It's an excellent sign."

Ilian didn't know how to respond to that, but a small warmth of satisfaction, a physical validation of his effort, settled in his chest.

The doctor prepared the immunosuppressant injection and administered it. While putting away his supplies, he sighed. "I have news about the specialist consultations, Ilian. Unfortunately, it's not what I wanted."

Ilian waited, his expression neutral.

"I asked for the best names, as I told you. Dr. Chen for your hand and Dr. Albright for your knee. The agency... denied the requests."

Ilian showed no surprise. He just absorbed the information.

"They insist any evaluation must be done by doctors on their approved list," Evans continued, frustration evident in his voice. "Which, frankly, isn't the same level of expertise. I will continue to insist, to argue that your functional recovery is in their interest, but... for now, we are stuck."

"It is okay. Thank you for trying." The sentence was spoken without self-pity or any emotion.

"I hope to succeed," Evans said firmly. "I want you to have the best treatment possible." He closed his bag. "Now, remember, the side effects of this dose can be unpleasant. Fever, nausea, muscle aches... like last time."

"Doctor," Ilian interrupted, voice low but urgent. "Could... could you get a nurse to come spend the night?" He hastened to explain, feeling the need to justify the request. "The professor... he works a lot. I don't want to bother him."

The doctor looked at him for a long moment, realizing the request was an act of protection for Richard. "That is very thoughtful of you. Yes, of course. I'll make sure Nurse John arrives around eight. Don't worry."

"Thank you."

"Rest now," he said, heading to the door. "And try to eat something, even if you don't feel like it."

Alone again, Ilian felt the weight of the day. Physical therapy and the injection. He took a shower and went to the kitchen. Prepared scrambled eggs and forced himself to eat them, knowing he needed fuel.

Then, he sat on the sofa with one of the technical books. Work was a refuge. He dove into the equations, but after a few hours, a fog began to rise. The lines on the paper became a bit blurry. A subtle chill began to seep into his bones. And nausea, the old acquaintance, began to stir slowly in his stomach. The medicine was starting to take effect.

He pulled the blanket over himself. He wasn't just going to surrender. He was going to escape. He closed his eyes, forcing his mind away from the nausea and the low fever. He went to the river. He summoned the image with sensory precision: the warmth of the morning sun on the wooden deck boards. The constant, bubbling sound of water running over smooth stones. The smell of nature.

Mentally, he lay on his back on the deck, feeling the warmed wood against his back, the cap protecting his eyes from the sun. The cold and nausea retreated to the periphery, became distant background noise. He was safe, anchored in the warmth of that memory.

He remained there, floating in that mental refuge, until a real voice broke the peace.

"Ilian?"

Richard’s voice was low. Ilian opened his eyes and saw the professor standing near the sofa, his face lined with worry. Richard had arrived at three, as promised.

"Sorry. I slept," he murmured, trying to sit up. The movement sent a wave of nausea. He groaned softly and stopped.

"Easy, easy. Don't get up," Richard said, approaching. "Robert warned me today would be a tough day. How do you feel?"

"Nauseous."

"Want to lie in your bed? It's more comfortable."

Ilian shook his head. "No. It gets worse if I lie down... I prefer to stay here."

"Alright." Richard pulled the armchair closer to the sofa and sat down. "Then I'll stay here with you. Need anything? Want a glass of water?"

He just shook his head again. A comfortable silence settled. Ilian watched the professor, who had picked up a book and begun to leaf through it. His presence was calm, solid. And Ilian’s mind, too tired for physics but now too awake from the fever, began to wander into unknown territories.

"Professor?" his voice was low.

Richard immediately looked up from the book. "Yes?"

"Did you always... want to be a scientist?" he asked. "Or did you ever think about being... something else? Like Arthur?"

Richard blinked, caught off guard by the question. A small smile formed on his lips. He realized. It wasn't a random question. It was hunger. It was a young man desperately trying to understand what a normal life looked like, a life where things happened by chance, by love, by choice, and not by decree.

"For a while, when I was very young, I thought about being a firefighter," Richard admitted, playing along. "But math... always made more sense to me."

They talked like that for almost an hour and a half. Richard spoke, Ilian listened, asking occasional questions, simple and direct, about Richard’s life, about the house, about the normal world. Ilian’s fever and nausea seemed to diminish, replaced by the distraction of that unprecedented conversation.

Finally, in a longer moment of silence, Richard decided to touch on the difficult subject. "Ilian, Dr. Evans told me about the consultations. About the agency denying the specialists."

Ilian, who was almost relaxed, stiffened slightly. "He told me."

"I'm sorry. It's not fair. But he will keep trying, and I will help." Richard paused. "He... he mentioned your hand. Dr. Chen." He hesitated, choosing words. "I know the official story is the 'accident.' But your hand... is it related to your stay with Kessler?"

Ilian went completely still. The silence that settled was abrupt and heavy. The warm atmosphere of the conversation evaporated instantly, replaced by a tense chill. His right hand, which had been resting relaxed on his leg, instinctively went to the left. He lowered his head. His brain was at war. It is a question. A direct question. His mind was processing, not emotion, but the logic of the situation. I asked questions considered 'useless', the kind Kessler would punish. And the professor answered them all. With patience. With kindness. Without anger.

Richard, seeing the sudden withdrawal, immediately regretted pressing. "Sorry, Ilian," he said softly. "That was invasive. You don't have to answer."

His analytical mind reached an inevitable conclusion. The interaction had been fair. He had received data. Now, data was being requested. Reciprocity, the fairness of that information exchange, seemed the only logical response. Ignoring Richard’s question now, after the professor had answered his, would be... inefficient.

"No," his voice now monotone, devoid of any emotion, as if reading a report. "The hand... that was in Russia."

Richard remained silent, noticing the change in Ilian’s tone, but not daring to interrupt the flow of information he had logically decided to release. The agency hadn't said anything about Russia in the official report.

"I was working on a project," he continued, gaze still empty, focused on the past. "Sokol-7. A targeting system. There was a flaw in Chief Engineer Viktor Orlov's compensation algorithm. I... was stubborn. I made a detailed report on the flaw. He disregarded the report, but I didn't give up."

He looked at his hand as if it were an object of study. "A few days later, he determined I should do a calibration. It was a test rig. There were high-pressure pneumatic clamps."

Richard stopped breathing.

"I knew it wasn't safe," he murmured, voice factual. "So I checked the manual safety lock. I had designed the lock myself. But he... he initiated a 'diagnostic sequence' and the lock failed." He paused, as if recalling technical data. "The clamp activated. Crushed my hand against the frame. A very efficient system." He looked up at Richard, expression empty. "It is very important, Professor, that safety protocols do not have flaws that can be exploited."

His mind, as if unable to stop following this line of reasoning, veered from past to present. His voice remained frighteningly calm, oblivious to the horror he had just described.

"Actually... in Project Argus. I was analyzing the power system diagrams yesterday. The feedback protocol for the main actuator safety lock... if the diagnostic network is compromised... as happened to me... the power can still be directed."

He paused, looking at Richard as if he were simply pointing out an obvious technical flaw. "It is a risk. We should add a physical lock. I can design one."

Richard was paralyzed, the horror of the story robbing him of words. The coldness with which Ilian recounted it, not as a brutal assault but as an engineering lesson, was terrifying. His mind reeled, trying to process this new layer of pain. Russia. Deliberate sabotage. And Ilian, the victim, analyzing the "efficiency" of the method. And now, that same traumatized mind was applying the lesson of his mutilation directly to their work, as if it were a simple engineering problem to be solved. The nausea Ilian felt seemed to have transferred to him.

The need to move, to get air, was overwhelming. He stood up and walked unsteadily to the living room glass door. Resting his hands against the cold surface, he kept his back to Ilian, struggling to control his own breathing.

From the other side of the room, Ilian watched the professor’s rigid back. He felt the fever worsening, but his mind, trained to survive, analyzed the data.

Richard’s reaction was immediate and negative. The professor was visibly shaken. He had moved away. Ilian mentally reviewed what he had said. The flaw. The punishment. The importance of better protocols.

The conclusion was obvious. The professor was shocked by his incompetence. Shocked by the failure he, Ilian, had caused in the past, and shocked that Project Argus could have a similar vulnerability.

Richard wasn't angry, he was disappointed.

"Professor..." Ilian called, voice urgent, anxious, trying to fix the mistake.

Richard turned slowly. His face was pale, eyes dark with a horror Ilian had never seen.

"I... I have no words. That is... monstrous. I am in shock," Richard murmured, voice choked.

The word confirmed Ilian’s suspicion. Shock. The shock of an engineering failure. He needed to prove his worth, his utility, his improvement.

"Professor, don't worry," he said quickly. The fever made him speak a little too fast, his logic tripping over the need to fix things. "I know the flaw in Sokol was catastrophic. I know. But I studied. I spent hours and hours studying safety lock designs." He leaned forward, desperately trying to make Richard understand he wouldn't commit the same failure again. "I know how to do better. I guarantee that in Project Argus... I can design redundant locks. It won't happen again."

Richard just stared at him. The nausea vanished, replaced by a cold that froze his blood.

He understood.

Ilian wasn't talking about the torture. He wasn't asking for comfort for his hand. The dissociation was total, absolute. The damage was so deep Richard could barely comprehend it. He walked back to the armchair near the sofa and sat down again, looking at the feverish young man.

"Ilian," he said, voice low but vibrating with contained intensity. "We are not talking about Argus."

He paused, measuring every word, trying to pierce the fog of Ilian’s logic.

"What I heard... what you said Orlov did to you..." Richard had to stop, emotion choking him. "That wasn't a 'lesson.' That wasn't a 'protocol failure.' That was sabotage, Ilian. That was torture."

Ilian stared at Richard, confused. The words were correct, but the professor’s emotion was illogical. Why was he so shaken? The punishment had been years ago. The problem now was the project.

Richard took a deep breath, trying to push away the nausea, forcing his mind to function through the fog of horror. He needed to make Ilian understand.

"Ilian," he said again, voice firmer, trying to find the tone of a mentor but failing, sounding just like a devastated man. "What Orlov did... what the agency is doing... is not correct. What shocks me is that it hasn't stopped. Do you understand? The method may have changed, but the abuse continues." He stopped, swallowing his own anger. "This isn't collaboration. This is coercion. You aren't a resource, Ilian. You are a human being. You have rights. And all I see are your rights being violated, one after another."

Ilian remained silent, feeling the slight throbbing in his head begin to increase. Rights. The word sounded strange, an abstract concept. It didn't seem real. Survival was real. Utility was real.

"Rights are... complicated, Professor," he said, voice monotone. "One must choose which battles we should and can fight." He paused, gathering facts as he would present them to an engineer. "I cannot fight the agency. I just want... to live."

Richard opened his mouth to protest, to say that that wasn't living, but Ilian continued, his cold logic advancing.

"Dr. Hayes... at the military hospital... he was clear. He gave me a choice."

Richard froze. "A choice?"

"Yes. He said there were two paths. The first: I would be transferred to a secure military base. I could 'fight,' as he said. Refusing to work. And I would be... contained." Ilian looked at his own left hand, the word "contained" loaded with a meaning Richard now understood perfectly. "Indefinitely."

"The second path," he continued, "was to 'collaborate.' Use my mind. And, in exchange, I would have... this." He made a vague gesture, encompassing the kitchen, the guest house, the garden outside. "A house. A host. A normal life. I chose to collaborate, Professor."

He finally looked at Richard, and for the first time, there was a shadow of emotion in his voice, a fragile attempt to make the professor understand his logic.

"I am happy to be here."

The confession hit Richard harder than the torture story.

This. That life of confinement, of constant fear of Agent Miller, of having to "collaborate" to not be "contained"... Ilian looked at all this and called it a "normal life." The bargain he accepted was so twisted, his definition of "happiness" so broken, that Richard felt a lump in his throat.

He realized Ilian wasn't just compartmentalizing the trauma, he had accepted it as the entry cost for "normalcy."

Richard was speechless. What could he say? That Ilian’s definition of freedom was a sham? That he was being used in a way only slightly more polite than Kessler or Orlov?

He looked at the young man’s pale face. Sweat shone on his forehead; the tremor in his hands had returned. The fever was clearly winning.

"Ilian," Richard said, voice finally breaking, soft and full of infinite sadness. "You are feverish. You need to rest."

Ilian blinked, as if waking from a trance. The energy that had sustained him in the conversation vanished suddenly, leaving him visibly exhausted.

"Yes," he murmured. "The nurse. He should arrive... at eight. You can go. Thank you very much."

Richard looked at his watch. Still almost two hours to go. He needed to process that conversation, but he wasn't going to leave the young man alone.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, voice firm, regaining control. "I'll stay here. I'll wait for Nurse John with you."

He tried to smile, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes.

Ilian looked at him, surprised. "But you... your family..."

"Helena and Elara will understand. I'm staying."

There was no room for argument. And Ilian felt too tired to fight, even against an act of kindness. He just nodded.

Richard watched him, heart heavy. The vigil had begun.

Ilian stayed curled on the sofa, eyes closed. It was easier. If he didn't look at Richard, he wouldn't have to see the horror, the disappointment. He had spoken. A mistake. A stupid mistake, driven by fever. He expected the professor to get up and leave. But Richard didn't move. He remained seated in the armchair.

The silence in the living room was dense, almost suffocating, filled only by Ilian’s shallow, feverish breathing. For Richard, staying there in silence was unbearable. It felt like complicity with the horror he had just heard. He needed to do something. Talking about what Ilian said was out of the question; Richard himself didn't have the strength. Talking about trivialities would be a grotesque insult.

His gaze swept the room, looking for an anchor in the middle of that emotional shipwreck. It landed on the coffee table. The Celestial Atlas. Elara’s gift. The stars. Ilian’s refuge.

"Ilian," Richard said softly. He picked up the heavy book. The sound of thick paper turning was the only noise in the room. "I know you're feeling bad," he continued, opening the book on his lap. "Want me to read a little for you? Maybe it helps pass the time. I can read about the stars."

"Yes."

Richard cleared his throat, finding his own voice, and opened to a page he loved himself.

"The Orion Nebula..." he began, voice low and steady, cutting the tension in the room. "...M42. It is a stellar nursery... a vast cloud of gas and dust over one thousand three hundred light-years away..."

He continued reading. His voice was a steady rhythm, a methodical sound in the middle of chaos. He wasn't reading to a scientist; he was using the physics of the universe as a balm.

Ilian listened in silence, concentrating not on the words about hydrogen gas, but only on the sound. On the deep, calm rhythm of Richard’s voice. It was an anchor.

Chapter 58: The Anderson Variable

Richard entered his office, closing the heavy wooden door. Darkness enveloped him.

He didn't turn on the light. He leaned on the desk, the solid, cold mahogany under his trembling hands. Pneumatic clamps. Twenty-five years old. The agency’s lies overlaid Ilian’s truths, creating a cacophony of horror.

He picked up the phone. Dialed the personal number he had used a few times, months ago. The number of the man who had convinced him. The voice on the other end answered on the second ring, calm, clinical, and instantly recognizable.

"Dr. Hayes."

"Hayes. It’s Richard Anderson." Richard’s voice was low, controlled, but vibrating with a fury he could barely contain. "You lied to me."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. No surprise, no denial.

"Dr. Anderson, I am surprised to hear from you at this hour," Hayes said, his voice smooth, as if discussing the weather. "To what, specifically, are you referring?"

"To everything. The age. Twenty-five, Hayes. Not thirty-four. Germany. Russia."

The silence in the office was total as Richard spoke, his voice now choked with repulsion.

"His accident. It wasn't an accident. Did you know all this when you asked me to take in an academic colleague?"

The pause on the other end was longer this time. Clinical. Analytical.

"Yes," Hayes said. "I knew."

The cold confirmation, devoid of any remorse, almost took Richard’s breath away. "You used me. You put me, and my family, in the middle... of this... without telling us the truth!"

"Let’s be frank, Dr. Anderson," Hayes said, his voice still perfectly calm. "I gave you the information necessary for you to make the decision you made. But, since we are speaking openly..." Hayes’s voice became sharper, the cold logic of a surgeon. "If I had called you and told you the naked truth? 'I have a brilliant young man, the most resilient mind I’ve ever seen, but who has been systematically tortured since he was twelve and who trusts absolutely no one... would you have accepted him? Near your wife? Thirty meters from your daughter?'"

Richard froze.

The deafening silence in his office was the only answer. The fury dissolved, evaporating instantly, replaced by the cold shame of the truth.

No.

He wouldn't have accepted. He would have refused. He would have said it was a psychiatric case, too dangerous, that he wasn't equipped. Hayes knew that. The agency knew. The lie had been the only way to save Ilian.

Richard sat in the chair, strength abandoning him.

"You used me," he murmured, voice low, defeated.

"I selected you, Richard," Hayes corrected. "Ilian’s profile indicated that he didn't need a psychiatrist. He needed safety. Your family was the only variable that fit."

Richard ran a hand over his face. The agency’s logic was terrible. And impeccable. He changed tactics.

"I understand. But now, it’s over. I have the right to know everything. So I can help him. Send me the full dossier. Everything."

"Absolutely not," Hayes said, the refusal immediate. "The information is classified. And, more importantly, it is useless to you."

"How can it be useless? I need to know what he went through!"

"Dr. Anderson, you are not his caretaker. You are the therapy." Hayes’s voice became even more clinical. "Reading a dossier about his trauma won't heal him. Talking about it will. The goal was never for you to read his story. The goal was always for him to tell the story to you."

Hayes paused, as if choosing words from a technical manual.

"Ilian has compartmentalized the past. It is isolated data, locked in different boxes, each associated with a threat response. Reading a dossier would only confirm that he is a 'case' to be studied. But the act of speaking, of him organizing these facts into a narrative for a safe listener... that forces him to process. That gives him agency."

He continued, logic cold and precise. "And, most importantly, your reaction, the fact that you don't punish him, don't discard him, or don't run away in horror because of the truth, is what will rewrite his survival protocol. The dossier is useless. The confession is everything."

Richard stopped. "He told me. About Orlov, in Russia, and how his hand was crushed by a pneumatic clamp. That’s why I called."

The silence on the other end of the line was, for the first time, human. Richard heard Hayes hold his breath.

"He told you about Orlov? Voluntarily?" Hayes’s clinical calm finally broke, replaced by genuine shock.

"He was feverish, but yes. He told me."

"Remarkable," Hayes murmured, almost to himself. "Dr. Anderson, I spent three months with him in the hospital. Three months of intensive therapy. I got nothing. My most optimistic projection was that he might start opening up to you in perhaps six months. I am surprised."

"I didn't do anything," Richard said, tiredly. "I just... stood there listening in shock."

"You created the environment. The 'Anderson Variable' worked faster than any prior simulation." Hayes seemed to be making a decision. "I need to see this. I need to re-evaluate."

"See what? You aren't going to interrogate him."

"No. I want to see the progress. I want to see you two. The environment. I’m coming there."

Richard’s heart sank. "No. He won't..."

"Tomorrow," Hayes said, resuming his authority. "Around five in the afternoon. Do not warn him. Do not change anything in your routine. I want to see the environment exactly as it is."

Hayes hung up.

Richard sat in the darkness of his office, the silent phone in his hand. The anger had disappeared, replaced by an immense weight. He was no longer a deceived host. He was the key.

And the program’s chief strategist was coming to inspect the chessboard the next day.

Chapter 59: The Calm Before the Strategy

The morning light entered softly through the living room window. It was ten o'clock. The silence in the guest house was deep, but not heavy. John, the nurse, had left discreetly after making Ilian’s breakfast and confirming he was much better.

Ilian was sitting on the sofa, reading. He was tired, his muscles still stiff from the feverish night, but the nausea had passed. He felt better than expected. The fever and the effects of the injection seemed to retreat faster this time.

A light knock on the front door, almost hesitant, made him stop reading. The door opened slowly, and Richard’s head appeared.

"Ilian?" he called in a low voice, clearly not expecting Ilian to be alert or willing to answer.

Seeing him sitting up, book in his lap, Richard looked surprised and relieved. He entered, closing the door softly.

"Sorry to barge in. I thought you were sleeping."

Ilian closed the book. The calm of the morning had left him less defensive. He noticed Richard wasn't in his usual work attire.

"Professor?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse. "Are you alright? You didn't go to work?"

The genuine concern in his voice warmed Richard. "I am fine, Ilian. I took the morning off. I wanted to make sure you were okay after the medicine."

He sat in the armchair, the same one where he had spent the previous afternoon, but didn't relax. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, examining Ilian with a paternal anxiety he barely tried to hide. The fury he had felt the night before against Hayes still burned, but now it was buried under an immediate and tender concern.

"But how are you?" he asked, voice low. "Was the night very bad?"

Ilian looked at him, perhaps surprised by the insistence. He looked away to the book in his lap. "I am better," he said, voice quiet. "The effects seem to have passed faster this time."

"And the nausea?"

"Controlled."

Richard let out a sigh he didn't know he was holding.

"Good. That is very good." He leaned back in the armchair, but the relief was short-lived. The silence between them stretched, now loaded not only with the memory of the previous night’s confession but with the new information Richard carried. He hated what he was about to do. Breaking that hard-won morning peace was cruelty, but hiding Hayes’s visit felt like a betrayal.

Honesty was the only bridge he had with Ilian.

"Ilian," he began, voice serious, tone inevitably shifting. "I need to tell you something. Dr. Hayes called me last night."

Ilian’s body didn't stiffen, but it went absolutely still.

"He... heard about your progress," Richard chose his words carefully. "He wants to come here. To visit." Ilian’s silence was total. "He is coming today. Around five in the afternoon."

Ilian slowly raised his eyes. The analytical calm he used for physics was now on his face. He didn't look afraid. He looked cold.

"I do not want to talk to him," he said. It wasn't a request, it was a statement.

Richard was caught off guard by the direct refusal. "Why? He seemed very interested in your improvement."

Ilian looked at Richard, and his expression was that of a chess master explaining an obvious move to a beginner.

"Professor, you are a good man," he said, voice low and emotionless. "You do not see." He paused, organizing data. "Dr. Hayes... he is the most dangerous of them all. He speaks smiling. Uses kind words. But the smile is fake."

Ilian’s gaze became distant, remembering the three months at the military hospital.

"He does not see people. He sees pieces. I was a pawn he needed to move from the hospital to the lab and make function. You... you are his rook, the strong piece he uses to protect the pawn. Your house," he gestured to the room, "is the safe square on the board."

Richard went pale. It was exactly what Hayes had implied on the phone. The Anderson Variable. Ilian had read the man perfectly, with terrifying precision. He finally understood Ilian’s contradiction. This was the same young man who, days before, at his first family dinner, could barely lift his eyes from his plate and who, even last night, still asked for formal permission to be excused from the table, like a prisoner asking a guard for dismissal. He was a social innocent, inept in the language of kindness, unable to process an act of pure goodness or respond to a simple "good morning."

But this... this wasn't kindness. This was power.

It was a game of survival against a master manipulator. And on this board, Ilian was an expert. He wasn't reading "social interactions"; he was calculating threat tactics. He had spent his entire life analyzing the unspoken rules of his jailers, the logic of Kessler’s ego, the brutality of Orlov. Hayes was just a subtler opponent, a fake smile covering the same board of control.

"He is not coming here to see if I am well," Ilian concluded. "He is coming here to see if his strategy is working. He is coming to measure and analyze. But it does not matter. He is the agency. I will be here."

"Ilian," Richard’s voice became firm. "You don't have to do this. You are still recovering from the fever. You have the right to refuse."

He started to reach for the cell phone in his pocket. "I'll call him. Now. I'll say the visit is inappropriate. I'll say you aren't in any condition."

"No." Ilian’s word was quick, sharp. Richard stopped, hand in his pocket. "Professor, please, do not do that."

"I can..." Richard began to insist, but Ilian interrupted him, his voice now charged with an exhausted logic.

"It will not work." His voice wasn't of defeat, it was of pure strategy. "He is the agency. If you call, he will come anyway. But he will come... angry. He will come by surprise. Better I be prepared. And you," he continued, "will have worn yourself out for nothing."

Ilian stood up from the sofa. The movement was slow, his body still sore, but full of final resolve. He was no longer in retreat mode. He was protecting his rook.

"It is alright." He looked at Richard. "I know what he wants. He wants to 'measure.' So, I will give him something to measure. I will be ready at five."

Richard remained seated in the armchair, completely stunned. He realized, with a shiver, that Ilian wasn't just accepting the inevitable. He was protecting him.

"Professor," he said, his voice now softer, gently dismissing him. "You said you took the morning to rest. You should go. You look tired."

"You're right," he murmured, standing up. "I... I'll let you prepare."

He walked to the door, feeling simultaneously immensely proud and deeply afraid.

"I will be back at five," he said firmly. "I won't let you go through this alone."

"I know."

Richard left. Ilian heard his footsteps receding on the gravel. He went to the front door and closed it. There was no key, but the click of the lock was enough.

Alone now, he had seven hours.

Rest was not an option. Instead, he walked to his work desk, sat down, and opened the Projekt Rodzina notebook. Silence was essential, preparation, mandatory.

Diving into equations, he began to work, sharpening his mind. He was preparing for intellectual battle, exercising the only weapon Hayes couldn't touch.

Chapter 60: Dr. Hayes

Richard arrived at the guest house ten minutes before the scheduled time. He was tense, stomach churning. The call with Hayes the previous night had left him in a state of angry alertness. He expected to find Ilian withdrawn or hiding in his room.

He knocked lightly and entered.

The house was silent and in perfect order.

Surprise stopped him for an instant. Ilian wasn't in bed. He was on the sofa, but he wasn't curled up. He was sitting, waiting. He was impeccable.

He wasn't the feverish survivor of the previous night. He was cleanly shaven. His hair, still slightly damp from the shower, was carefully combed off his forehead. He wore his usual clothes, dark trousers and a clean long-sleeved T-shirt. It was his armor for the inspection.

"Ilian," Richard said, nervous. "Are you... feeling alright?"

Ilian looked up. His voice was calm, cold, devoid of any fragility. "I am functional, Professor. Ready for work."

Richard barely had time to process the coldness of the response. Ilian stood up.

"Hayes should be here in a few minutes," Richard said, almost apologizing. "Want some coffee? Water? I can..."

"No," Ilian interrupted. "It is better that he finds us working."

Ilian moved. He didn't go to his usual work chair, the one facing the room. He went to the large work table, took one of the other chairs, and repositioned it.

Deliberately, he sat with his back to the entrance door, facing the wall where his Project Argus papers were meticulously organized.

Richard, confused, watched the maneuver.

"Ilian? That isn't your usual spot."

"Today I will sit here, Professor," he said, voice focused on the diagrams. "It is better this way."

Then he pointed to the chair directly opposite him. "Sit there. Please."

Richard understood. That was a tactical order. This wasn't an invitation; it was a positioning. He was the sentry. Stunned, he obeyed, sitting down tensely to keep watch over the closed door. Then, his gaze shifted to Ilian.

With a slow, methodical, and difficult movement, Ilian began to roll up the sleeve of his right shirt. He didn't stop at the wrist. The sleeve went up, past the forearm to the elbow. He repeated the process with the left, the movement smooth, indifferent.

Richard held his breath.

The map of his torture was now fully exposed under the afternoon light. The thin white lines, perfectly parallel. The small round burns. Ilian did this as if he were simply preparing to wash dishes, as if the marks had no meaning.

He wasn't vulnerable. He was concentrated. A performance of control for the man coming to "measure" him.

The silence in the room was absolute. Richard, tense, watching the door. Ilian, back to it, perfectly still, studying a diagram.

A little past five, the soft sound of a vehicle stopping on the gravel broke the silence.

The professor stood up, heart pounding. Ilian didn't move.

Richard went to the door and opened it. Dr. Hayes entered, bringing the cold air from outside. He was exactly as Ilian had described him: elegant, calm, with a warm smile that didn't reach his analytical eyes.

"Dr. Anderson. Thank you for having me."

Hayes looked past Richard and saw the scene. The defensive rook, Richard, near the door, and the valuable asset, Ilian, back turned, sleeves rolled up, working so intensely he didn't even deign to look at the visitor.

Hayes’s eyes narrowed slightly, impressed.

"Good afternoon, Ilian. I see you are working hard."

Ilian finished writing a small note in the margin of a paper. Then, he slowly swiveled in the chair. His face was neutral, professional. The scars on his arms were a silent declaration.

"Dr. Hayes. A visit?" he said, voice cold and calm. "Would you like some coffee?"

Richard, still acting in a play he barely understood, replied. "Ah, yes. Great idea, Ilian."

Hayes, playing along, smiled. The smile that didn't reach his eyes. The same smile he had used during the two days he spent with Ilian and Agent Marcus in the Washington apartment after Ilian was discharged from the hospital. "Of course. Thank you."

Ilian stood up. The movement was even slower than usual. He needed concentration not to tremble. He walked to the kitchen connected to the living room.

While Ilian prepared the coffee, back to them but hearing every word, Richard filled the silence.

"How was the flight, Dr. Hayes? Was traffic bad?"

"Smooth," Hayes replied, eyes never leaving Ilian. He watched the young man’s economy of movement, the steadiness of his hands. Hayes turned slightly to Richard, the polished smile in place.

"Autumn here is beautiful. A very peaceful environment. And it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Dr. Anderson."

"The pleasure is mine," Richard said, keeping the tone formal.

"You have a lovely property," Hayes continued, looking through the living room glass window at the darkening garden outside. "And this guest house..." He paused, assessing the environment and silently comparing it to the luxury apartment where he had kept Ilian before bringing him to Boston. "It is even cozier than in the photos I saw. A very... peaceful environment. No locks, as promised."

Ilian listened to the praise as he took three cups from the cupboard. He knew Hayes wasn't admiring the decor, he was admiring the effectiveness of the "safe square" on the board.

The sound of the coffee machine starting to drip and release the aroma filled the room. Only then did Ilian turn, bringing the cups, one by one, to the small kitchen table.

"Let us sit here," he said. "It is more comfortable."

He had changed the stage. From an engineer being inspected to a reluctant host. The three men sat at the small table.

After exchanging a few more banal words with Richard, Hayes took a sip of coffee. He looked at Ilian, his face expressing clinical approval.

"I must say, Ilian, you look much better than the last time we met," he stated, the fake smile in place. "The family environment certainly does you good. The recovery is visible."

Ilian, who was looking at the steam rising from his cup, slowly raised his head. He tried to look Hayes directly in the eyes.

The eye contact was firm for a second, maybe two. But the analytical intensity of Hayes’s gaze was too much. Ilian’s survival instinct won, and he lowered his eyes back to the safety of his cup.

"I am functional," he replied, voice neutral and controlled.

"Clearly," Hayes said, his smile widening a little. He took another sip. "I heard you had an... adventurous weekend." The scalpel was out. Hayes was probing. "A fishing trip?"

This was the test. Hayes was measuring socialization, obedience, stress tolerance.

"Yes," Ilian said. "The professor was very kind. The fresh air was... beneficial."

He used Hayes’s clinical language as a mirror.

"I heard you enjoyed it. Did you catch anything?"

"I learned the casting technique," Ilian replied. "The professor is a good instructor."

He gave Hayes no emotion. Just facts proving his cooperation.

Hayes leaned back in his chair, satisfied. The asset was stable. Cooperative. Focused. And, most intriguingly, he was controlled. The Anderson Variable was working better than expected.

Hayes finished his coffee. He set the cup on the table with a soft, audible click. The measurement was complete. He stood up. Ilian, watching him, remained seated, body tense.

Hayes adjusted his suit, the polished smile back on his face.

"Ilian, thank you for the coffee. And for your time." He looked briefly at Ilian’s rolled-up sleeves and then back at his face. "I am very pleased to see your recovery is progressing so well."

It was a dismissal. The evaluation was over.

Ilian didn't thank him or smile. The performance was over. He gave only a short, cold nod.

Satisfied with the interaction, Hayes turned to the other man in the room.

"Dr. Anderson, may I have a word with you outside for a moment?"

The twilight air was freezing. Richard closed the guest house door behind him.

"What was that?" Richard asked, voice low and furious. "A test?"

"A measurement," Hayes said, adjusting his coat. He didn't seem satisfied in the way Richard imagined; it was more, much more, he seemed clinically fascinated. "And it is confirmed. Your presence is the missing catalyst."

"Ah, yes," Hayes said, a rare trace of admiration in his voice. "It was beautiful theater. And worth every minute of my time. Sitting with his back to the door. Rolling up his sleeves to display the scars, as if they didn't matter anymore. Offering coffee. Trying to answer my questions... it was spectacular."

He turned to Richard. "Of course, he could never control the tremor in his hands or sustain my gaze. But that doesn't matter." Hayes smiled. "I didn't need the performance to be good. I needed to see the effort. The cost it took for him to do that... was the most valuable information of all. It shows he wants to stay here, in this environment, so badly that he fought remarkably against his own mind to act how he thought I wanted to see him. I tried extensively to establish a baseline of communication with him at the hospital. I got total resistance. Silence. Today, he answered two direct questions, even if it was theater, it is a seismic shift."

Hayes looked at the lit house. "I had to end the conversation. He was at his limit. He wouldn't have lasted much longer." He continued, voice now serious. "Congratulations, Dr. Anderson. He is totally anchored. My theory was correct."

"What does that mean?" Richard asked.

"It means the approach of normalcy and stability is the only viable strategy. And it is much more effective than we predicted." Hayes’s face hardened slightly. "I will submit my report today. I will formally recommend that Agent Miller be kept away from all direct contact and that brute force, which the agency prefers, not be used."

"I am glad to hear that," Richard said, relief flooding his chest.

"But be warned, Professor," Hayes added, a final touch of clinical pragmatism. "An anchor is what keeps the ship from getting lost. But if the anchor moves, or if the chain breaks... the ship is completely adrift. Your role here has become even more critical."

Hayes gave a final nod and walked away, leaving Richard at the door processing the terrifying weight of that responsibility. Realizing Ilian was right. Hayes had come to measure and was the most dangerous of them all. He stood in the twilight, the cold autumn air cutting his cheeks. The sound of Hayes’s sedan disappearing in the distance was replaced by the oppressive silence of the garden.

An anchor keeps the ship from getting lost. But if the chain breaks... the ship is completely adrift.

The weight of those words was almost physical. Hayes hadn't freed him, he had chained him to a terrifying responsibility. He, Richard, was the only thing keeping Ilian from being lost in the darkness.

Composing himself, the fury against Hayes gave way to a deep, exhausted concern for Ilian. It was time to go back, he needed to see the cost of that performance. Stepping into the guest house again, he closed the door silently. The air in the house seemed stifling, charged with the tension of the encounter.

Ilian had left the kitchen table, the performance was over. Instead, he was on the sofa, tense and leaning forward, anxiously waiting for Richard’s return, waiting for the verdict. The shirt sleeves, which he had used as a bluff to display his scars, were now pulled down tightly, cuffs covering even his hands.

Richard walked to the armchair. He was also visibly shaken. He sat down. His own hands were shaking a little.

The silence was heavy. It was Ilian who spoke first. His voice was low, analytical, but full of certainty.

"He did not believe me." It wasn't a question. It was a conclusion.

Richard, caught by surprise, looked up. "What? Ilian, what..."

"He left," he said, tactical logic working furiously. "Too fast." He looked at Richard, eyes intense. "In the hospital, he talked for hours. Asked many questions. Waited for silence. He liked long, unnerving conversations."

Ilian’s face contorted in a mask of self-loathing. "He saw the tremor. He knew I was faking. He ended the measurement because I failed the test."

Richard, hearing the precision of Ilian’s analysis, felt a shiver. He couldn't lie. The young man was right.

"No, Ilian," Richard said, voice firm but gentle. "You didn't fail the test." He leaned forward, forcing Ilian to look at him. "You are right. He saw. He saw everything."

Ilian stiffened, face paling, his worst suspicion confirmed.

"He saw the tremor," Richard continued, voice soft but insistent. "He saw the rolled-up sleeves and understood why. He saw the effort you made to try to look him in the eyes. He realized it was a performance."

"So... I really failed."

"No!" Richard said, voice urgent, almost too loud. "That is where you are wrong. He didn't leave because you failed. He left because your performance was a success. Not because he believed it, but because he understood the reason for it."

Ilian looked up, confusion clouding his analysis.

"He told me outside," Richard explained. "He said what mattered wasn't the performance, it was the effort. He said you 'fought remarkably against your own mind' to appear normal, because you want to stay here so badly."

He let the words settle.

"He didn't leave because you failed, Ilian. He left because he got what he wanted. Proof that you are 'anchored' here."

Ilian processed the information. The word intrigued him. "Anchored?"

"Yes," Richard said, the word feeling strange in his mouth. "He said... he said I was your anchor. That if the anchor moves... the ship goes adrift."

A slight trace of disdain touched Ilian’s lips. "Hayes likes labels. He is wrong."

"Wrong?" Richard asked, surprised.

Ilian looked at his own hands, now hidden in his sleeves, forcing them to stop trembling. "You are not the anchor. The anchor is normalcy. The routine." He paused. "You are... the protector of the anchor."

The depth of that analysis, Ilian correcting Hayes’s metaphor, seeing Richard not as an object but as an agent, moved him.

In that moment, with tactical analysis finished, adrenaline exhaustion hit. The tremor in Ilian’s hands increased, he hid them further. His voice suddenly became fragile, the physical effort hitting him.

"Professor... if you'll excuse me... I... I would like to be alone. If you are not offended."

"Offended? Of course not," Richard said, standing up instinctively, protective mode activated. "I just don't want to leave you..."

"I am very tired," he interrupted. "I spent a lot of energy." He looked at Richard, noting the tiredness and tension in the professor’s eyes. "You need to rest too. You look... shaken."

Richard stopped. The young man was right. He was exhausted.

Ilian straightened a little, mind taking control of the trembling body. "Do not worry about me. Whatever happens, I will resist. I have always resisted. And I will resist until the end."

He looked away, as if ashamed of his own confession.

"I do not want to be a burden to you. Nor to your family." The tragic logic of his entire life summarized in one sentence. "I just want... to enjoy this normalcy. While it is possible."

Richard stood paralyzed. While it is possible.

The phrase hit him with the force of a punch. Ilian didn't believe the safety was permanent. He saw this life, this safety, as a temporary anomaly, a truce that Hayes or Miller could revoke at any moment.

Richard wanted to make him understand he was wrong, that this home was permanent. But he looked at the exhausted boy who had just fought a psychological battle Richard could barely comprehend.

"Ilian," he said, the need to protect him overwhelming. "Tomorrow is Wednesday. Physical therapy day."

Ilian just nodded, waiting for the next order.

"I'll take the day off," Richard said. "I'll come along and..."

"No, you cannot," he said interrupting, logic returning. "I need... Physical therapy... is my fight. I need to do it alone." He couldn't appear weak in front of Richard during the session. "Please. Do not come in the morning."

Richard stared at him. He wanted to protest, but understood. Ilian needed autonomy in his own battle.

"Alright," he said. "I won't come in the morning." He couldn't leave him alone all day. Not after this. "But I'll come in the afternoon. At four. So we can resume work."

Ilian processed. A scheduled visit. Part of the routine. Part of normalcy. He relaxed a little.

"At four. Yes. Thank you."

"Rest, Ilian. You more than earned it." Richard left, closing the door softly. He stood on the dark porch, the cold air hitting his face, but he barely felt it. He looked at his own hands. They were trembling.

A slight but uncontrollable tremor, resonating from the adrenaline and horror of the last hour. He tried to close them into a fist, but the tremor persisted. He thought of the tremor he saw in Ilian’s hands, a tremor Ilian had to control while making coffee for Hayes. Richard could barely control his now, in the safety of the garden, after merely watching the encounter.

And, for the first time, Richard had a visceral glimpse of what Ilian went through. Not as an abstract concept of trauma, but as a physical sensation. That nauseating tension, that tremor threatening to betray... Ilian lived with that. He had always resisted. Kessler, Orlov, Miller, Hayes... he had faced them, year after year, without breaking completely.

The mental strength of that young man was something Richard could barely comprehend. And yet, Ilian didn't believe in victory. His last words echoed in his head: while it is possible. Ilian wasn't fighting to win, he was just calculating, with tragic clarity, how long he would last before inevitably losing.

Inside the house, Ilian stood motionless, listening to Richard’s footsteps receding on the gravel until silence returned. The guest house suddenly seemed stifling, contaminated by Hayes’s fake smile, by the smell of coffee he had been forced to serve.

Adrenaline exhaustion hit him, not as drowsiness, but as an internal chill. He felt dirty. He couldn't stay there. He couldn't collapse on the sofa.

With painful slowness, body protesting every movement after the performance, he stood up. He went to the small closet near the door. There it was. The heavy, dark blue coat Richard had insisted he wear on the observatory night.

He put it on. The fabric was heavy. It brought good memories. It was physical armor for his mental exhaustion.

Ignoring the sofa, he went to the glass door of his bedroom. Unlocked it and slid it open. The cold night air hit him, a real and welcome shock. He stepped out onto the small stone patio, the biting cold penetrating his trousers, but the coat protecting his torso. There were two garden chairs there. He walked to them and, carefully, sat down.

He tilted his head back. Above him, the sky was darkening, and a few stars were already visible. His original refuge. The only map he truly trusted.

Hayes, Miller, the agency... seen from there, they were insignificant. They were just noise. The universe was logic.

Ilian closed his eyes, finally alone, feeling the cold on his face and the comforting weight of his protector’s coat, recalibrating his mind under the silence of the stars.

Chapter 61: Inefficient Hydrodynamics

The morning physical therapy had ended hours ago. When Richard knocked and entered the guest house, at four o'clock sharp, he found Ilian calm. The house was quiet. He was sitting on the sofa reading a hardcover book.

Richard smiled, visibly relaxed.

"How was the session?" Richard asked, sitting in the armchair. "Was David... reasonable?"

"It was productive."

Richard laughed, noticing the title. "Light reading for a rest afternoon, I see."

"It is not light. The math in the radiation section is complex, but the premise is interesting."

"It was a joke, Ilian."

Ilian closed the book, marking the page with his finger. A small glint appeared in his eyes. "Ah, I see. I am almost finished. I will need more books soon."

"Of course," Richard said, playing along. "I'll see if I can find something else 'fun' and incomprehensible about black holes for you."

A very small, almost imperceptible smile touched the young man's lips. Richard smiled back, savoring the moment of normalcy.

"Well, I'm glad to see you well," he said, changing the subject. "By the way, I spoke to George. Our fishing trip on Friday is confirmed. He and Arthur are looking forward to it."

Ilian gave a slight nod. "I was hoping you would confirm. I... liked it there."

Richard stared at him for a moment, visibly touched. The fact that Ilian admitted he liked something, that he was looking forward to it, was progress. "Actually..." Richard said, his smile widening genuinely. "If you liked it that much... you gave me an idea. Wait a second. Don't go anywhere."

Richard left the guest house. Ilian was genuinely curious.

A few minutes later, Richard returned, carrying what appeared to be two rigid plastic cases, clean and professional-looking.

"If we are going fishing, and if you are going to compete with George's luck, you need the right arsenal. I think I can give you a lesson."

Richard looked at Ilian's cluttered work desk and then at the clean kitchen dining table.

"Come to the kitchen table," he said. "Let's look at this properly."

Ilian stood up, grabbed his cane, and followed him to the kitchen. Richard placed the case on the table and opened the metal latches.

The interior was a classification system. The case had trays that slid and opened, revealing dozens of small, transparent compartments. The artificial lures were meticulously separated by type, color, and weight.

Ilian was visibly fascinated, not just by the lures, but by the organization. Richard's box looked like an engineering diagram.

"Sit down," Richard said, pulling out a chair for himself.

He sat down. Richard, now in his element, began the lesson.

"This one here," he said, picking up a silver lure with a feather. "It's a classic for trout. Spins underwater."

He showed another. "George loves this one. I think it's too flashy. Looks like a... sick insect."

Ilian was fascinated by the professor's excitement. He leaned in, observing the engineering of each piece. He picked up one of the lures with his right hand, a red and white plastic piece with a small metal propeller. He turned it over, feeling its weight, analyzing its shape.

His voice came out perfectly serious, analytical.

"Professor... the hydrodynamics of this artifact seem inefficient."

Richard stopped mid-sentence. "What? It makes noise on the surface. The fish love it," he said, laughing.

Ilian shook his head slightly, still analyzing the object. "The turbulence this creates... the drag... it is too much. The ratio between mass and contact surface is inefficient."

He looked at Richard, and that small glint of humor, the same from the chess game, appeared in his eyes.

"Maybe I should design trout lures to pass the time. Precision hydrodynamics."

Richard stared at him for a second, processing the absolutely serious technical critique and the dry joke behind it. Then, he let out a loud, genuine, warm laugh that filled the small kitchen.

"Oh, Ilian, please! Don't do that," he said, still laughing.

Ilian looked up, confused by the reaction.

"I can barely keep up with you in physics," Richard explained. "If you start applying that mind of yours to fishing, George and Arthur will never invite me again. You'll catch all the fish in the lake and they'll blame me!"

Ilian processed the joke, and smiled.

Richard stopped laughing and became serious for a moment. He took a transparent plastic case, smaller and empty, from his other box.

"Every fisherman needs his own kit," he said.

Carefully, Richard selected some of the lures they had discussed. "This one you need because it's a classic. And this one here so you can test your hydrodynamic theory." He added some small hooks, some sinkers, and a small pair of pliers. He closed the case and slid it across the table to Ilian.

Ilian looked at the small case. It was the first "tool kit" he could call his own. He picked it up with his right hand, analyzing the simple system, the clean compartments. It was a gift he could understand, it was logical, functional.

He looked up. His voice was low, but firm. "Thank you very much, Professor. It is... it is a good system."

Richard smiled, his face lit up by Ilian's simple, factual acceptance. "You're welcome, Ilian."

He stood up, closing his own case. When he reached the living room door, he stopped and looked back, a last glint of humor in his eyes.

"Oh, and a piece of advice," he said.

Ilian, who was examining the latch of the new case, looked up.

"Try not to show that to George on Friday," he said in a conspiratorial tone.

Ilian frowned, the logic not making sense. "Why?"

"Because he is terribly jealous," Richard laughed. "He'll look at the lures I gave you, snort, say every single one is the wrong color and useless in that river. And then he'll insist on giving you a second kit, just to prove his is better."

Ilian processed the information. The logic of that social competition was strange to him.

"That," he said, "seems... redundant."

The word made Richard laugh again, a loud, happy sound. "That is exactly why we love him. Have a good evening, Ilian."

Richard left. Ilian remained alone in the kitchen, looking at his new case. He opened it and, with one finger, touched the propeller of the lure. An almost imperceptible smile remained on his lips.

Chapter 62: The Scissors

Ilian woke before dawn. His body ached as usual, but his mind was clear. The calm he had felt after the previous night's camaraderie with Richard still filled him. The anchor was holding firm.

After his morning routine, he prepared for his new form of fighting. He went out. The morning air was cold and damp. He didn't stop at the patio. He walked with determination across the lawn and entered the gloom of the trail.

He followed the familiar path, every step still a negotiation with the pain in his right leg. The uneven terrain strained his ankle muscles, he needed to keep it stable. When he finally emerged from the trail into the garden sunlight, he was exhausted and sweaty, despite the cold air.

His long hair, now damp, stuck to his forehead and neck. It was an annoying, suffocating sensation. Even so, he didn't feel like returning to the guest house.

He stopped and scanned the garden. His gaze first checked the circle of chairs in the distance. Empty. Good. No friends of Elara, no strangers. The path was clear.

He moved toward the greenhouse.

He didn't have a clear logical reason. He wondered why he was going there, why he didn't just go work in the guest house. But his feet kept being drawn to that spot. He reached the greenhouse door. Warm, humid air rushed out to meet him. Helena was inside, back turned, humming softly while tying a plant shoot to a stake.

She turned, and a genuine smile lit up her face.

"Ilian, dear!" she said. "You came on your usual Thursday. I was already wondering if you were coming."

Ilian paused, processing the information. Thursday. He hadn't even realized he had created a pattern.

"Sorry," he said quickly, voice low. "I... I went to the trail. I didn't know you had... a schedule."

His reaction made Helena laugh. It was a genuine, warm laugh.

"Oh, dear, no! It's not a 'schedule'," she said, drying her earth-stained hands on an apron. "It's just... a joy. A happy routine."

Helena laughed. "Don't just stand there. My official Thursday helper arrived just in time." She pointed to a workbench where a stack of small terracotta pots and a bag of soil waited.

"Sit down, dear."

He sat on the wooden bench, ready for the task.

"Today," she explained, "we are going to set up the drainage."

She began to explain the process, not as an order, but as a private lesson. She spoke patiently about the clay and showed how the drainage mat worked as a filter, keeping the substrate in place but allowing water to pass.

Ilian listened with almost disproportionate intensity. His mind, used to deciphering complex theories, applied the same rigorous focus to that simple botanical logic. He absorbed every word as if listening to an explanation on nuclear physics, memorizing the system, the purpose of each component.

"Understand, dear?" she smiled.

He just nodded, perfectly understanding the new system.

The task was welcome. It was logical. He focused, picking up the first pot. He placed a layer of expanded clay at the bottom, then took the drainage mat and the scissors. Here, the process slowed down.

He needed his left hand to steady the rough fabric, but his stiff fingers and limited strength made the task clumsy. The scissors slipped in his right hand while he tried to hold the mat with his left.

Helena watched in silence, not offering help, not rushing him, recognizing his silent struggle for independence. With patience, Ilian adapted, pinning the mat against the bench with the weight of his left forearm. Then he managed to cut the small circle with his right hand and arranged it over the clay.

He was on his fourth pot, focused, but his sweaty hair kept falling over his eyes. He brushed it away with the back of his hand, leaving a small trace of dirt on his forehead.

Helena watched him silently for a moment. "That hair is really bothering you, isn't it?" she asked, voice soft.

Ilian froze for a second, caught in his moment of irritation. He murmured, focused on the pot. "I prefer it... out of my eyes."

Helena smiled, a warm and practical smile.

"I can help with that, if you let me. I'm not a professional, but I know how to trim the ends."

Ilian went absolutely still. Panic rose, icy. Touch. Scissors. Neck. Vulnerability.

But he was in the greenhouse. A safe place. With Helena. The person who had held his marked hand in the dirt.

He gave a single, slow nod.

"Great!" she said, showing no sign of shock at the trust placed in her. "Wash your hands in that sink, dear. Sit on that stool there, the lower one. Stay here. I'll be right back. Just going to get the scissors and a comb."

Helena left.

Ilian was left alone in the warmth of the greenhouse. The silence was filled by the sound of a bee tapping gently against the glass. He heard the word "scissors" echo in his mind.

The smell of damp earth vanished.

He was back at the German base. Kessler's voice, during one of the work sessions, his gaze shifting from the equations to Ilian's head.

"Your hair is getting long, Ilian," Kessler had said, voice cold, devoid of any paternal tone, as if pointing out a flaw in equipment. "It looks undisciplined. Fix it."

"Fixing it" meant being delivered, at 08:00 the next morning, by a silent soldier to the base barbershop. And the sound. The sharp electric sound of the clippers, a furious vibration that seemed to drill into his skull. Undisciplined. Inefficient.

His heart raced.

The greenhouse door opened.

He flinched.

It was Helena. She was calm, smiling. Carrying shiny metal scissors, a fine comb, and a clean, folded face towel. Her tranquility broke his panic, bringing him back to the present.

"Ready," she said, approaching. "Let's see. What's your preference?"

His voice came out tense, low. "Just... shorter. Out of the eyes."

"Perfect."

She placed the towel over his shoulders. He stood rigid as a stone statue, shoulders tense. Helena positioned herself behind him, and Ilian fought the primal instinct to flee.

Noticing the tension in the stiffness of the young man's neck, she didn't touch him yet; first she spoke, voice soft, narrating every step so there would be no surprises.

"To start," she said softly, "let's detangle this. I have the comb now, dear. I'm just going to go very slowly. I won't pull."

He felt the light touch of the comb teeth on his scalp. It wasn't the rough, impatient dragging of the base barber. It was gentle.

"There," she murmured, more to herself than to him, as she worked. "A little tangled here, but we're doing well. Just stay calm."

The comb glided through his hair, loosening knots, teeth lightly scratching his skin. It was such a strange sensation. He didn't know how to process it.

Helena stopped for a second. "Done. Now I'm going to take the scissors. You'll just hear the sound of them, okay? I'll start here, just to get it off your face."

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the calm sound of her voice, using it as an anchor against the memory of the machine's electric sound.

She moved to the side. The sound of the scissors shifted, now a constant, rhythmic sound near his right ear. He felt the comb glide again, from the temple down, and the light touch of her fingers brushing his skin as she guided the scissors. There was no impatient tug of the barber, no rough hand forcing his head. Helena worked with quiet patience, her movements fluid.

He focused only on that. On the methodical sound of the scissors and the light touch of Helena's fingers guiding the hair. With every cut, it was as if a thread of his tension was severed along with it. It was the first time in his adult life, perhaps in his entire life, that a touch on his head was associated with care, not control.

He felt the tension in his shoulders decrease. The stiffness in his spine gave way. He was completely relaxed, almost drowsy, surrendered to the maternal ritual.

"There," she said finally. "Almost there."

He felt the towel, now slightly damp from the greenhouse heat, on the nape of his neck. She gently wiped the small hairs from his neck, behind his ears, and the sides of his face. The touch was soft, maternal.

Ilian opened his eyes. He felt lighter. He felt clean. He ran his hand through the hair now shorter on the side of his head. It was out of his eyes.

Helena stepped back, tilting her head to admire her work, face glowing with affection.

"There. Look at that," she said, smiling. "Every day that passes, you look more handsome."

Ilian turned on the stool, processing the touch, the silence, the praise. He looked at Helena, and a real, genuine, uncomplicated smile finally reached his eyes.

"Thank you, Mrs. Anderson," he said, voice thick, choked by an emotion he barely understood. "I... I didn't know that... that it could be like this."

Helena watched him, heart aching. "Like what, dear?"

"So... calm," Ilian whispered. "You... you have very gentle hands."

Helena felt the vastness of pain and loneliness behind that simple sentence. The praise was so pure, so raw, that her eyes stung. She resisted the overwhelming urge to hug him, to protect him from everything that had taught him otherwise.

Instead, she just smiled, eyes shining with deep affection.

"It was a pleasure, Ilian," she said, voice soft. "A real pleasure."

Helena then looked at the towel on his shoulders and his neck, and her expression changed from tender to practical.

"But now," she said, laughing lightly as she removed the towel, "you are covered in little hairs. They will itch. Go. Go to your house, take a shower, and get all this off your body."

The gentle order anchored him. He had a new task. He stood up from the bench, feeling lighter in many ways.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, smiling.

He turned to leave, paused at the greenhouse door, and looked back one last time, the genuine smile still lingering on his lips. Helena just smiled and waved.

Ilian left happy.

The shower was a ritual. He stood under the hot water, the sound muffling the world, and felt the new sensation of water on his nape, now exposed, and on the shorter hair on his head. When he got out, steam had fogged the mirror. He wiped it with his hand. The face staring back was his, but different. Cleaner. Younger. The hair was out of his eyes.

The guest house was quiet. The feeling of coziness, of Helena's gentle touch, was an emotion so overwhelming, so different, that he needed to process it. Needed to anchor it in data.

He went to the sofa. Slid his hand to his hiding place and took out his most secret notebook, the personal diary. He sat down, opening to a new page. He wanted to draw Helena's hands, but couldn't capture the sensation. Instead, he wrote in Polish, his mother tongue.

He described the soft sound of the scissors, not the electric sound of the machine. He described the touch of the comb, a gentle pressure, not a rough drag. And then he tried to name the feeling. That care. That kindness that asked for nothing in return, that simply gave.

His logical mind searched his limited database for that concept. He only had one word for it, a word he knew only as a fact, as an empty label. Now, it had a sensation.

He wrote at the top of the page: Matka. (Mother).

He stared at the word. For him, "Mother" had never been a person. It had been a story told by nuns, a Dutch ghost. It had been a piece of paper. A note left with him at the orphanage when he was six months old. A note that gave him a name, Ilian Jansen, and a date of birth, July 19th. A Dutch name in a Polish country.

Until today, Matka was just that: a name and a date. Now, Matka had another sensory input attached. It had the sound of scissors. It had the sensation of gentle hands.

He closed the notebook, heart beating slowly and steadily. And, for the first time, the word "Mother" made some sense to him.

Chapter 63: The Worry

Thursday unfolded in an almost sleepy calm. The walk on the trail had left him physically exhausted, but the experience in the greenhouse, Helena's gentle touch, the soft sound of the scissors, had left him mentally at peace.

The fishing weekend was approaching, and he felt genuinely happy about a future event. He was sitting on the sofa, reading. A light knock on the door made him look up. It was the usual time for Richard's visit.

Ilian marked the page of the book. He stood up slowly, leaning on the sofa, grabbed his cane, and limped to the door. He opened it, expecting to see the professor.

It was Elara, standing on the porch.

She looked calm. Her eyes immediately noticed his hair, and a genuine, surprised smile lit up her face.

"Did my mom really do that? Your hair looks great! You look... completely different from that man we saw in the hangar."

Ilian tensed under the direct praise. It was Elara. Her presence still made him nervous, clumsy. He didn't know how to accept a compliment from her.

"Thank you," he murmured, and then added the only explanation that made sense. "It was... bothering my eyes."

Elara laughed, a light sound, understanding that he had accepted the compliment in his factual way. Then she held up a small glass jar she was carrying.

"I brought this. Gingerbread cookies."

Ilian looked up, surprised.

"Sorry I didn't bring them on the day of your... your medication," she said, practically. "I was busy with university. But I didn't forget."

He took the jar. "Thank you."

"Oh, and the main thing," she said, as if remembering the real reason for being there. "My dad asked me to tell you that tomorrow's fishing trip, unfortunately, has been canceled. He came back from the university at lunch already with a bad cold. He's sleeping now."

Ilian's calm vanished.

Her words fell on him, shattering normalcy. The weekend. The plan. The routine. Canceled.

His mind processed the news in conflicting flashes. First, a sharp pang of disappointment. He wanted to go. He wanted to use the lure kit Richard had given him.

Then, something colder took its place: Richard was sick. The "protector of the anchor" was vulnerable. Normalcy was broken. And, beneath it all, a strange and uncomfortable emotion: worry.

"Is he... Is he very sick?"

Elara shrugged, oblivious to Ilian's internal turmoil. To her, it was just a fact of life.

"He'll get better. It's just a cold. My mom is taking care of everything. He just said for you not to worry and to rest. And that he's very sorry about the fishing. He already told George and Arthur. Don't worry."

She smiled, gave a little wave, and left, letting the door close softly.

Ilian stood alone in the silence.

He looked at the jar of gingerbread cookies in his hands. The gift seemed insignificant now. The coziness of the morning, the peace of the haircut... everything evaporated. Richard was sick. The routine was broken. And, for the first time in his life, Ilian found himself genuinely worried about another person's health.

He stood in the middle of the living room. The silence of the house, which had been a tranquil achievement, now felt empty. The fishing trip, canceled. Richard, sick. He placed the cookie jar on the kitchen table.

His "normalcy," the rhythm he had fought so hard to protect, had been broken.

He tried to return to his original plan. The afternoon was his. He should rest, maybe work.

He walked back to the sofa and picked up the technical book on safety. He opened it, found the page he was reading, and read the same paragraph three times. The words about failure protocols and redundancy no longer made sense. They dissolved on the page.

His mind, against his will, was elsewhere. It was in the main house.

He saw Richard, not the strong protector, but the man who looked pale and haggard during the previous afternoon's visit. He remembered Richard bringing him soup, his calm voice reading about stars. Richard had taken care of him. And now, Richard was sick.

A physical restlessness began, an unknown sensation. He stood up, frustrated with his inability to concentrate. The book was useless.

He went to the work desk. Project Argus. He picked up the pencil, looked at the diagrams. Tried to focus on the math, but the image of Richard kept intruding. Ilian spent the entire afternoon like that, wandering between the sofa and the desk, unable to read, unable to calculate. He tried to eat one of Elara's cookies, but the taste seemed wrong, and he left it half-eaten.

The sun began to set. The guest house grew dark, and Ilian didn't bother to turn on the lights.

He sat in the gloom, listening to the silence. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he wouldn't be able to sleep. The worry was a noisy engine inside his head. He couldn't just wait. He needed data. He needed visual confirmation.

He needed to see Richard.

The decision hit him with the force of a physical need. He stood up again, muscles protesting. Grabbed his cane. Went to the door and stepped out into the cold night. He had no definite plan. He only knew he needed to cross the garden.

The air was freezing. The main house seemed distant, an island of warm light in the middle of darkness. The lawn was soft and uneven under his feet. Every step was a calculation. The cane sank slightly into the earth. His right leg protested, the pain mixing with the night chill. He was exposed.

Finally, he reached the stone path leading to the kitchen door. The lights were on.

He stopped, heart pounding. And looked at his obstacle.

Three steps.

The same steps where he had failed days ago with Elara. He remembered the humiliation, being forced to retreat to the garden. But today was different. Worry was stronger than pride.

He took a deep breath. Planted the cane firmly on the first concrete step. Used his left hand to try to support himself only on the wall of the house. A sharp, shooting pain shot up his right hip. The leg refused to obey. He almost lost his balance, gasping with the sudden effort.

Frustrated, he tried again. Braced the cane, locked his right arm, tried to hoist his body. But the defective leg wouldn't hold his weight. He couldn't do it without support on the left side.

He was stuck. Stuck in the dark garden, defeated by three pieces of concrete. The frustration was cold and bitter.

At that moment, the kitchen door opened, flooding him with light.

"Ilian!" Helena's voice was a mix of shock and alarm. Elara appeared behind her, drying her hands on a dish towel, eyes wide. "What are you doing out here in the cold?"

Ilian stood paralyzed, caught in his moment of weakness. He couldn't formulate an excuse.

"I..." his voice came out hoarse. "I need to see the professor."

The simple confession disarmed Helena's confusion. Her expression softened instantly into pure compassion.

"Oh, dear." She descended the steps without hesitation and stood beside him. "Come, come inside. You're shivering."

She offered her arm. Ilian looked at Elara, who was still watching from the door, and then at Helena. He accepted.

The climb was a clumsy and painful maneuver. Helena, though full of goodwill, didn't have Richard's strength or balance to serve as a firm counterweight. It was an excruciating effort, step by step, but they made it. He entered the warm kitchen, feeling exhausted.

"Is he okay?" Ilian asked, breath short.

"He's sleeping, dear," she said, guiding him to a chair at the kitchen table. "The fever broke. He's in his room."

"Can I... speak to him?" he asked, hope in his voice.

Helena and Elara exchanged a quick, sad glance.

"Oh, Ilian..." Mrs. Anderson said, voice gentle. "The bedroom is upstairs. He is sleeping deeply."

Total frustration. He had barely managed to conquer the three kitchen steps, a whole staircase was the equivalent of a mountain. He couldn't go up.

"It's better this way, dear," Helena said softly. "You don't want to catch this cold."

Ilian looked at his own hands, feeling powerless. Agony took over him. He wanted so much to return the care.

"I..." he murmured, "I just wanted to read to him. Like he did for me."

Helena brought a hand to her chest, visibly moved. "Oh, Ilian, that is so..."

"Mom, he can't go up, and Dad needs to sleep," Elara said, her practical voice breaking the emotion.

Helena composed herself. "You're right. Ilian, it's normal to worry about those we care about. But he needs to rest."

She saw the agony on the young man's face, his failed mission. He had crossed the cold garden, fought the steps, all to see Richard, and now he was defeated in her kitchen. She made a maternal decision.

"You know what?" she said with a decided voice. "It's just a cold. I can go up and wake him. I'll ask him to come down and talk to you just for a minute."

Ilian, who was looking at the floor, lifted his head abruptly, eyes wide with panic.

"No! Please. I don't want to disturb him."

Elara, the pragmatic observer, understood Ilian's need to complete the mission. She went to a drawer, grabbed a small notepad and a pen. Approached the table and placed the items gently next to Ilian's hand.

"Write to him that I'll deliver your message," Elara said.

Ilian looked at the paper. A solution.

He picked up the pen. His right hand, trembling from the exhaustion of the walk and the tension, formed the letters slowly.

Professor. Hope you recover. I could not come up. Ilian

He pushed the small note to Elara. "Thank you very much."

"Do you want dinner?" Helena offered. "I made a delicious soup, but it has salt, still I can make something else for you to eat. It won't take long."

Ilian shook his head. The mission was accomplished. His social and physical battery was drained.

"Thank you. I need to go."

Helena helped him stand up and accompanied him to the door. She helped him down the treacherous steps, back into the cold of the garden.

He turned and walked back to his dark refuge, having failed physically in his journey, but, for the first time, succeeding in sending a message of care to the outside world.

Chapter 64: The Silent Company

The digital clock read 4:20 AM.

Ilian was awake. He hadn't slept well. The entire night had been spent in a state of anxious alertness, listening to the sounds of the guest house, imagining the silence of the main house. The worry for Richard was a cold current beneath his skin.

He gave up trying to sleep, standing up in the darkness, his stiff leg protesting against the cold.

He went to the work desk and, in the gloom, turned on the small lamp. He buried himself in the Project Argus diagrams, a desperate attempt to use logic to stifle emotion. It didn't work. With every calculation, his mind drifted, wondering if Richard's fever had gone down.

At nine in the morning, when David and Ben arrived, Ilian was already exhausted from the sleepless night. The session was an exercise in dissociation. David started the leg exercises. Ilian was physically present, but his mind was in the main house.

"Focus, Mr. Jansen," David said, when Ilian wavered on the balance board, almost falling. The distraction made him miss a movement he had managed to execute on Wednesday. "Your mind is somewhere else today. That's dangerous."

Ilian gritted his teeth and composed himself.

The session moved to the hand. Ben started the painful work of stretching the stiff fingers.

"You're tenser than usual, Mr. Jansen," Ben said, voice low, focused on the physical, not the emotional. "Stiffer. Try to relax your shoulder. This won't work if you fight me."

"I am trying," Ilian murmured.

"Just breathe," Ben said, without cruelty, but firmly. "The session is almost over."

When they left, Ilian was sore and frustrated with himself. He wiped away the sweat. Went to the kitchen. Needed fuel. Grabbed the eggs and began preparing them, his movements mechanical.

He sat at the kitchen table, eating the unsalted eggs.

The doorbell rang. It was Dr. Evans, with his bag.

"Good morning, Ilian. How are we..."

Ilian interrupted him, unable to contain the priority. His first and only concern was visible.

"The professor is sick."

Evans stopped, surprised by the direct interruption. "What? Richard?"

"A cold. Elara said yesterday. He is in the main house." The implication was clear, a silent plea: Go see him.

Dr. Evans understood. "Alright, Ilian. Thanks for letting me know. I'll check on him as soon as we finish here."

The routine blood draw was fast. Ilian extended his arm, tense, anxious for the doctor to finish soon. Every second felt wasted.

"Done, Ilian. Rest. And I'll go see our friend," Evans said, leaving.

Ilian was left alone. He couldn't go to the main house in shorts. Decided to take a quick shower. Put on his dark trousers, a clean long-sleeved T-shirt. He was ready. Returned to the living room and sat on the sofa. Waiting. The doctor should return. He should give him the data.

He waited. The silence was deafening. Ten minutes passed. Twenty.

He stood up and went to the window.

Then, he saw it.

Dr. Evans left the main house, alone. Walked calmly to his car, put his bag on the passenger seat, and, without a single glance toward the guest house, got in the vehicle and drove away.

Ilian stood paralyzed. He didn't come. He didn't give him the data. He found it absurd that the doctor simply left without returning to inform him about the professor's situation.

Cold logic said a cold wasn't an emergency. The anxiety of someone who survived captivity said the absence of information was always the worst news. The doctor was hiding something.

Anxiety transformed into a cold need to act. He couldn't wait any longer.

He went to his bookshelf, grabbed the heavy physics book. It was his shield, his reason for the visit. Gripped his cane firmly. Left the house and crossed the garden, the sun of nearly 11 AM was now high.

He reached the main kitchen steps. He knew he was exhausted from physical therapy. He knew he couldn't climb them alone.

This time, he didn't try. He just knocked on the glass door.

It was Helena who answered. She looked tired but smiled seeing him there, holding the book.

"Ilian! Dear. Shouldn't you be resting?"

"I... I came to see the professor."

Helena laughed softly, a tired sound. "He's fine, Ilian. It's just a cold. Dr. Evans was here, said he just needs rest." She pointed inside the house. "Richard is in the office. Stubborn as always, grading some papers."

Relief was so deep Ilian let out a sigh. It wasn't an emergency. The doctor didn't come back... because there was nothing to report. The simplicity of normalcy hit him. But his mission wasn't complete.

"He got your note," Helena continued, face lighting up. "He was so moved. He said he plans to come over to the guest house after lunch. Don't worry."

But Ilian's anxiety wasn't logical. He needed to see with his own eyes. The promise of "after lunch" seemed too far away.

"Can... can I see him?" Ilian insisted, voice low but determined. "Now?"

Helena seemed surprised by the insistence. She studied him for a moment. "Oh, dear, you don't need to push yourself. You're exhausted from therapy. Wait for him to come over later."

Ilian looked at the three steps, his enemy. Looked back at Helena, vulnerability and determination in his eyes. "I cannot climb alone. Please, Mrs. Anderson. I need to."

Helena saw the intensity of the need and then understood. It wasn't a whim, it was a true necessity. Her heart squeezed.

"Of course, dear. Of course you can." She looked at the heavy book in his hand. "Let me take that." She took the book gently, went into the kitchen, and placed it on the counter. Then, she returned and descended the steps to stand beside him.

"Ready. Lean on me."

Helena helped him up the steps with great difficulty.

"Let's go to the office," she said, catching her breath and picking up the book from the counter. "But don't get too close to him so you don't end up catching a cold too." Slowly he followed her through the kitchen to the hallway. She knocked softly on Richard's office door.

"Honey? We have a visitor." She stepped aside, opening the door fully for Ilian to enter.

Helena opened the door and gestured for Ilian to go in. As he passed, she handed him the physics book she was holding.

"I'll leave you two alone," she whispered, and with a gentle smile, closed the door, leaving them in privacy.

Ilian entered, holding the book like a shield. Richard was sitting at his large mahogany desk, surrounded by piles of papers. He was pale, a crumpled tissue in his hand, but smiled seeing Ilian standing there.

"Ilian. Come in, come in." Richard's voice was hoarse. "Thank you for coming, but don't get too close. You don't want to catch this cold." He gestured to the small yellow note on the desk, next to his keyboard. "And thank you for this," he said, voice full of genuine emotion. "I was very moved. I was going to come over after lunch."

The anxiety that had consumed Ilian for the last few hours finally dissipated. The protector was vulnerable, but he was safe.

He stood there, holding the physics book, suddenly unsure what to do. His mission was complete, but he didn't want to leave.

"Professor..." he asked, in a low voice. "May I stay? I won't disturb you. I will just read."

Richard, deeply touched by the request, gestured to a leather armchair in the corner. "Disturb? Of course not. Make yourself at home."

He limped to the armchair, sat down, and opened the book.

And so they stayed. It wasn't total silence. The office was filled with the small sounds of life. The scratching of Richard's pen on students' papers. The soft turning of a page in Ilian's book. And, occasionally, the sound of Richard coughing.

Every time it happened, Ilian raised his eyes from the book, watching him over the pages with silent, clinical concern. Richard's face would get congested, he'd wipe his nose, drink a sip of water. He noticed Ilian's gaze. The third time, he gave a small reassuring smile and waved a hand. "I'm fine, it's nothing."

Richard put down the pen and leaned back in his chair, looking at Ilian with a tired sigh.

"You know, Ilian..." he said, voice hoarse. "I'm here, stuck in these papers, but we were supposed to be getting ready for our fishing weekend. I'm sorry we canceled the trip. Did Elara tell you? George and Arthur sent their regards too. We'll reschedule as soon as I get better."

Ilian saw the honest regret on the professor's face. "It is no problem, Professor," he said, voice calm. "The important thing is for you to get better."

Richard smiled, visibly touched by the sincerity. "Thank you, Ilian." He picked up the pen again, a little more animated.

Ilian wasn't reading intensely. He was absorbing the silence. He was guarding his protector. He was, for the first time, offering what Richard had always given him: company.

Helena appeared at the door some time later, announcing lunch.

"Gentlemen, lunch is served," she said, looking mostly at her husband. "And, Richard, doctor's orders: you need to take a break and eat."

Richard sighed, looking genuinely tired. He looked at Ilian, who was already closing the book. "I guess that goes for both of us. Come on, Ilian."

Both went to the kitchen table. Helena moved with quiet efficiency. She placed a bowl of hot, steaming soup in front of Richard. "For my stubborn patient," she said softly, with an affectionate look.

Then, she placed a different, and visibly more substantial, plate in front of Ilian.

"And for our guest," she continued, voice equally gentle. "Some meat and mashed potatoes, unsalted, but with plenty of herbs, exactly as Dr. Evans specified."

Ilian saw Helena actively taking care of Richard. She handed a pill to her husband. "Take your cold medicine," she said, not as a request, but as a fact. Richard grumbled but obeyed. While he ate, Helena reached out and rested the back of her fingers on his forehead, a casual gesture of pure intimacy.

"The fever is completely gone," she murmured, more to herself.

Ilian watched the dynamic with silent intensity. He was witnessing the normalcy of a couple taking care of each other. It was Projekt Rodzina, alive and breathing in front of him. It was more data for his secret notebook.

Richard, noticing Ilian's analytical gaze on them, smiled at Helena. "See? Now I have two watchmen monitoring me."

The direct mention made Ilian's heart race. He expected the panic of exposure, but it didn't come. Richard didn't look annoyed, he looked amused, grateful. Ilian didn't react, just lowered his gaze to his food, feeling, perhaps for the first time, part of that dynamic of mutual care.

After lunch, Richard admitted his fatigue. "Alright, you win. I'm going to rest a bit."

Ilian, now with his data collected -Richard was stable, eating, medicated, and being actively cared for - felt his mission for the day accomplished. The anxiety that had woken him at 4 AM finally dissipated.

He shifted in his chair, starting the slow process of preparing to stand. "Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Anderson. Professor. I need to go now."

Richard, by instinct, started to get up from his own chair. "Of course, Ilian. Let me help you with the steps..."

"Absolutely not," interrupted Helena, with maternal firmness, placing a hand on Richard's shoulder and making him sit. "You are sick and you are staying right there. I'll help Ilian."

She turned to Ilian with a gentle smile. "We don't want you catching this cold too, dear. Come, I'll walk you to the door."

Ilian nodded, accepting her logic. Helena accompanied him to the door, helping him down the three steps, the difficulty of descent was greater than the ascent, but they managed.

Ilian crossed the lawn alone, exhausted from the long vigil, but calm. Richard was safe.

He entered the guest house. Silence enveloped him, but it was a different silence. It wasn't the tense silence of the morning, full of worry. It was a conquered silence. A space he could, finally, fill with his own thoughts.

The physical effort of therapy that morning, combined with the tension of monitoring Richard and the social interaction of lunch, had drained his last reserves of energy.

Heading straight to the bedroom, he collapsed onto the bedspread, letting his aching body sink into the mattress. Rest finally came. By the time he woke, the light in the guest house had shifted, softer now, announcing late afternoon. The house remained quiet.

An impulse moved him. It wasn't anxiety, but intellectual energy. The lunch scene.

He didn't go to his work desk. First, he went to the sofa. With a practical movement, he reached into the hiding place he had created and pulled out the second notebook. The black-covered notebook dedicated to Projekt Rodzina.

Only then did he sit at his work desk. His space of logic.

He was energized by what he had witnessed. He opened the notebook and began to work, not on the agency's project, but on his own.

His mind analyzed the lunch scene not as an emotion, but as a system. Helena was Richard's anchor. He scribbled notes about interdependence, about how the mutual support system functioned. Richard's strength, his capacity to be Ilian's protector, came from the fact that he himself had a support system that recharged him. The "Anderson Variable" wasn't just Richard, it was Richard and Helena.

He saw his project in action in real life.

The sun set. Ilian felt his body ask for fuel. He put the Projekt Rodzina notebook back in its safe hiding place.

He went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge and grabbed a meal. Ate alone at the kitchen table, but the solitude wasn't sad. It was peaceful. A conquered autonomy.

With his body rested and fed, he sought his other refuge. Returned to the sofa. Reached again into the hiding place, but this time pulled out the first notebook: his personal diary, written in Polish.

He didn't sit at the work desk. That was the place of logic. He sat on the sofa, in the island of warm light from the lamp. His place of introspection.

He opened to a clean page and wrote a single word at the top: Rodzina.

Family.

He stared at the word. Processed the day. Described the image of Helena caring for Richard, her hand on his forehead, her firm but gentle voice reminding him of the medicine. Contrasted this with his own experiences of vulnerability.

Kessler, who saw the weakness of unauthorized sleep as a disciplinary failure, punishing it with hunger. Orlov, who saw stubbornness, a form of moral strength, as insubordination, punishing it with physical mutilation. In those worlds, vulnerability was an invitation to punishment. Strength was something to be broken.

But there, in that kitchen, he had seen something new. He had seen Richard get sick and be cared for. And the care Helena offered didn't diminish Richard's strength, on the contrary, it was the source of it. Care wasn't a transaction or a weakness to be exploited. It was what kept the system strong.

He took his graphite pencil, the tip sharp. He needed to record what he had seen. He sketched Helena's hand, not covered in earth like in his last drawing, but extended, fingers resting gently on Richard's forehead, whom he drew only as a slanted line, suggesting rest. It was a drawing about gestures, not people. A gesture of checking, of active care.

The day had been exhausting, but the conclusion was profound.

He hid the diary next to his other project, back in the safe darkness of the sofa. He went to the bedroom, lay on the bed, his mind truly calm.