Project Rodzina - Final

Here's the final part of Ilian Jansen's book. I hope you enjoy the ending.

I know the book was very long, but I couldn't summarize it.

If you liked it, please leave a review on Amazon 

(https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G6VH1MP6)

Thank you very much.

Chapter 92: The Silence of Concrete

Afternoon fell over the military base without the sun ever being seen. In the containment cell, there was neither day nor night, only the constant electric hum of fluorescent lights embedded in the concrete ceiling.

Ilian sat on the edge of the bed. The room was clean, spacious. There was a desk bolted to the floor, a chair, paper, pens. A private bathroom without a door, a wardrobe with some clothes. It was a grotesque imitation of comfort, a windowless cage.

He hadn't slept. His body was rigid, his right leg throbbing in a constant rhythm that matched his heartbeat. The sound of the electronic lock clicked, breaking the silence. The heavy metal door slid open.

Two soldiers entered, filling the space with uniforms and indifference. One of them pushed a wheelchair.

Ilian, who was sitting on the bed with his right hand already instinctively resting on the cane beside him, recognized the object with a knot in his stomach. It was the same chair that had transported him from the car upon his arrival. He vividly remembered the endless labyrinth of concrete corridors, distances that would be impossible for him to cover on foot, and the obvious impatience of the guards who had no time for his slow, shuffling walk. To them, he was just cargo, and cargo needed to be moved fast.

In a reflex of dignity, Ilian gripped the wooden handle and made to stand up, the intention clear to try walking.

"Transport protocol. Sit down," the soldier said, voice dry and bored.

The order was a wall. Ilian hesitated for a fraction of a second, calculating the futility of resistance, and then obeyed. With economical movements, he transferred his body to the chair. Pulled the cane to him, tucking the tip in so it wouldn't drag on the floor, and held it tight, as if it were his last connection to humanity.

The journey was a blur of identical corridors, concrete ceilings, and steel doors. He was pushed. Cargo. A damaged package being moved in stock. The feeling of helplessness was a cold nausea that rose and fell with the motion of the wheels.

The chair stopped. A door opened into a smaller, colder room. Gray walls. A large mirror on one wall. A metal table bolted to the floor.

The guard locked the chair wheels away from the table. Pointed to the rigid metal chair on the other side of the table.

"Get up," the guard ordered. "Sit there."

Ilian steadied the cane on the floor. Stood up. Walked slowly to the metal chair and sat down.

The guard left. The door closed.

Ilian was alone. The silence of the interrogation room was dense, but the solitude was a lie. He felt the physical weight of invisible stares coming from the other side of the large mirror on the side wall. He knew he was being dissected.

To avoid yielding to the urge to look at the mirror, he lowered his head and fixed his gaze on the metal surface of the table in front of him. The steel wasn't immaculate. There were oxidation stains, cleaning residue, and old scratches. His mind, seeking immediate refuge, began to trace imaginary lines between the imperfections.

A dark stain became a vertex. A deep scratch formed the hypotenuse. He saw triangles. Fractal patterns in the metal corrosion. It was the same dissociation he used when observing ants in the forest, a microscopic dive to ignore the hostile environment. As his mind calculated silent angles in the grime, the weight of being watched became bearable. He breathed deep, building his wall.

Minutes passed. Perhaps an hour. Time there was a weapon.

The door opened. Ilian raised his eyes, then immediately lowered them. It was Agent Miller. The agent wasn't in a hurry. Carrying a folder under his arm, he closed the door slowly, savoring the sound of the lock. He walked to the table but didn't sit, instead, he loomed over Ilian from the other side.

Miller took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Hands on the table."

Ilian looked at the handcuffs. It was illogical. He could barely walk. It wasn't a security measure, it was a measure of dominance. Slowly, he leaned the cane against the chair and placed his wrists on the cold metal.

Miller didn't just cuff his hands together. There was a metal bar welded to the table surface. The agent passed the handcuff chain through the structure before closing the latches. The click of steel closing around his wrists was loud. Miller tightened them a little too much, anchoring him to the furniture. Ilian's pale, scarred skin was pinched. He didn't react.

The Agent stepped back, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms. Stayed silent. Just watching. He observed Ilian like someone observing an insect in a jar.

"You look comfortable, Jansen," he finally said, voice soft, full of venom. "Domestic life suited you well. Professor Anderson did a good job softening you up."

Ilian kept his eyes down. Didn't answer.

"He's a pathetic man, isn't he?" he continued, circling the table slowly. "Good old Professor. So worried. So... paternal." Miller laughed, a dry sound. "He thinks he's saving you. He thinks you're a victim." Miller stopped behind Ilian. "But we know the truth, don't we? We know what you did in Germany. The Falke. The blood on your hands."

"You killed American soldiers, Jansen," Miller whispered. "Good men. Men with families. And now the Agency wants to treat you like a scientist? They are being condescending. They are giving you a warm bed and food, when you should be in a grave."

Miller returned to the front of the table. Ilian's silence, his absolute refusal to defend himself, began to irritate him. He wanted fear. Wanted pleading. Received only the void.

"You think your silence is strength?" Miller sneered. "You think you're protected because you have a project in your head that we want?"

Miller grabbed the heavy folder he had brought and, in a sudden, violent movement, slammed it onto the metal table, inches from Ilian's handcuffed hands.

The bang was like a gunshot in the confined space. Ilian's body gave a spasm of pure nervous reflex. His eyes went wide for a fraction of a second.

Miller smiled, satisfied with the flinch. "There he is. The scared genius." He opened the folder calmly. "You made a mistake, Jansen. A stupid, arrogant mistake. You thought you were safe in the Professor's house. Thought you were untouchable."

Miller began pulling photographs from the folder, spreading them on the table, one by one, like playing cards. Ilian looked. And the blood froze in his veins. They weren't satellite photos. They weren't old photos. They were photos of the black notebook. Projekt Rodzina. Open. Flowchart pages. Detailed diagrams of the debris filter.

"You left this on the coffee table," Miller said, voice dripping with scorn. "While you slept. So careless. Our nurse saw the opportunity. Took pictures of everything. Page by page. You signed your own sentence."

Ilian felt as if the floor had disappeared. His secret project. His redemption. Stolen. Violated.

"Our engineers spent days analyzing it," he continued, tapping one of the photos with his index finger. "They were impressed. Said it's genius. A radar system capable of filtering chaos and finding a biological signal through meters of dense material." Miller leaned over the table. "But they don't want to save little children from earthquakes, Jansen. We aren't the Red Cross."

Miller's smile widened, cruel. "We are going to use this to hunt. Your filter is perfect for penetrating reinforced concrete. For ignoring soil and rock camouflage. We are going to use your Project Rodzina to find terrorists hiding in the deepest bunkers in the world."

The revelation hit Ilian with the violence of a physical blow. His creation. His apology. The tool he designed to save families, to bring children back to parents... transformed into a scope. Into a murder weapon.

"The engineers understood the concept," Miller said, straightening up. "But they need you to know how to build it. That's why you're here." Miller closed the folder. "You are going to build this for the Army. And you're going to start now." He turned and walked to the door without looking back. Then he walked out, leaving Ilian alone with the scattered photos, the total perversion of his project.

Ilian remained motionless. The handcuffs dug into his wrists. His eyes were fixed on the photo of a diagram he had drawn with hope. His mind couldn't process the profanation. The idea of his project being used to kill... was a violation deeper than any physical torture.

A cold, overwhelming nausea rose from the bottom of his stomach. The world spun. The gray room tilted. He tried to breathe. His body rejected reality. Rejected the proposal. Rejected the existence of that room. He doubled over to the side, the handcuff chains stretching and rattling violently against the table.

And then, he vomited.

It was a violent, painful spasm that shook his whole body. He vomited on the concrete floor, purging the little he had in his stomach, gagging, coughing, tears of physical effort running down his face.

He stayed there, body bent over, supported only by the painful tension in his outstretched arms. The handcuffs restricted any movement of relief, the cold metal digging deep into the thin skin of his wrists. He trembled uncontrollably. Dirty. Humiliated. But while the acid burned his throat, a single certainty solidified in the center of his being, cold and hard as diamond.

Never.

They could have the project photos. They could have his body. But he would never give the key to transform his redemption into death. Silence wasn't a defense anymore. It was a war.

On the other side of the mirror, the observation room was submerged in gloom, lit only by the bluish glow of monitors and the light coming through the large mirrored glass. Miller entered, adjusting his suit, a satisfied smile on his lips at seeing the scene on the other side of the glass. Ilian Jansen, hunched over, broken, dirty.

There were three more people in the room. Two analysts sitting before the monitors and a high-ranking officer, standing in the shadows, watching with crossed arms.

"Look at that," Miller said, approaching the glass. "A pathetic scene. Where is the 'mental fortress' the HPP loves to advertise? Broke on the first impact." Let out a short laugh. "I don't know how this asset survived ten months in the desert. Second day here and he's already like this... vomiting like a child."

Miller turned to the others. "Leave him there in his own filth for a few hours. Will help him think about cooperation."

"No." Colonel Remington's voice came from the shadows, calm, authoritative, cutting through Miller's sadistic celebration. The officer stepped forward, he was the man in charge by the General to supervise the technical operation.

He looked at Ilian with an indecipherable expression, devoid of any pleasure or pity. Just calculation. "We cannot compromise the asset's health in any way," Remington said, voice cold. "That would be a waste of much investment. He is expensive equipment, Agent Miller, not a toy for your amusement."

Remington turned to the analyst.

"Remove him immediately. Clean the cell. Call the medical team to check vitals and administer fluids if necessary. I want him clean and healthy."

Miller opened his mouth to protest, face red with anger, but Colonel Remington raised a hand.

"The goal is to extract information, not kill the host. Do your job, Miller. But keep the machine running. Or you will be replaced."

Chapter 93: The Mechanism

Ilian woke up, but there was no dawn. There were only the fluorescent lights on the ceiling that never went out. He opened his eyes, mind emerging from the fog of sleep into the sterile reality of concrete.

The first thing his eyes sought wasn't the door, nor the camera in the upper corner. It was the digital clock fixed to the wall.

04:20.

Time was the only anchor he had left. Time dictated medication, hydration, survival. He sat up in bed, body stiff, right leg complaining about the lack of nocturnal movement. Got up and limped to the bathroom sink. There was no glass cup. There was only a small stack of soft, disposable plastic cups. He filled one. The water was lukewarm.

He drank. One sip. Two. Three. Counted mentally. He needed an exact amount to protect his kidneys. It wasn't thirst, it was maintenance.

After some time, the door lock clicked. A guard entered with a metal tray. Breakfast. Ilian sat at the table bolted to the floor. His stomach, still sensitive from the previous day's vomiting, churned. The nausea was a warning to stop.

But he looked at the food with cold determination. He would eat because he needed to be strong. Needed glucose for the brain and protein for the muscles. Needed to be ready to return to the guest house. Needed to be ready to see Richard again.

He picked up the plastic fork. Forced the first portion. Chewed methodically, ignoring the taste and texture. Swallowed. Repeated the process until the plate was clean. It was fuel for the war.

08:45.

The door opened again. The two usual guards. The wheelchair. He already knew the protocol. Sat in the chair, pulling the cane onto his lap, holding it firmly. The journey through the corridors was a gray blur of ceilings and lights.

The medical wing was cold, smelling of alcohol and industrial disinfectant. They took him to an exam room. It wasn't David. It wasn't Ben. A soldier waited by the gurney. He was a burly man with thick arms and an expression of bureaucratic boredom. He consulted a clipboard without looking at Ilian.

"Patient Jansen. Right knee and left hand. Let's go."

There was no greeting. There was no courtesy of asking him to change clothes or get settled. The sergeant simply pointed to the gurney. Ilian transferred from the chair to the gurney with difficulty. lay down, looking at the ceiling. He hoped the man would provide him with other clothes, a pair of shorts.

The sergeant simply leaned in and, with heavy hands, grabbed the hem of Ilian's trousers and shoved it roughly upward, bunching the thick fabric around his thigh, crudely exposing the scars.

Ilian stiffened. The lack of care was a subtle violation. He wasn't a patient, he was damaged equipment being inspected.

The sergeant began to manipulate the leg. His hands were strong but lacked sensitivity. He bent the knee to the joint's mechanical limit, checking range, not pain.

"Relax the muscle," he ordered, forcing the flexion.

It hurt. A sharp, tearing pain in the ligaments. But the man didn't ask, "Does it hurt?" He just looked at the angle, satisfied with the geometry, indifferent to the sensation.

Ilian closed his eyes. Clenched his teeth. The session was the absolute opposite of David and Ben's meticulous work. There was no warm-up, no pauses to breathe. When the sergeant moved to the left hand, the manipulation became excruciating.

The soldier's fingers were too large for Ilian's delicate, damaged joints. He forced the extension of the stiff fingers with a pressure that made the pain in the hand far exceed the agony of the knee.

The brutality was such that, in a flash of painful irony, Ilian missed David and Ben. Their technical pain seemed like mercy compared to that muscular ignorance.

Despite his iron determination not to give them the satisfaction of a scream, it was impossible to contain a few low, involuntary moans when the pressure hit deep scar tissue. His body reacted violently to the trauma, he was drenched in cold sweat within minutes, his shirt sticking to his trembling back.

He dissociated from the cold room, imagining he was just a machine receiving oil, but the body betrayed the mind. When the forty minutes of brute manipulation finally ended, his left hand throbbed violently. As soon as the sergeant released it, Ilian instinctively pulled his arm against his chest, cradling the injured hand and protecting it, trembling, as if it had been broken again. There, curled up and panting, he made a silent promise to himself: when he returned home, he would treat David and Ben better.

The sergeant, who was already filling out the chart, stopped and looked at Ilian's defensive posture. There was no pity in his gaze, only a technical damage assessment.

"Pain?" he asked, voice dry.

Ilian hesitated, but the throbbing in his hand was undeniable. He nodded, a single, rigid movement.

The soldier nodded, opened a metal cabinet, and took out an instant chemical ice pack. He broke the internal crystals with a dry snap, activating the cold, and extended the pack to Ilian.

"Apply this. 20 minutes," the sergeant ordered. "Inflammation reduces motor functionality. We need that hand operational."

Ilian took the ice with his right hand. The cold was an immediate relief, but the man's words hung in the air: functionality, operational. He wasn't being cared for, he was being fixed.

Back in the cell after lunch. Ilian sat at the work desk. The rugged military laptop was there, closed, on the corner of the table. He ignored it completely. Pulled a stack of white paper and one of the available pens.

His right hand closed around the pen. His fingers missed the hexagonal texture of the wood of the pencils provided by the Agency. The pencil allowed for error, correction, learning. The pen was unforgiving.

He began to draw. Didn't draw bunkers. Didn't draw penetration radars. The tip of the pen traced a perfect circle. Then another, smaller, concentric one. Gear teeth. An axle. He was drawing the internal mechanism of the fishing reel Arthur had dismantled for him.

His mind dove into the mechanics. The gear ratio. The drag system. The pen slipped. A line went crooked, ruining the gear's symmetry. Ilian stopped. Felt a disproportionate wave of frustration. With a pencil, he would just erase. With the pen, the error was permanent. The ink stain mocked his quest for perfection.

He crumpled the paper tightly, turning it into a compact ball, and threw it in the bin under the table. Took a new sheet. Started again. It had to be perfect. It was the only thing he controlled.

Hours later, he shifted focus. Took a clean sheet and began to write.

Technical Memo. To: Dr. Thorne. Subject: Mechanical Redundancy.

He described the safety lock system for Argus. But he didn't limit himself to engineering. He wrote every sentence with surgical precision. Stopped at a preposition. Stared at the word. Consulted his memory, the internal dictionary he had built reading manuals. The syntax had to be impeccable. He filled draft sheets with corrections, crossing out verbs, adjusting agreement until the sentence structure was mathematically perfect.

Then came the final work. With infinite patience, he copied everything cleanly. Sheets and sheets of technical text, written in uniform handwriting without a single scratch-out. He spent forty minutes rewriting an entire paragraph just to ensure the subject-verb agreement was irrefutable. "Reviewer Number Two," he thought, with a hint of cold irony. He would deliver a text Thorne could not criticize.

When his hand began to ache from writing so much, he stopped. Dropped the pen.

Closed his eyes. Went to the greenhouse.

Smelled the damp earth and moss. Saw the green light filtered through the glass. Heard Helena's soft voice explaining drainage. He stayed there, motionless in the cell's metal chair, but living inside that safe memory for almost an hour, calming his mind in a place where Miller could not enter.

The sound of the door lock broke the trance. Dinner arrived. The same metal tray, the food lukewarm and tasteless.

Ilian ate. There was no hunger, only the iron discipline of keeping the machine running. With every forkful, he felt the persistent throbbing in his left hand, a painful echo of the morning physical therapy's brute pressure.

When the tray was collected and the door locked for the last time that night, he stood up. His left hand still pulsed, swollen and hot. He held it against his chest for a moment, protecting it. Walked to the bed and sat on the edge of the hard mattress, took off his shoes, leaving only socks on, and lay down. The ceiling light remained on, the low hum was eternal. Turned to the wall, closed his eyes, and fled again.

This time, he didn't go to the greenhouse. He went to the river. Felt the rough wood of the dock under his back, the warmth of the sun on his face, and the sound of running water drowning out the cell's electrical noise. And there, lying on the imaginary wood, he finally fell asleep.

Chapter 94: The Proof and the Contempt

Wednesday morning at the base brought no sun, only the gray, immutable routine. Ilian woke with his left hand throbbing, a pulsing reminder of the previous day's brutal physical therapy.

The protocol repeated with clockwork precision. The open door, the guards, the wheelchair. He was transported through the corridors, holding the cane against his chest, this time protecting his left hand.

The interrogation room door was closed, the guard already leaving him handcuffed to the metal table. The pain in his hand was a constant distraction, hindering the construction of his mental wall. He fixed his gaze on the table, trying to find triangles in the rust stains.

On the other side of the mirror, in the gloom of the observation room, three men watched the monitor. Colonel Remington stood in the back, arms crossed, posture rigid. Agent Miller was bent over the control desk, where a pile of papers collected from Ilian's cell was scattered.

And there was a third man. Major Kaelen. He was younger than Miller. He didn't look at Ilian with anger, but with surgical curiosity.

"Look at this," Miller said, voice trembling with contained frustration. He picked up one of the collected drawings and shook it in the air. "Spent the whole afternoon drawing toys. A fishing reel. He is mocking everyone."

Kaelen took the drawing from Miller's hand delicately. Studied the precise lines, the exploded perspective of the gears, the perfect proportion.

"It is not mockery," Kaelen said, voice calm and soft. "It is structured dissociation. He is occupying the logical part of his brain with neutral mechanical problems so he doesn't have to think about our demand. It is an advanced defense mechanism. He is hiding inside his own mind, organizing the chaos."

"Break that hiding place," Remington ordered, voice bureaucratic. "I want the bunker design, not mechanics lessons."

Kaelen nodded. "Agent Miller's brute force created resistance. Let's try logic. Let's see if he can resist his own nature."

The interrogation room door opened. Ilian didn't raise his head. He knew who it was by the steps. Miller's heavy, irritated step. And a new step, lighter, precise.

Miller threw the pile of papers on the table, right in front of Ilian's handcuffed hands. The reel drawings scattered, mixed with the grammatical memo for Dr. Thorne.

"You think this is art, Jansen?" Miller asked, scorn dripping from every word. "You are here to create weapons, not to draw nonsense."

Ilian looked at the reel drawing. To Miller, it was a useless scribble. To Ilian, it was the memory of the smell of oil in the cabin, Arthur's comfortable silence, the feeling of utility. It was a piece of his soul he had managed to put on paper.

Major Kaelen pulled up a chair. He didn't sit opposite, in a confrontational position, but to the side, invading Ilian's perimeter in a calculated way. He ignored Miller's anger. With precise movements, he smoothed the crumpled drawing of the reel on the metal table with the palm of his hand.

"The gear ratio here is fascinating," Kaelen said, voice low, almost a conspiratorial whisper between colleagues. "But why the choice of this type of system? Were you prioritizing friction reduction or torque transfer?"

He rotated the paper, analyzing the angle of the gear teeth.

"And this ratio... seems complex. But why such specificity? Was the intention to maintain line sensitivity even under extreme tension, or was it a matter of retrieval speed?"

Ilian felt a twitch in his index finger. His mind, trained for precision, screamed to confirm. It is to avoid vibration. The urge to correct, to explain the physics of the lever, was an intense reaction in the center of his brain. Kaelen wasn't interrogating him, he was inviting him to a debate. Asking to be corrected.

"You understand fluid dynamics better than our engineers," Kaelen continued, watching the micro-expression on Ilian's face. "River water creates a non-linear drag on the line, correct? Did you design this to filter that specific turbulence? So the fisherman feels only the fish's bite, isolating the current's noise?"

Kaelen leaned closer. The trap was set.

"Soil is just another medium, Ilian. Denser, yes. But the logic is identical. Granite over a bunker creates the same drag on a radar signal as water creates on the line. If you know how to filter river turbulence to find the fish... you know how to filter rock static to find the target. It is the same problem. Why deny the elegance of the solution?"

Ilian felt cold sweat on the back of his neck. It was seductive. Kaelen was turning death into pure math. Trying to make Ilian's brain betray his conscience.

Kaelen didn't stop. Pulled the other sheet, the memo for Dr. Thorne. "And this. Look at this syntax. You spent an hour correcting this paragraph. I saw it on the video. The error bothers you, doesn't it? Chaos offends your mind. A poorly constructed sentence is like a gear without oil."

He placed the text next to the drawing. "Our current tracking system, Ilian, is grammatically incorrect. It is inefficient. It is full of noise and syntax errors. You have the power to correct the sentence. To put order in the chaos. Why allow the error to persist? How can you live with this inefficiency?"

Ilian closed his eyes tight. The reel is not just physics, he screamed inside his mind. The reel is Arthur. The reel is the cabin's silence. He forced the image of Arthur's face over Kaelen's. The river is not a fluid. The river is life.

He wouldn't answer. Wouldn't correct the physics. Wouldn't give Kaelen the satisfaction of order. He would embrace the chaos of silence.

The silence stretched, heavy. Kaelen waited for the correction that never came. Finally, the Major sighed, straightening in his chair. Curiosity vanished from his face, replaced by clinical coldness.

"He is not here," Kaelen said to Miller, standing up. "He shut down logical processing. He is in an emotional loop. Logic won't work."

Miller, seeing his colleague's failure, lost his remaining patience. He approached, invading Ilian's personal space, his shadow falling over the young man's face.

"You like to draw?" Miller whispered, looking at Ilian's right hand, the only one that still functioned perfectly. "If you don't give me the design, I'll make sure you can never hold a pen again. Accidents happen, Jansen. Bones are fragile. It would be a shame if your good hand ended up like the other one."

The veiled threat hung in the cold air of the room. Ilian didn't move.

Kaelen, seeing the session was unproductive, touched Miller's shoulder. "Let's go. Let him cook in the silence for a bit."

Miller cast one last look at the prisoner, grabbed the drawings from the table, and followed the Major. The metal door closed with a heavy bang. The magnetic lock engaged.

Silence.

Ilian let out his breath slowly. His body, which had remained rigid as stone, yielded a few millimeters. He was alone. Could go back to the river. Could go back to the sound of water. Closed his eyes, trying to reconstruct the image of Arthur cleaning the fish, trying to drown out Miller's threat about his right hand.

Several minutes passed. Ilian was beginning to stabilize his breathing.

The door opened. It wasn't a guard bringing food. It was Miller. Alone. He entered without haste. Closed the door, locking them together in that concrete cube. Didn't say a word. Walked to the chair that Kaelen had used. Dragged it across the concrete floor, the sharp metal sound seemed to grate on Ilian's nerves. He positioned the chair not to the side, but directly in front of Ilian, invading his leg space, almost knee to knee.

He sat down. Crossed his arms. And started staring.

"I have all day, Jansen," he whispered. "And so do you."

Ilian tried to look away, focusing on the table's imperfections. But Miller's physical presence inches away caused anxiety.

Then, Miller moved. He settled into the chair, crossing his legs in a relaxed manner, as if in a waiting room. The tip of his dress shoe hung suspended a few inches from Ilian's right knee.

Miller's foot began to swing. A rhythmic, casual movement, like someone waiting for time to pass. The shoe swung forward. The leather tip lightly tapped the side of Ilian's damaged knee.

It wasn't a hard blow. It was a tap. But on the knee full of pins and sensitive nerves, it was like an electric shock. Ilian's leg spasmed involuntarily, a startle that made his whole body vibrate in the metal chair. He held his breath, teeth clenched.

Miller didn't stop. He didn't even look at the knee. Kept his eyes fixed on Ilian's face, a faint smile on his lips, while the foot continued to swing in the air. The foot retreated. Ilian tensed his body, waiting. The foot advanced. Passed close, without touching. The foot tapped again, by surprise. Another spasm. Another wave of sharp pain.

It was broken-rhythm torture. Ilian couldn't brace himself. The pain wasn't constant, which allowed the nerves to recover only to be assaulted again. Then, Miller added sound. Miller's right hand, resting on the metal table, began to move. The index finger tapped on the steel. Silence. The foot swung and tapped the knee.

To Ilian's mind, which sought order and logic in everything, this was torture worse than the leg pain. The sound echoed in the small room, unpredictable, preventing him from finding the silence needed to return to the river.

He needed an anchor. Looked more intently at the table. It wasn't a smooth, perfect surface. It was heavy industrial metal, painted gray, marked by a chaotic web of deep grooves and scratches. He chose a specific groove, an irregular cut through the worn paint. Transformed it into a topographic map. Ignoring the pain, he forced his mind to traverse that microscopic valley, analyzing the cut's depth, the dark oxidation at the bottom of the crack, the wear.

Time dragged. Ten minutes. Twenty. Forty. Ilian's body was drenched in sweat. Every time Miller's shoe touched his knee, he trembled. He didn't look at Miller. His eyes didn't leave the grooves in the table.

Frustration began to radiate from the agent. He expected a scream, a plea, a tear. Received only the void. The finger drumming got harder, more aggressive, losing the cold composure.

Almost an hour passed. Miller's breathing was heavy with contained rage. He was losing the game he himself had created.

Suddenly, the door lock engaged. The door opened forcefully. Colonel Remington stood there, accompanied by a medical officer.

"Agent Miller," the Colonel's voice was dry, authoritative. "Get out."

Miller stopped tapping the table. Slowly withdrew his foot from Ilian's leg. Turned to the Colonel, face red with irritation. "I haven't finished, Colonel."

"His medication is already late," the Colonel cut in, cold. "Medical protocol must be followed. Get out. Now."

Miller looked at Ilian one last time, with pure hate, stood up abruptly. Walked out of the room stomping hard.

Silence returned, but tension remained. Colonel Remington approached the table. Pulled out a set of keys. Metal clicked. The handcuffs released from the table bar and then from his wrists. Blood circulated again, bringing a painful tingling.

The doctor approached immediately, placing the cup of water and pills in front of him. Ilian didn't hesitate. His throat was dry as sandpaper. Grabbed the cup with both hands so as not to spill and drank the water greedily, swallowing the pills along with it. Thirst was greater than pride.

When he lowered the cup, the doctor spoke. "Turn a little. I want to see your knee."

Ilian obeyed, the movement making his knee throb violently. The doctor crouched in front of him. With professional care, without asking permission, he pulled Ilian's trouser leg up, exposing the right leg.

The Colonel leaned in to look. The skin over the scars wasn't just marked. The spot where Miller's shoe had hit repeatedly was red, skin stretched and shiny. There was acute, localized swelling, a pocket of fluid and inflammation already deforming the knee's contour, visibly pressing against the fragile scar tissue.

The doctor stood up. His voice was grave, technical. "Colonel, I read this patient's records. The bone and ligament structure of this knee is held together by pins and fragile grafts. Agent Miller isn't just causing pain."

He pointed to the knee. "This inflammation will press on the nerves. The pain will be incapacitating. If he continues to play like this, he will cause a stress fracture or dislocate a pin. If that happens, the asset won't be able to even think, let alone design. And corrective surgery would leave him sedated and offline for weeks."

The Colonel looked at the swollen knee, calculating the risk. Efficiency was being compromised. "Understood," Remington said, cold. "Miller is forbidden from physical contact. Do whatever is needed to stabilize."

The doctor nodded. Opened his bag. Took out a tube of ointment and a roll of elastic bandage. Squeezed a generous amount of transparent, bluish gel directly onto the red, hot skin of Ilian's knee. The contact was a thermal shock. The strong smell of menthol invaded the room's stagnant air, stinging Ilian's nostrils.

With quick, efficient movements, the doctor spread the gel. His fingers were firm. Ilian clenched his teeth, but still, let out moans of pain. Next, the doctor unrolled the bandage. Wrapped the knee tightly, creating firm compression to contain the edema and support the shaken joint. The tightness of the elastic band was, paradoxically, a relief, holding the structure that seemed about to fall apart.

"Keep the leg elevated when possible," he instructed, fastening the bandage clip. "I will authorize ice in the cell."

The Colonel signaled to the door. An agent entered, pushing a wheelchair. "Take him," he ordered.

Ilian tried to get up from the interrogation chair. Put weight on his left leg, but when he tried to steady the right one, now wrapped in the tight bandage, it was impossible. The pain was sharp, breathtaking.

It was harder than normal. Much harder. Miller had left his mark. Breathing raggedly, he let himself fall into the wheelchair seat. The agent unlocked the wheels and began pushing him out of the room, back to the silence of the cell. The Colonel and the doctor stayed behind, discussing machine maintenance.

Chapter 95: The Cold of the Fever

Tuesday marked the tenth day of confinement at the base. There was no visible dawn, only the changing of the guard shift.

Ilian woke with the usual stiffness. Since Miller's torture of his knee, which had resulted in the edema, physical therapy had been suspended by doctor's orders. Although he forced himself to walk around the cell every day to keep from locking up, he missed David and Ben's directed, intense work. His leg felt heavy, progress stagnant.

But what defied his logic was the suspension of hand therapy. The trauma was to the knee, not the fingers. It was clearly a punishment, not a medical necessity. Refusing to accept the setback, he maintained a routine of exercising his own left hand, repeating from memory the movements Ben had taught him, forcing the stiff fingers to open and close, maintaining functionality through sheer willpower.

The door opened punctually after breakfast. Two guards entered with the wheelchair. It was the immutable morning routine.

Ilian was transported through the gray corridors to the interrogation room. There, the procedure was always the same: ordered to transfer to the metal chair and having his wrists handcuffed to the table.

The sessions were a war of attrition. Sometimes, Major Kaelen was present, trying to seduce him with logic and engineering problems, but the Major tired quickly of Ilian's absolute silence and left.

Miller, however, persisted. The agent spent hours in the room. He paced back and forth, spoke, shouted, insulted. But, strictly following Colonel Remington's orders after the knee incident, Miller never physically touched Ilian again. Violence had become purely verbal, a constant barrage of poison designed to find a crack in the armor of silence.

This time, however, the pattern was altered.

As soon as Ilian was positioned in the metal chair, he waited for the usual click of steel on his wrists, but nothing happened. The guards didn't handcuff him. They simply left the room.

A medical officer entered along with Agent Miller, carrying a rigid briefcase. The sight of the medical equipment made the pieces fit in Ilian's mind. It was immunosuppressant day.

Miller stood there, leaning against the wall, watching with predator's eyes, but remained silent.

"Left arm," the doctor ordered, without any gentleness.

Ilian obeyed. The application was quick, but the injection of the thick liquid burned, a chemical fire spreading through his arm.

"Drink water. Lots of water," the doctor instructed, closing the briefcase. He left immediately. Miller remained.

Ilian adjusted his shirt sleeve. He knew that in a few hours, the fever would come.

"Stand up," Miller ordered. The voice wasn't loud, but it held the weight of command.

Ilian hesitated for a moment, then with visible effort, steadied his hand on the cane and pushed his body up. He stood, swaying slightly until he found his balance, without looking at Miller.

The Agent smiled with disdain. Pointed to the far corner of the room. "Go to the corner," he said. "Stand there. Face the wall. Let's see how long that leg lasts."

Ilian didn't move. The order was absurd, purely humiliating. He looked at the empty corner, then turned his gaze back to Miller for a fraction of a second, just to confirm the seriousness of the command.

"I gave an order, Jansen," Miller hissed.

Ilian didn't sustain the gaze. The old habit of avoiding the predator spoke louder, he lowered his eyes, fixing them on the base of the metal table. But his body didn't move to the corner. And then, with deliberate slowness, an act of silent and absolute defiance, he bent his knees and sat back down in the metal chair.

The gesture was a snap in the air. Miller stiffened. The open disobedience sent blood rushing to his face. He took two quick steps, invading Ilian's personal space.

"Having hearing problems today, Jansen?" Miller's voice was low, hissing, dangerously calm.

Ilian continued to look at the table.

That was when Miller acted. The movement was fast, unexpected. Before Ilian could even process the intent, Miller's hand closed over the handle of the cane, above Ilian's hand. The contact was an electric shock. And, with a firm, quick yank, Miller ripped the cane from his hands.

Ilian's world tilted violently. The sudden loss of the cane, even while seated, was disorienting. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips. His right hand closed on the void where, a second before, the smooth, familiar wood had been. It was like having a limb torn off by force. The cane wasn't an object, it was part of him. It was his ability to move, his minimal connection to the ground, his only tool of navigation.

An overwhelming cold ran through his body, but it was immediately followed by a wave of heat. An ancient, visceral rage he knew too well.

Ilian's mind was violently dragged into the past. He saw the Russian engineer at the base, laughing while tossing his cane down the corridor. Remembered the suffocating heat of the desert, where his captors had confiscated his support as a standard breaking measure.

For a fraction of a second, the primal instinct of survival took control. The muscles of his right arm contracted, tensed to strike back. A violent vision crossed his mind, he saw himself pushing Miller against the concrete wall, snatching the cane back with the strength of desperation.

Ilian looked up at Miller. There was no fear in his eyes in that instant, only fury. He allowed Miller to see that anger, let the agent feel the hatred burning there.

But then, cold logic intervened. Attacking would be suicide. It would give Miller the exact excuse he wanted to escalate the violence. Ilian forced himself to breathe. With a titanic effort, he swallowed the rage, and raised his wall of indifference again.

Miller, now holding the cane casually as if it were just a stick, smiled at that moment of impotent fury he saw on Ilian's face. His gaze was cold, appraising, savoring the reaction, the naked vulnerability he had just exposed.

"Maybe this will teach you a little respect," he said, voice still low but cutting. "A tool is only useful when it obeys."

He turned and walked to the door. Didn't take the cane with him. With an almost casual gesture, he leaned it against the wall next to the door, several meters away from Ilian's chair. Too far. Unreachable.

Miller turned and smiled. A cold, satisfied smile.

"Enjoy your day, Jansen," he said, leaving the room.

The metal door closed with a final click.

Ilian was alone.

His eyes immediately fixed on the cane leaning against the wall across the room. It was there, close enough to be a temptation, a real possibility of recovery, but far enough to require him to stand up and take several steps of pure agony and instability to reach it.

The image of that vital support, positioned so visually close but physically impossible to reach, was the trigger. The cruelty of that geometry made the anger rise again, not as a wave, but as an explosion.

Hot, suffocating fury flooded his chest. He was trembling. His hands gripped the edge of the metal table so hard his knuckles turned white. The humiliation of being left there, trapped in a chair not by chains but by his own inefficiency, was overwhelming. He wanted to scream. Wanted to crawl over there and use the cane to smash the mirror.

They are watching, he thought.

The thought was a bucket of cold water on his fury. He looked at the dark mirror on the side wall. Took a deep breath. Once. Twice. He wouldn't look at the cane. Wouldn't give them the spectacle of his impotence.

On the other side of the mirror, in the gloom of the observation room, the silence was tense.

Miller had just entered, joining the group. Colonel Remington was there, arms crossed. Major Kaelen was sitting before the monitors. And there were two other intelligence analysts.

Kaelen reached out and adjusted the camera control. On the main monitor, the digital image slid silently, zooming in exclusively on Ilian's face, until his features filled the screen in high definition.

Technology exposed what distance hid: the drops of cold sweat beading on his forehead, the rapid, visible pulse, the violent contraction of his jaw muscles. They saw the moment of fury. Biometric analysis software tracked these micro-oscillations, converting facial blood flow into precise data in the corner of the screen.

Miller smiled, waiting for the collapse. Expected the crying, the breaking, the pathetic attempt to crawl across the floor. But then, the screen captured the transformation.

Ilian closed his eyes. It wasn't a quick blink of fear, it was a deliberate, heavy closing, like someone drawing the curtains against the outside world. His jaw, clenched hard enough to crack teeth, visibly released, softening the contour of his face.

Kaelen shifted his gaze to the secondary monitor, focused on the numbers running in real-time, fascinated by the immediate correlation.

"Look at the heart rate," he murmured, pointing to the graph. "It was at 140 bpm when you took the cane. Adrenaline and anger spike. But now..."

The graph was plummeting. 120... 100... 90...

The body obeyed the mind almost instantly. Kaelen pointed to the other camera angle, focused on the torso. Ilian's fingers, which seconds before gripped the edge of the metal table, opened slowly, one by one, synchronized with the dropping pulse, blood returning to color the tips.

He released the table. Hands rested gently on his thighs. Under the table, he extended his legs, stretching the painful knee in a calculated movement of relief, and leaned fully back against the hard chair rest, settling in. His face, previously a contorted landscape of fury, became an expressionless, serene mask.

He left. The gray room dissolved. He went to the river.

First came the constant sound of running water hitting stones. But Ilian's mind didn't just listen, it analyzed. Decomposed the river sound into wave frequencies, transforming natural noise into a series of perfect equations.

Felt the weight of the smooth stone in his right hand, the cold, solid texture. Calculated density, volume, material resistance. Dove into his mental fortress, where affective memory merged with the cold safety of mathematics, blocking the reality of the room and making everything irrelevant.

Kaelen leaned even closer to the screen, fascinated. Turned to Miller, voice full of reluctant admiration. "He is not in panic. He stabilized himself. He is... focused. This isn't passivity, Miller. It is a high-level technique. He is suppressing the fight-or-flight response in real-time."

"He's just sitting there!" Miller retorted. "He is defeated. He gave up."

"No. He didn't give up. He left the room. You trapped his body in that chair, but his mind... his mind is no longer accessible to us."

"That's psychological bullshit," Miller spat.

"No," Colonel Remington said, his grave voice cutting through the discussion. He looked at the motionless young man on the screen, who refused to answer torture with a reaction, and saw something Miller was too blind to perceive: discipline.

"You took his cane, Miller," the Colonel said, observing the absolute calm on Ilian's face. "But he just proved he doesn't need it to stand."

Time passed. The adrenaline of mental resistance began to fade, leaving behind only the heavy chemistry of the injection starting to circulate.

Ilian's mental fortress remained intact, but the biological walls began to give way. A sudden, searing thirst dried his mouth. A diffuse heat began to radiate through his entire body.

He could no longer sustain the posture. The weight of his head became unbearable. Slowly, he bent his torso and rested his forehead on his forearms resting on the metal table. He wasn't sleeping, he was just conserving energy to continue existing.

In the observation room, the medical officer intervened, pointing to the monitor.

"Look at the posture," the doctor said. "And the body temperature on the thermograph. It's rising fast. The reaction to the immunosuppressant is starting. If we leave him there, he will dehydrate before reaching the cell."

Remington nodded, practical. Miller's show was over. Now it was time to protect the asset.

"Get him out of there," the Colonel ordered. "Take him to the cell." He turned to the medical officer with a hard expression. "Do whatever is necessary to stabilize him. Constant monitoring. I want him alive and functioning. I will not tolerate the loss of an asset of this value under my supervision."

The interrogation room door opened. Ilian didn't raise his head immediately. The sound of military steps approached.

"Let's go, Jansen," a voice said, not with anger, but with haste.

Ilian rose. The world swayed, spotted with black dots. Two guards were there. One of them held the wheelchair.

With an effort that demanded his entire reserve of strength, Ilian stood up from the fixed chair. His knee screamed, but he ignored it. Let himself fall into the wheelchair seat, exhausted, cold sweat starting to soak his shirt.

The guard began to push him toward the exit. As they approached the door, Ilian saw it. The cane. Still leaning against the wall, where Miller had abandoned it with contempt. It was his leg. His support.

In a slow reflex, Ilian extended a trembling right hand toward the cane, fingers brushing the air, but the chair kept moving, taking him away.

The guard pushing the chair stopped. He saw the gesture. Saw the object.

There was no sadism in the soldier, only the practical logic of transport. A prisoner with such compromised mobility needed support in the cell, an accidental fall would mean only more reports and unnecessary extra work for the medical team.

The guard picked up the cane and held it out to Ilian.

Ilian looked at the man's hand. Took the familiar wood. Clutched it to his chest, feeling the texture.

Miller had tried to take everything from him. But he was returning to the cell with his mind intact and his support in his hand.

The chair started moving again, taking him into the concrete maze, into the fever and solitude, but Ilian closed his eyes and, in the gentle rocking of the wheels, he went back to the river.

While Ilian's mind sought refuge in the imaginary current, miles away, reality operated in the lab.

Richard stood before the test tank, eyes red with fatigue fixed on the monitors. Beside him, Dr. Finch adjusted the frequency sensors, his expression oscillating between skepticism and fascination.

"Reading is stabilizing," Finch murmured. "If the background noise theory is correct, we should see the image clear up soon."

On the monitor, static caused by the ice flickered, suggesting the ghostly outline of the submerged concrete block, but the image still struggled to define itself. Ilian's math was there, pulsing in the data, almost tangible, a promise of truth fighting to emerge from the noise.

Richard felt no triumph, only anxiety. He had the promise of proof, but he didn't have the young man.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated, sound amplified by the tense silence of the room. Richard answered before the second ring.

"Hayes?"

"It is done, Professor," Hayes's voice came clean and calm from the other end of the line. "Agency leadership agreed. The escalation plan has been activated. We just sent the classified dossiers on the 'Silencer,' the 'Morok Key,' and the flight correction to the offices of the Admirals, the Air Force, and the NSA."

Richard passed a hand over his face. "And now? What happens now?"

"Now, we wait for the explosion," Hayes said. "When they realize what the Army is hiding, the pressure on General Thompson will be unsustainable. The bureaucratic war has begun."

"We wait?" Richard repeated, frustration leaking into his voice, breaking his professional composure. "Hayes, it's been ten days. Ten days. Do you know what ten days in a cell can do to someone like him? He needs medication. Needs structure. This delay..."

"I understand your anguish," Hayes interrupted, voice maintaining that clinical, controlled tone Richard was starting to hate. "But I need you to stay calm. Remember your function. You are the anchor. When he gets out of there, I'm taking him directly to your house. If you are in panic, you will be of no use to him."

"It is hard to keep calm when I imagine what Miller is doing," Richard retorted, lowering his tone.

"About that..." Hayes said, and there was a pause, a calculated hesitation. "I am moving pieces to remove Miller immediately. He is a risk to the asset. But it isn't so simple. General Thompson wants results. He is pressuring Miller. And Miller knows his time is running out. He knows that as soon as the bureaucracy moves, he loses the asset."

Richard felt a chill in his stomach. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying a cornered animal bites," Hayes said. "Miller will try to squeeze the asset in these last few days. He will try to force a result before the door closes. That is why you need to be ready, Professor. When we get him out of there... he is going to need rebuilding."

The line went dead. Richard lowered the phone slowly. Outside, bureaucracy moved slowly. But inside, at the base, Richard knew time was running much faster, and that Ilian was alone against a clock he didn't even know existed.

Chapter 96: The Paper Forest

The following days dragged on in a gray, painful fog. To avoid being crushed by boredom, Ilian sought refuge in the only thing they couldn't take away: his mind.

He sat at the metal table bolted to the floor and wrote. But he didn't work for the Agency, nor for Argus, nor for Miller's bunker. He worked for himself.

He gave free rein to his old passion for security. He decided to write a theoretical treatise on mechanical and logical locks. He dove into the pure math of containment systems, designing perfect mechanisms that served no specific weapon, only the beauty of secure functionality. However, he did this in Polish.

It was an act of intimate resistance. He knew the pages would be translated quickly. But in that moment, while the pen scratched the paper, those thoughts were his. They were formulated in the language of his childhood. It was a small cultural barrier he erected between his mind and the eyes watching him through the cell cameras.

He didn't write with haste or carelessness. On the contrary. He applied the same rigid discipline to his writing that he applied to engineering. Every sentence was built with perfect, elegant syntax, structuring technical arguments with implacable logic. The pages looked printed, they were so organized. It was his world, his rules, his order imposed upon the paper.

He handed the sheets to the guards with indifference, like someone handing over dirty laundry, but inside he felt a cold satisfaction. They expected the disorder of a prisoner about to break, he gave them the unassailable precision of an organized mind.

Then Sunday arrived.

Ilian knew it was Sunday by the meticulous counting of meals and the subtle shift in the base's routine. Distant sounds seemed different, less frenetic.

In the morning, the door opened. As had happened every morning since the cancellation of physical therapy, the guards entered with the wheelchair. Ilian put away his pen, prepared his mental wall, and transferred to the chair, protecting his leg. He was ready for the routine. He expected Miller and his anger, or Major Kaelen and his seductive logic.

He was taken through the silent corridors to the interrogation room. The guard stopped near the table and pointed to the metal seat.

"Into the chair," he ordered dryly.

He obeyed. Without saying another word, the guard pulled the empty wheelchair back and left. The door closed with the usual metallic click.

Ilian was alone. He looked at the large mirror on the side wall, expecting to see the reflection of light or hear the sound of the door opening again. He braced for combat. Straightened his back, focused his gaze on the table.

But nothing happened.

Minutes passed. Ilian's mental clock counted the seconds. Ten minutes. Twenty. One hour.

The room remained in absolute silence. No one entered. No voice came from the intercom. The mirror remained a dark, inert surface, reflecting only his own solitary, motionless image.

The absence of the enemy began to become more disturbing than his presence. Ilian started to feel a different kind of tension. Why hadn't they come? Was it a new tactic? Letting him wait in his own anxiety?

He looked around the empty room. The metal chair where Miller sat was empty. The table was clean. There were no papers, no threats, no mind games. There was only the void.

Hours passed. Hours of total silence.

Finally, the door opened. It wasn't Miller. It was just the guard. It was lunch time.

Back in the cell, Ilian ate the insipid meal with his usual mechanical efficiency. The morning's silence hadn't been a relief, it had been a statistical anomaly. A break in the pattern.

His mind dissected the event without emotion. Miller was predictable in his aggression, the absence indicated a pattern shift. Was it a new sensory deprivation tactic? An attempt to induce anxiety through waiting? Or simply an external logistical failure that prevented the agent from attending?

Ilian discarded the useless speculation. The reason didn't matter. His gaze fell on the stack of white paper on the table. He thought about writing more on security locks, but when he closed his eyes, the time count hit him. This was the second full Sunday he had spent locked in there. The third since he had been ripped from his life. Memory bypassed the gray days at the base and traveled straight to the last moment of true light.

Saturday at the park. The wooden bench. The warmth of the sun on his face. The memory came, but it was distant, as if viewed through dirty glass. He felt the pressing need to bring it closer. He needed to make it tangible. He picked up the pen. Pulled a clean sheet of paper. He didn't draw a machine. Didn't draw a fishing reel.

His hand, moved by a visceral need, drew an organic shape. A serrated curve. A central vein. An oak leaf.

He looked at the drawing. It was a speck of life in the desert of paper. An oak leaf, with its delicate veins, drawn with the precision of a botanist. But one leaf wasn't enough. The longing was too vast.

He drew another next to it. And another. And another.

Something came loose inside him. The engineer's meticulous discipline fused with a need for beauty. He began to draw faster, but without losing precision. Each leaf was unique, detailed, shading the curves to give volume, so they looked as if they had just fallen from a tree.

He wasn't just drawing, he was putting life into his cell. One leaf became ten. Ten became a hundred. The pen moved in a hypnotic rhythm, the sound of scratching on paper filling the silence of the cell like the rustling of wind.

When a sheet of paper was full of drawn oak leaves, he didn't turn it over or put it in the trash pile. With care, he placed it on the floor, next to the chair.

He took another blank sheet. Filled it. Placed it next to the first.

Hours passed. The stack of blank paper diminished, transformed into a black and white autumn carpet. Ilian stood up, ignoring the pain in his leg, and began to arrange the papers. He covered the cold metal table. Covered the gray concrete floor.

There were over a hundred sheets. The cell floor disappeared beneath the paper. He created a path.

But the path needed a destination. Ilian returned to the table and took one more blank sheet. He closed his eyes, and the image appeared sharp, the memory of frustration in the real forest. He saw the pinecone. The one that had stayed ten centimeters from his fingers, untouched among the roots.

With the pen, he recreated it. Drew the woody scales, the rough texture, the symmetry nature had created. He drew it not as a lost object, but as a prize.

When he finished, he walked to a corner of the cell and deposited the drawing of the pinecone there, at the furthest point.

He sat down again, surrounded by his creation, eyes fixed on the final drawing. He smelled damp earth, his mind relaxed, tricked by the peripheral vision of that organic pattern repeated to exhaustion.

In that moment, he was standing. He was walking. He could hear the crackle of dry leaves. He could see the sunlight filtered through imaginary branches above. He had built his own world, leaf by leaf, and now walked peacefully within it, untouchable.

Chapter 97: Scorched Earth

The crash of the electronic lock shattered the peace. The door was thrown open violently, banging against the metal jamb. Ilian flinched, the forest trembling with the displacement of air.

Agent Miller entered, followed by two soldiers. He wasn't there by chance. The alert had come from the control room. The observers, monitoring every movement in the cell through the cold lenses of the cameras, had noted the activity. The report had been immediate and incredulous: the asset was, defiantly, drawing oak leaves.

Miller looked exhausted, tie slightly loose, suit a bit disheveled, but his eyes burned with irritation. He stopped. Looked at the floor.

The control room report mentioned "suspicious activity," but reality was offensive. He saw the complex pattern on the floor, the manic dedication needed to cover so many sheets with useless art. To Miller, this wasn't a defense mechanism or madness. It was pure insolence. It was a finger raised in the face of authority and a deliberate waste of the time they didn't have.

"You think this is a summer camp, Jansen?" Miller's voice was a dangerous whisper, vibrating with fury. He kicked one of the drawn leaves. "You think you have time to play while I have generals screaming in my ear?"

Miller looked at the oak leaf drawings, and the specific reference made him lose his mind. He knew where that image came from.

"Is this what you want? The trail?" Miller shouted, voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Miss your pathetic little walk at the Andersons' house?"

He stepped closer, invading Ilian's space. The young man tried to retreat in his chair, but there was nowhere to go. Miller acted.

In a quick movement, Miller's hand shot out and grabbed Ilian's face. Strong fingers dug into the his cheeks, squeezing his jaw with violence controlled just enough not to break the bone. He forced Ilian's head back, compelling him to face his bloodshot eyes.

Ilian felt the sharp pain of the pressure, the smell of coffee and stress on Miller's breath. His heart raced, the instinct to fight the touch suppressed by the agent's brute force.

"Look at me when I speak!" Miller hissed, squeezing his face harder, leaving finger marks on the pale skin.

"Get that out of your head. You are never going to see that trail again. You are Army property, and you will die on this base if necessary, but you are not going back to that house. Do you think they like you? You are needy, Jansen. Desperate for any crumb of affection. It's pathetic to see how you look at that professor."

He leaned in, whispering the final poison.

"Richard Anderson is not your father. He is not your friend. He is an Agency employee. Do you know how much the Agency pays him to take care of you? It's a fortune. He accepted because he pities your miserable condition. You are a profitable charity project, nothing more. As soon as the money stops, the love ends."

Miller released Ilian's face, shoving him back against the chair rest. The finger marks remained imprinted on his skin.

Ilian felt the blow. The mention of money. The doubt. But he kept his face still, massaging his painful right jaw.

The frustration of the last few days, General Thompson's shouting, the endless calls from Washington demanding access to the prisoner, the feeling that his control was slipping through his fingers... everything boiled over. Miller needed to hurt him so badly that he committed the fatal mistake of talking too much.

"You think you're special because they're fighting over you?" he snarled, out of control, pacing the cell, gesturing violently. "That Hayes... with his expensive suits and political games... calling everyone..."

Miller stopped, panting, eyes bloodshot.

"You think he wants to save you because he cares? No one is getting you out of here."

Ilian remained motionless in the chair, eyes down, but mind alight. Miller saw the lack of external reaction, and his fury became cold, practical. He looked at the metal bed bolted to the wall.

"Clear everything!" he shouted to the soldiers. "Take every piece of paper. I want this cell empty."

As the soldiers moved to collect the drawings, destroying the forest, Miller turned to Ilian and pointed to the bed.

"Get up," he ordered. "Get out of that chair. Sit on the bed. Now!"

Ilian obeyed. With the usual difficulty, he leaned on the table to take weight off his right leg and limped the few steps to the military bed. He sat on the edge, the thin mattress yielding under his weight.

Miller took a pair of handcuffs from his belt and approached.

"Extend your arm," Miller ordered, voice dry. "The left one."

The injured hand. The hand that hurt. Ilian hesitated.

"Now!" Miller shouted.

Slowly, Ilian extended his left arm. Miller grabbed the wrist and snapped the cuff shut tight. Pulled Ilian's arm up and secured the other end of the handcuff to the metal bar of the bed's headboard.

The metal bit into the skin. The arm was stretched at an uncomfortable angle, forcing Ilian to stay half-lying, half-sitting, tethered to the frame.

"If you want to keep dreaming about forests and families that don't love you," Miller said, looking down at him with contempt, "do it chained up like the defective animal you are."

Miller turned his back and left, the door slamming with a final bang that sealed the silence.

Ilian didn't scream. Didn't pull at the cuff. Remained motionless for a moment, just breathing, letting the echo of Miller's shouts dissipate in the stagnant air. Then, with methodical calm, he began to assess his new restraint. Looked at his left wrist, where the cold metal bit into thin skin. Assessed the chain's tension. It was short, designed for discomfort, but allowed a limited degree of movement if calculated precisely.

With slow, deliberate movements, he adjusted himself on the bed. Pulled the only available pillow with his right hand, arranging it to support his head without overstretching the trapped left shoulder. Curled his legs, relieving pressure on the knee. Found a position of precarious but sustainable balance.

Once stabilized, he closed his eyes. Not to sleep, but to process. His mind, trained to filter data amidst chaos, began to dissect Miller's speech. It was necessary to separate signal from noise.

The noise was the insults. Ilian cataloged these words and discarded them. They were irrelevant.

Then, he analyzed the attack on Richard. He receives money. It is charity. He doesn't care. Ilian compared Miller's hypothesis with the real data he had collected over the days spent with the professor.

The money variable didn't explain the care. The pity variable didn't explain the intellectual respect. The logical conclusion was undeniable: Miller was lying, or was incapable of comprehending the nature of the connection. Either way, it was corrupted data. Ilian deleted it from his mind.

That left the signal. The critical information Miller, in his fury, had let slip.

Hayes. Fighting for you. Calling everyone.

He repeated those words mentally. Miller said the Agency was "calling everyone."

Ilian understood the board dynamics. Miller wasn't chaining him because he was strong, he was chaining him because he was losing. The desperation in the agent's voice was proof that the siege was closing in from the outside.

A feeling of deep, almost icy calm settled over Ilian. He was the center of the storm, and the eye of the hurricane was, by definition, a calm place.

He didn't need to fight. Didn't need to draw forests to escape. He just needed to wait. The math was in his favor.

With this logical thought serving as a blanket, Ilian relaxed his tense muscles. Ignored the metal on his wrist, ignored the ceiling light. And, lulled by the statistical certainty that Miller's time was running out, he fell asleep with a solid, silent hope.

Chapter 98: The Marks and the Offer

Monday began with the metallic sound of the lock breaking the silence of the cell. Ilian was awake, his left arm numb, suspended by the wrist chained to the bed's headboard. He had spent the night in a state of semi-wakefulness, monitoring the pain in his stretched shoulder and the throbbing in the wrist crushed by the handcuff.

The door opened. The guard entered. He brought no food, only a package of clean clothes and a disposable hygiene kit. With a quick, impersonal movement, he unlocked the handcuff from the bed.

Ilian's arm fell, heavy as lead, hitting the thin mattress. Blood rushed back with a sharp, painful tingling. He massaged his wrist, where the skin was marked by a red, irritated ring.

"Get up," the guard ordered, tossing the clothes and kit onto the table. "Shower. Now. You have thirty minutes."

Ilian looked at the objects, confused by the break in the pattern.

"And shave," the guard added, voice hardening. "The Commander wants you presentable. If you don't remove that beard yourself, we will hold you down and take it off by force. And I guarantee my hand will be heavier than yours."

The threat was effective. The idea of strange hands holding his face, blades being passed over his skin by someone else... was a violation he wanted to avoid at all costs.

With difficulty, Ilian stood up and went to the bathroom. Took a quick shower. Then, in front of the small polished metal mirror above the sink, he opened the shaving kit. His right hand, steady, began to glide the disposable razor. As the stubble of days disappeared, the emerging face revealed the consequences of the previous day.

There, on the jawline, standing out violently against his pale skin, were the marks. Purplish bruises, dark and defined. They were Miller's fingerprints. Four on one side, the thumb on the other. The mark of possession, of the contained fury that had almost broken the bone.

Ilian touched the bruised skin. It hurt to the touch. It was physical proof that the threat wasn't just verbal. He put on the clean clothes. Sat on the bed, exhausted by the effort.

The guard returned bringing the breakfast tray and the medications.

"Eat," he said. "And swallow the pills in front of me."

Ilian obeyed. Took the medicine and then ate. His body needed energy for whatever came next. As soon as the tray was collected, the wheelchair appeared.

Ilian transferred to it, the movement automatic, resigned. He was pushed through the corridors to the same interrogation room as always.

The room was freezing. Miller and Major Kaelen were already there.

Miller was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking at Ilian with impatience. But his posture froze when he saw the prisoner's freshly shaved face. Without the beard to hide them, the purple marks on Ilian's jaw screamed under the fluorescent light. Kaelen, sitting at the table, narrowed his eyes immediately.

"Who did that?" Kaelen asked, voice hard, turning to Miller.

Miller looked away, satisfaction replaced by irritated defensiveness. He knew he had left a trail.

"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "Doesn't look serious."

"It does matter," Kaelen retorted. "Those marks are evidence. You are giving us a legal problem, Miller."

Miller just huffed, crossing his arms, refusing to debate.

The guard pushed the wheelchair to the table and stopped. He didn't lock the wheels for Ilian to stay there. Pointed to the metal chair fixed to the floor.

"Sit there," he ordered.

Ilian picked up the cane resting beside him in the wheelchair. Planted the rubber tip on the floor with precision. Rested his right hand on the cane handle and his left on the wheelchair armrest.

With a slow, controlled movement, using the wood as leverage to spare his right knee the full load, he rose. Took the necessary short step, pivoting on his good leg, and transferred to the interrogation chair, sitting with his back straight and the cane positioned vertically between his knees, refusing to show the pain of the movement.

Kaelen, watching everything from the table, noticed the change. The young man looked tired, but focused.

"You're clean," Kaelen observed. "Good. Maybe that helps clear the mind."

He leaned forward. The approach had changed. There were no diagrams on the table today. No threats of violence.

"Ilian, let's be practical," Kaelen began, voice soft, reasonable. "We tried the hard way. Agent Miller lost his patience. You resisted. Point for you."

He paused, studying Ilian's impassive face.

"But every man has a price. Every man has something he desires more than silence. We know you aren't an American patriot. You owe us no loyalty. So, let's talk business."

Kaelen opened his hands, as if offering the world.

"What do you want? Money? We can deposit millions into a Swiss account, untouchable. You can leave here and live like a king anywhere in the world."

Ilian didn't blink. Money was irrelevant to him, but the offer was a critical symptom. He analyzed the sequence of events with mathematical coldness. Last night, Miller was destroying drawings and threatening uncontrollably. Today, the routine had changed drastically: the order to shower, the shave, the clean clothes... and now, the bribe.

Why offer millions to a prisoner they already owned? Why try to buy someone they could torture indefinitely?

Ilian looked at Kaelen and saw what the Major was trying to hide: desperation. The offer wasn't generosity, it was panic. The variable change was absolute. If they were resorting to money and cleanliness, it meant coercion had failed and time had run out. Miller hadn't lied the previous night, the war outside had reached the gates.

Ilian felt a cold satisfaction. They weren't negotiating his surrender, they were negotiating their own survival.

"Resources?" Kaelen tried. "Do you want your own lab? No supervision? We can build a facility wherever you want. The best computers, the best team. You could spend the rest of your life just creating, with no one to tell you what to do."

"Or maybe..." Kaelen lowered his voice, attempting a personal card. "...full citizenship? Lifetime protection against the Russians? We can guarantee no one ever touches you again. Absolute security."

Ilian looked at Kaelen and felt a genuine wave of confusion. How could they be so blind? Could they not comprehend the brutal simplicity of his desire?

He just wanted peace. Wanted the right to return to the Andersons' house, sit at the kitchen table, and hear the sound of domestic routine. Wanted to be a person, not an object.

The most frustrating part was that the violence had been unnecessary. He was already collaborating. Before being dragged from there, he was fixing Argus, delivering the math they needed. And he would continue to do so. He would give them precision, clarity, the "silence" on the radars.

But Rodzina... the algorithm designed to find life under rubble... that, he would never allow to be subverted to guide bombs and create graves. It was an absolute moral line he had drawn, and which they, in their tactical greed, seemed incapable of seeing.

He remained in absolute silence. Didn't deny, didn't accept. Just let the offer die in the cold air of the room.

They didn't understand. There was no price for what he wanted. There was no check that could buy the feeling of sitting on a park bench next to Richard. There was no lab worth the smell of damp earth in Helena's greenhouse. What Ilian wanted wasn't for sale. What he wanted was to belong.

Kaelen waited. One minute. Two. Ilian's silence was a smooth wall where nothing stuck.

Finally, Kaelen sighed and leaned back in his chair, defeated. He looked at Miller and shook his head.

"It's no use," Kaelen said, closing his briefcase. "That's not his currency. We don't have what he wants."

Miller pushed off the wall, huffing. "I told you. Waste of time. We should have continued with my method."

"Your method didn't work, Miller," Kaelen retorted, standing up. "It's over. Time's up."

Kaelen headed for the door. Miller cast one last look of hatred at Ilian, at the purple mark he had created on the prisoner's jaw, frustrated at not having been able to extract even a word.

They left. The door slammed.

Ilian remained alone in the interrogation room. Sitting in the chair, clean, shaven, with the marks of violence on his face, surrounded by silence. They had given up. He didn't know what would come next, but he knew that, in that cold room, he had just won another morning of battle.

Chapter 99: The Voice

The interrogation room door remained closed for nearly an hour. Ilian sat alone, motionless in the metal chair, surrounded by the silence Kaelen and Miller had left behind. His body ached, but his mind was alert, analyzing the sudden retreat of his tormentors.

Then, the electronic lock clicked again. Ilian stiffened, expecting the return of Miller's fury or a new round of bribery from Kaelen. But the figure that entered bore neither military aggression nor tactical desperation.

It was Dr. William Hayes.

He wore an impeccable dark suit, contrasting violently with the base's industrial gray. In his hand, he held a bottle of mineral water. Cold, sealed. The plastic sweated with condensation, promising relief the cell's tap water had never offered.

Ilian looked at him and felt a wave of genuine surprise crack his mask of indifference. Hayes here, in this concrete dungeon, was the final confirmation that the tectonic plates of power had shifted.

Hayes closed the door softly. There were no guards with him. He walked to the table with deliberate calm and sat in the chair Kaelen had occupied, but kept a respectful distance. Placed the water on the table, pushing it slightly toward Ilian.

"For your kidneys, Ilian," Hayes said, voice low and professional. "Dehydration is a risk we cannot take."

Ilian looked at the man, ignoring the water. He didn't look at the table, nor the wall. Stared Hayes directly in the eyes.

Hayes sustained the gaze, without challenge, only with clinical frankness.

"First," Hayes began, clasping his hands on the table, "I would like to offer a formal apology."

Ilian blinked, confused.

"The Agency failed to prevent your extraction from the Anderson home," Hayes continued. "It was an unacceptable protocol failure. I apologize for the time you have been kept at this base. And, mainly..." Hayes's eyes fixed on the purple mark on Ilian's jaw, where Miller's fingers had left their signature. "...I apologize for the violence. I see the mark. The physical treatment you were subjected to is absurd. It violates all HPP guidelines. Agent Miller acted like an animal, and that does not reflect our intent."

Hayes paused, letting the words settle. He was separating the worlds: military barbarism versus Agency civility.

"Bureaucracy is a slow machine, Ilian. I tried to get you out of here from day one. I was blocked. We had to move mountains in Washington to reach this moment. But the Agency never stopped fighting for you. We always wanted what's best for you."

Ilian felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Best. It was a strange word coming from that man. But he continued to listen.

"I want you to be happy," he said, and it sounded frighteningly sincere. "I want you to have a life of peace. Not because I am sentimental, but because I know it is in peace that you produce real science. We want to see you advance technologies, not be beaten in cells. We want your mind free to fly, not caged."

Hayes leaned slightly forward.

"The military... General Thompson, Agent Miller... they think you are defective. They read your file, see the Falke, see the silence, and call you a sabotuer."

A thin smile touched Hayes's lips.

"But the HPP knows the truth. We have analyzed your profile for years. We know you aren't weak. On the contrary. I deeply admire your mental strength, Ilian. You survived the desert. And you never needed to raise a hand. You won through sheer force of will. It is a rare quality."

Ilian felt an icy shiver run down his spine. His intuition, sharpened since their first meeting at the military hospital, was confirmed. That day, still amidst the fog of sedation and the pain of surgeries, he had known. While others saw a broken body, Hayes looked at him like an engineer looks at a complex system.

That man was the most dangerous of all. Miller was a blind hammer trying to knock the door down by force, Hayes was the locksmith who knew exactly how to dismantle the lock. He didn't see Ilian's resistance as a defect to be punished, but as an architecture he planned to dismantle, piece by piece, until he had total control.

"I know you want to cooperate," Hayes said, shifting his tone to something more practical. "I saw the work you did on Argus. I know you were correcting the systems before being brought here. Professor Anderson is a good partner for you, as I promised in that military hospital, remember? The Agency kept its part. We gave you the right anchor."

Ilian remained in absolute silence. His logical mind screamed: Trap. Hayes was being too kind, too understanding.

Hayes observed Ilian's silence and nodded, as if expecting exactly that.

"I know what you are thinking," Hayes said, leaning back. "You think I want you to talk to me. That I want a confession or a code." Hayes shook his head. "I know you won't talk to me. No matter how much I apologize. I am the Agency. I am the system."

Hayes reached into his pocket.

"But I know who you want to talk to."

He pulled out a slim black cell phone. Placed it on the table, next to the water.

"You have one minute," Hayes said.

Ilian looked at the phone. His heart raced, beating painfully against his ribs.

Hayes touched the screen, dialing a number. Activated the speakerphone. The sound of the call filled the cold room. On the second ring, the call was answered.

"Hayes?" Richard's voice filled the room. It was fraught with panic, breathless, trembling from days without sleep. "Did you get it? Did you... did you see Ilian? How is he?"

Upon hearing the voice, Ilian's wall crumbled. The rigid posture broke. He leaned forward, bringing his face close to the phone as if it were a heat source in winter. His hands trembled.

Ilian swallowed hard. Ignored Hayes. Ignored the room.

"Professor..." the word came out as a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Ilian. It's you. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

Richard's voice shook with contained crying. Ilian could hear the fear, the love, the desperation.

Ilian closed his eyes. Everything disappeared.

"I am fine..." he said, voice coming out in a thread, broken. "Professor... I am sorry. I left without warning," Ilian spoke, struggling to form sentences. "I made you worried. I did not want to cause trouble."

On the other end of the line, Richard sobbed openly. The young man was being held prisoner on a military base and was apologizing for having "left without warning."

"It doesn't matter. None of that matters."

"And Mrs. Anderson..." Ilian continued, mind clinging to the lost routine, desperate to fix the mistake. "The greenhouse, it was Thursday. I missed it. Tell her I am sorry."

He paused to breathe, the effort of speaking draining his last reserves. But there was one more thing. The life he had left behind.

"The amaryllis..." he whispered, with fragile urgency. "Take care of it, please. Don't let it die."

There was a brief silence on the other end, the sound of Richard drawing in breath, devastated by the humility of the request.

"Yes, Ilian," Richard said, voice choked. "We are taking care of everything. The greenhouse. The flower. We just want you to come home."

Hayes looked at his watch and made a discreet signal with his hand. Time was up.

"Professor, do not worry, I will come back," Ilian said, voice steadier now, anchored in the certainty that he still had a place in the world.

Hayes reached out and ended the call. The final click cut the connection, but the effect remained vibrating in the air.

Ilian leaned back in his chair, exhausted by the discharge of emotion. His gaze fell on the bottle of cold water on the table. The thirst was overwhelming. With a trembling hand, he grabbed the bottle. Tried to twist the plastic cap, but the cap didn't move. The tremor in his hands was intense.

Hayes watched the silent struggle. Without saying a word, he reached out, in a practical gesture, asking for the bottle. Ilian handed it over. Hayes twisted the cap, breaking the seal with a dry, easy snap, and handed it back.

Ilian held the bottle with both hands so as not to drop it and brought it to his mouth. Took a big gulp, the cold water crashing against his feverish interior. Drank more, greedily, until he had to stop to breathe. His breath was ragged, chest rising and falling fast.

Hayes stood up, adjusting his suit.

"Thank you for the call, Mr. Jansen," he said, with professional politeness.

Without waiting for a reply, Hayes turned his back and left the room, leaving the door closed.

On the other side of the mirror, in the gloom of the observation room, the silence was absolute. Colonel Remington was there, rigid. Agent Miller was leaning against the wall, pale, knowing his time was up. And, seated in the main chairs, wrapped in shadows away from the monitors, were the representatives of the "Delegation."

It wasn't necessary to see the insignias or faces to feel the weight of authority in the room. They were men who had traveled from Washington that morning, bringing with them the power of three different agencies and the ability to end careers with a single signature.

The observation room door opened and Hayes entered. The energy in the room shifted. He was no longer the visitor, he owned the situation. He walked to the glass, looking at Ilian, who was now completely still in the other room.

"Gentlemen," Hayes began, turning to the delegation. "The demonstration is concluded." He pointed to the prisoner on the other side. "Agent Miller reported the asset was adamant. That he was mute. That his mind was broken. You have just seen the truth."

Hayes looked coldly at Miller.

"The asset isn't crazy. He isn't mute. He is selective. He is responsive, but only to the correct stimuli. General Thompson and Agent Miller's brute force method will never yield the desired effect. They tried to open a safe with a sledgehammer."

Hayes turned to the Washington representative.

"The Agency knows exactly which buttons to push. We know which methods to use to get him to cooperate. Professor Anderson is the key. If you want the submarines, if you want the encryption, the asset needs to be with his anchor."

The Navy representative exchanged a heavy, indecipherable look with the NSA envoy. They had seen the proof. Had seen Ilian's lucidity when speaking about the flower, the unwavering loyalty to a man, not a flag. But decisions of that magnitude, involving the transfer of a national security asset, weren't made standing up in a dark observation room.

"Let's go to the conference room, Dr. Hayes," the Washington representative said, standing up slowly, chair dragging on the floor. His voice was grave, promising a battle of protocols. "We have custody terms to discuss. And General Thompson will want to be present."

Hayes nodded, confident. "As you wish."

They left, leaving Miller leaning against the wall, ignored.

In the room next door, the door opened. But it wasn't freedom. It was the guards.

"On your feet, Jansen," one of them ordered.

Back in the cell, the metal door closed with the usual final bang. The lock fulfilling its role.

Ilian remained alone again in the cell. Silence returned, but the texture of the air had changed. Shortly after, the lock clicked again and the door opened. A guard entered, bringing the lunch tray. He left it there and exited.

Ilian looked at the food but didn't move to take it. His stomach was closed, a tight knot of adrenaline and raw emotion that made the physical act of eating impossible. Biological hunger had been supplanted by a greater need that had just been satiated.

He sat on the bed, holding the cane with both hands, and closed his eyes. He didn't draw forests. He just replayed the phone call. Once, twice, ten times. Reconstructed the sound of Richard's voice, every tremor, every pause.

Ilian?

The professor's voice was laden with a stress Ilian had never heard before. It was the sound of a man who was breaking in half with worry.

Ilian knew he had broken his protocol of absolute silence. He had handed Hayes the proof that he was functional. Tactically, it could be seen as a failure. But, as he gripped the worn wood of the cane, he knew he had no choice.

He would never miss the opportunity to calm Richard. The professor's suffering was the only thing he couldn't bear. If his voice had served to lift the weight of the world from Richard's shoulders, if it had served to give him a minute of peace, then the price was worth it.

"I will come back," he whispered to the void, repeating the promise, testing the sound of truth.

For the first time in weeks, it wasn't just a survival strategy to keep from going mad. It was a certainty. He had hope. And there, sitting, ignoring the food tray cooling on the table, he waited, knowing the door wouldn't open to oblivion, but to the way home.

Chapter 100: The True Project

The cell door opened not with a bang, but with a smooth, final slide. Ilian, sitting on the edge of the bed, shrank back instinctively, his body tense, waiting for Miller.

Two guards entered. One of them pushed the wheelchair.

"Sit down, Jansen," the guard said. The voice lacked the usual contempt. It was neutral, functional.

Ilian obeyed. Leaned on his cane, transferred his sore body's weight, and sat down. Held the wood against his chest, his shield.

They began to push him. The gray concrete labyrinth passed quickly, a monotonous blur. Ilian, accustomed to the forced routine, counted the seconds mentally, waiting for the usual stop at the interrogation room.

But the count ran over. Time passed, and the chair didn't stop. The route, which he had memorized by duration, stretched strangely, taking him through an endless sequence of corridors that seemed never-ending, going far beyond the perimeter he knew.

Ilian's heart raced. The break in the pattern was terrifying. Where were they taking him? To a total isolation wing? To a worse cell?

They reached an elevator. The doors closed, isolating them in the steel cube. The cabin began to rise. And kept rising.

Ilian closed his eyes, feeling the continuous vibration of the floor beneath the chair's wheels. The ascent was long. His mind, always calculating distances, realized with a silent chill just how deep they had buried him. He hadn't just been locked in a cell, he had been entombed under tons of rock and secrets, far from light, far from time. That slow ascent didn't just feel like transport, it felt like returning from an abyss.

When the doors opened again, the air changed. It didn't smell of antiseptic and fear. It smelled of oil, rubber, and gasoline.

Three black sedans were parked with engines running, exhaust steam rising into the cold air. Beside the middle car, two figures waited.

Ilian squinted, trying to focus under the garage's harsh light. He recognized the first one. Agent Leo. Leo's face was serious, but not hostile. And beside him, impeccable in his dark wool coat, was Dr. Hayes.

Hayes took a step forward when the wheelchair stopped.

"The fight was worth it, Ilian," he said, his calm voice echoing on the concrete, projecting absolute assurance. "We beat the bureaucracy. You are going back to your home, from where you should never have been taken."

Ilian looked at him, shocked. The words seemed foreign. Home. He didn't answer. His throat was tight, and distrust was a hard habit to break.

Hayes opened the car's back door with an inviting, almost ceremonial gesture.

"Please, get in, Ilian," he asked, voice soft. "Professor Anderson has already been notified of your release. He is waiting for you at this very moment."

The mention that Richard knew and was waiting was what made Ilian's legs move. He got up from the chair, legs trembling not just from muscle weakness, but from an electric discharge of emotion he could barely contain. He leaned on the cane and got into the car, sinking into the soft, warm leather seat.

Hayes got in right after, sitting beside him. Agent Leo opened the front door and sat in the passenger seat, next to the uniformed driver who kept his gaze fixed ahead. The convoy pulled out, climbing the ramp toward daylight.

The trip was long. The landscape outside passed as a blur of gray and white under the cold November afternoon light. Ilian couldn't relax. His body was rigid, hands gripping the cane, eyes scanning the horizon, waiting for the car to turn around, for it to be a cruel joke of Miller's. He could barely believe he was moving away from that hell.

"Breathe, Ilian," Hayes said softly, breaking the silence after an hour on the road. "The Agency only wants what is best for you. We had to fight hard to get you out of the General's hands, but it is over."

Ilian continued to look out the window, in silence.

"You need to rest," Hayes continued, voice hypnotic and soothing. "In a little while, we will enter the residential area. The Thanksgiving holiday is coming. You should enjoy it. Mrs. Anderson will certainly prepare something special."

The mention of the holiday, of domestic normalcy, made Ilian's shoulders relax a little.

"I want you to be worry-free," Hayes assured. "Your privacy will be respected, exactly as it always was. There never were cameras inside the guest house, Ilian, and there never will be. That space has always been yours."

Hayes looked at the young man's profile, voice becoming even more soothing, selling the illusion of care.

"As for the exterior, we can re-evaluate protocols. The perimeter of your trail walk can be increased. You need space. The Agency has always acted, from the beginning, thinking solely of your safety and well-being. We protect what is valuable."

"You might even go back to your fishing trips. The river must be freezing, but I imagine that is not a problem for you."

Ilian closed his eyes. Fishing. No cameras. It seemed like a dream.

It was almost five in the afternoon when the car slowed down. Ilian opened his eyes and recognized the street. The late afternoon light bathed the trees and low stone walls in a cold golden hue. His heart raced.

The three cars stopped in front of the Anderson property entrance.

The main house was there, solid, real.

Agent Leo got out of the front seat and opened the back door for Ilian. Cold air invaded the car, smelling of dry leaves and freedom.

Ilian got out slowly. His legs were weak, his right knee protested, but he planted the cane on the ground. His hands trembled on the wooden handle, but not from cold or residual fear of the base. It was an uncontrollable vibration of pure anticipation and happiness. He stood, breathing the free air for the first time in many days.

Hayes got out the other side and joined Agent Leo near the car hood. They didn't approach. Stood watching the young man's momentary hesitation.

"You can go, Ilian," he said, voice calm and benevolent. "You are free."

Ilian took a step toward the house.

The front door opened. A figure appeared on the porch, without a coat.

Richard.

Ilian stopped halfway. Saw the professor descend the steps, his pace fast, driven by silent urgency. Richard's face, marked by sleepless nights and anguish, was now transfigured, illuminated by the afternoon light and a relief bordering on disbelief.

Richard stopped two meters away.

"Ilian..." Richard's voice failed, choked up. "I can't believe you came back."

Richard opened his arms. Didn't rush to grab him. Just opened his arms, offering a safe harbor, respecting the space, letting the choice be his.

Ilian looked at that man. Looked at the offered embrace. All the barriers, all the fear of touch, all the aversion forged in years of torture... it all dissolved before the overwhelming need to be held.

In a gesture of total trust, Ilian released his right hand. The cane hit the ground with a dry, hollow sound, rolling to the side, forgotten.

Ilian took the last step and enveloped Richard in a tight embrace. It wasn't a fall, it was a meeting. He held the professor with the firmness of someone who has finally found his place.

Richard responded immediately. The professor's arms closed around him tightly, pulling him close, offering solid, warm support. Ilian buried his face in Richard's shoulder, hands gripping him, not with fear, but with the intensity of someone feeling happiness warm their blood again. Tears came, hot and liberating, mixing with trembling smiles of pure relief.

"You came back... you came back," Richard whispered, crying, hand stroking Ilian's head, protecting him from the cold. "The family is finally complete again. We missed you so much, Ilian."

In the background, Helena and Elara appeared at the door, hands over their mouths, crying and smiling with relief, completing the picture under the soft evening light.

Near the black car, the scene was watched closely.

"It's impressive, sir," Leo murmured, shaking his head. "I transported this young man when he looked like just a ghost. But look at him now... It seems he finally found a safe place. It was all true. He came home."

"He didn't come home, Leo," Hayes corrected, voice low. "He came back to the anchor."

Leo looked at him, confused. "But... you said he would be free. That there would be no cameras. And the project? That radar Miller wanted?"

Hayes looked at the embrace. Saw the absolute dependence in Ilian's eyes. Saw the fierce devotion in Richard's eyes. Saw the perfect trap close, a prison made not of bars, but of indestructible bonds of gratitude and love.

"The radar is irrelevant," Hayes said, with cold disdain, opening the sedan door to get in. "Miller just wanted a machine. I wanted control of the mind that creates the machine."

He entered the vehicle, soundproofing cutting off the wind outside. Settled into the leather seat, looking one last time at the scene through the tinted glass.

"Ilian is now more trapped than ever," Hayes continued, voice low and satisfied. "He will do whatever the Agency wants, simply because he will do whatever the Professor asks. He will be happy. And he will work for us until the end of his days."

Hayes looked away and signaled the driver, ending the show.

"Let's go, Leo. The true Project Family... was always mine."

The car pulled away smoothly, leaving Ilian in Richard's arms, where he always belonged: protected, loved, and finally, at peace.

Chapter 101: Family

The embrace broke apart slowly, not by will, but by physical necessity. Ilian swayed, his legs betraying the emotion of the moment.

Richard acted fast. With one hand, he continued to support the young man’s back. With the other, he bent down and retrieved the cane from the cold ground. He didn't hand it over immediately, he held it in the hand opposite the one supporting Ilian, making himself the primary support.

"Let's go inside," Richard murmured, his voice still thick from recent tears. "It's freezing out here."

Richard wrapped his arm firmly around Ilian's waist, supporting almost all the young man's weight. Ilian didn't protest, on the contrary, he yielded to gravity, leaning on him, too exhausted to maintain his posture.

They walked together the short distance to the entrance. Climbed the three low steps of the porch slowly, one dragging step at a time.

Helena and Elara were near the door, unable to wait inside. They stood under the yellow light of the entryway, shivering in the cold late afternoon air, eyes fixed on the two men approaching.

As they saw Ilian climb the first step, the light revealing the pallor of his freshly shaved face, the dark purple marks on his jawline, and the deep shadow of exhaustion in his eyes, Helena's control broke.

"Ilian, dear!"

Ilian pulled away slightly from Richard, trying to steady his feet to receive her right there, in the cold. He looked at her, smiling, and opened his arms.

Helena enveloped him in an embrace. It wasn't restrained. It was a maternal embrace, enveloping, soft, full of fierce protection. She held his face against her shoulder, hands stroking his back through the fabric, ignoring the bruises to focus on the life pulsing within him.

"You're cold. You're so cold," she murmured, crying softly into his neck. "But you're here. You came back."

Ilian closed his eyes. Helena's vanilla scent reached him even in the winter air, expelling the metallic smell of the cell. He didn't recoil. The panic of touch didn't come. He felt only that he was being accepted. He allowed himself to rest his chin on her shoulder, letting out a long, shaky sigh.

"Thank you..." he whispered, voice hoarse.

Helena pulled back just enough to look at his face. She held it with both warm hands, thumbs brushing lightly, with infinite care, near the purple marks on his jaw, examining every detail with devastating affection.

"Let's go inside," she said, wiping her tears and smiling. "The house is warm."

Elara was by the open door, holding it.

She looked uncertain. She knew of his aversion to touch, and the fear of startling him kept her paralyzed. She took a small step back to make way, eyes shining.

"I'm so glad you're back, Ilian," she said, voice soft. "It took so long."

They entered. The freezing, cutting night air was left behind, replaced by a physical wall of warmth. The smell of food and safety.

Ilian stopped in the entrance hall, the sound of the lock turning behind him by Richard's hands sounding like the definitive closing of a vault. The world outside disappeared.

He looked at Elara. Her image brought back the day at the park. The lightness. The way she had treated him just as a man, and not as a prisoner.

Ilian's right hand was clenched on the cane handle, knuckles white from the tension of the walk. With a deliberate movement, he relaxed his hand. He slid the wooden handle, hooking it on his forearm so the cane hung there, freeing his hand.

With his hand now free, he extended it toward her. Palm open, trembling, but offered. Elara looked at the hand, then at his eyes, understanding the magnitude of the gesture.

Ilian didn't hug her. The trauma was still there, a layer of ice fresh and alive on his skin. But he offered what he could: connection.

His lips curved into a smile. A genuine smile.

"I am back," he said simply.

Elara smiled back, a radiant smile that lit up her face. She took his hand. It wasn't a fleeting touch. She squeezed his hand firmly, warmly, humanly, anchoring him there.

"Welcome back," she said, smiling.

Richard, watching the scene, felt the lump in his throat dissolve. There, in the entrance hall, illuminated by the house's golden light, the darkness, finally, seemed unable to enter.


They were together. The family was complete.

End of Book One

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If you enjoyed the book, know that Ilian Jansen's story continues.

So far there are 5 books and this was just the first.

If your heart was touched and you want a few more chapters immediately after Ilian returns to the Anderson's house and receives his first hug, write to me and I'll send more.

Contact me at adrianmorrow1907@gmail.com