Project Rodzina - Part 10

Here are a few more chapters about Ilian Jansen.

The first meeting at the agency and the payment for the handkerchief are two chapters that I really enjoyed; I hope you like them too.

Chapter 65: The Walker

Ilian woke early on Saturday. He stood in the darkness of the guest house, the quiet didn't seem charged with threat. He felt good. Genuinely good. The feverish anxiety about Richard's illness had dissolved the previous morning in the silent calm of the office. The routine was intact.

After his morning routine, he decided he would take his walk.

The day was beautiful. When he stepped out, the air was cold, but the sky was perfectly clear. He walked with determination across the lawn and entered the gloom of the trail. The air seemed purer, sounds sharper. He heard birds, a call and response he didn't understand but appreciated. He saw ants marching methodically over a stone, but the sight didn't lead him to Kessler. They were just ants. It was just a trail.

He felt total peace.

He reached his usual refuge, the fallen log in the clearing. He sat down, as usual, for his twenty minutes of rest. While catching his breath, he analyzed his body, like an engineer analyzing a machine.

The pain in his right leg was there, a low and constant note, as always. But the exhaustion that usually overwhelmed him seemed distant. His lungs felt stronger. The muscles around his knee, which David tortured daily, felt... firmer.

Physical therapy was working.

Feeling recovered from the initial stage, he looked at the continuation of the trail. The path disappearing into the forest, the path he had never explored.

The decision to go further was an act of pure autonomy. Standing up, he ventured deeper, moving away from the house until he noticed, for the first time, that the trail wasn't singular. While a fork veered to the right, the main path continued straight, and that was the route he chose.

The walk extended far beyond what he thought possible. The effort was real, his leg burning, but it was a productive pain.

Eventually, he stopped, leaning against a large oak tree. Resting there, he felt the effort but also the silent triumph: he was conquering territory.

A few more minutes passed. Just as he was about to continue, he heard it.

Footsteps.

The sound was firm, rhythmic, approaching.

Ilian's body froze instantly. It was a tactical, trained response born of years of captivity. His survival instinct took control. He stood perfectly still, cane firm in hand, ears analyzing the cadence of the steps. Someone walking. Approaching. Alone.

A man, perhaps in his early thirties, appeared on the trail. He was walking slowly, coming from the opposite direction. He wore hiking boots, neutral-colored cargo pants, and a light jacket, as if cataloging the trail or birdwatching. He looked like a local, maybe a nature enthusiast, perfectly normal.

The man saw him and flashed a friendly smile.

"Good morning!" he said cheerfully. "Beautiful day for a walk on the trail, isn't it?"

Ilian's standard response to any social interaction was absolute silence. He remained quiet, mind processing the stranger. The man didn't leave. He stood there, the friendly smile still on his face, clearly waiting for an answer.

"Good morning," he managed to reply, fighting his instinct.

The man approached a few more meters, his smile faltering into an expression of concern. "You look tired. Are you okay?" He looked at Ilian's cane. "You're not from around here, right? Are you lost? Can I help you get back?"

The man, seeing Ilian's silence, held up a water bottle. "Here, want some water?"

The amount of questions was overwhelming. His bubble of peace had been invaded. He just wanted the intruder to leave. He shook his head once, a sharp movement. "No. Thank you. I am... fine."

"Alright," the man said, taking a step back, still looking friendly. "Just be careful. The trail gets pretty tough from here on. Easy to get hurt. Maybe better to head back." He smiled again. "Have a good day." And he continued, walking slowly along the trail in the direction Ilian had come from.

Ilian stood still for a while longer, processing the information as logically as he could: the man was a neighbor. The interaction, though uncomfortable, hadn't been threatening.

He looked at the continuation of the trail. It didn't look harder. The terrain was flat, the vegetation was the same. The man's assessment was inefficient. Factually incorrect. The triumph of the long walk seemed smaller. Solitude, his true goal, had been interrupted by bad data.

He turned and began the long walk back.

The walk back was tiring. He focused only on the physical: the rhythm of the cane, the effort of his leg, his breathing. The frustration of the social interaction began to be burned off by the constant physical exertion. The tactical focus of walking overrode the discomfort of speaking.

When he finally reached the guest house, he was physically exhausted. His mind, however, was calm again. The physical achievement and fresh air had relaxed him. The day, despite the strange encounter, had been a success. He felt stronger.

Ilian spent a quiet afternoon reading his advanced physics book and working on the Argus diagrams.

Around six in the evening, a knock on the door.

It was Richard. He was visibly better. The fever had disappeared. He looked tired but was upright. He carried a large paper bag.

Richard entered. "Just wanted you to know I'm alive," he said, voice still a bit hoarse. "I'm getting better. And thank you for the visit yesterday. The silent company was the best medicine."

Ilian just nodded.

Richard placed the bag on the kitchen table with a smile. "I know my cold messed up our trip. But the next fishing season is just around the corner. I thought you should be prepared with your own gear."

Richard took the gifts out of the bag. First, a new backpack, dark green, robust. Then, a new jacket, the right size for him.

Ilian took the jacket Richard offered him. The smell of new fabric. He ran his right hand over the material, feeling the texture. It was thick, technical. He raised his eyes from the gift and looked at Richard. Appreciation was clear in his eyes, but his words were simple, factual, charged with a gratitude he didn't know how to express otherwise.

"Thank you, Professor. It is a good jacket."

"Every man needs a good jacket, Ilian." Richard took a step back, the same glint of humor from the previous night in his eyes. "You know," he said, feigning serious concern, "I'm almost nervous about our next fishing trip."

Ilian looked up, confused by the logic. "Nervous? Why?"

"Because you took that lesson on lures way too seriously!" he laughed. "I can already imagine. You'll stand by the riverbank, won't even want to fish, but you'll be murmuring about 'inefficient hydrodynamics' and 'precision aerodynamics.' You'll scare all the fish away with math!"

Ilian processed the joke. A small smile formed. He replied with his literal logic, but now participating in the game.

"Maybe, but the fish I catch will be the optimized fish."

Richard laughed.

Ilian remembered something. "Wait a moment."

He went slowly to his room while Richard waited.

Ilian returned carrying two folded coats: the fishing coat Richard had lent him at the cabin and the heavy coat from the observatory.

He offered the coats to Richard. "You lent me these."

He hesitated, shame replacing joy. "Professor, I am sorry. I could not wash them. I do not have detergent. The agency handles the laundry. I asked, but they haven't brought it yet."

Richard accepted the coats, completely touched by the vulnerability of the confession. "Ilian, don't worry about that. It's fine."

Richard's tone became a little more serious, but still gentle. "Tomorrow morning, Helena and Elara are going to church. And I'm still not 100% to go. I thought I'd come here around nine." He paused. "We can talk calmly, just the two of us. There are some things we need to discuss before the week starts."

Ilian, now confident, holding his new jacket, nodded. He was ready.

"Yes, Professor. I will be waiting."

Richard smiled, seeing Ilian relaxed and genuinely happy. He stayed a few more minutes and then said goodbye.

Ilian closed the door. He picked up the new jacket and folded it carefully on the armchair, next to the backpack.

He was genuinely happy. The day had been a success.

Chapter 66: The Strategic Confession

Sunday dawned with a heavy silence. Ilian had been awake since before dawn but hadn't left the guest house. The peace had been good, but he knew it was temporary.

He had spent the early hours of the morning organizing his thoughts. His notebooks were on the work desk. Kessler's book was beside them, along with open diagrams of Project Argus. He was prepared.

A little after nine came a light knock on the door.

Ilian opened it. Richard was there, looking fully recovered from his cold but with a serious expression.

"Good morning, Ilian. May I come in?"

"Yes, Professor." Ilian stepped away from the door.

Richard entered, watching him carefully. "You look rested. Did you sleep well?"

Ilian nodded, closing the door. "Yes. And you, Professor? Is your cold... better?"

"I am much better," he said, a small grateful smile appearing.

Ilian went to his work desk. That was where the conversation would happen. In his territory.

"Would you like some coffee?" he offered.

"Yes, thank you."

Ilian served the coffee he had just made, movements methodical. He handed a cup to Richard and sat on the other side of the table. The atmosphere was calm but charged with purpose.

Richard took a sip, unsure how to start. "Ilian, I said yesterday we needed to talk before the week started..."

Ilian interrupted him, but calmly. His voice was low and factual. "I know what day it is, Professor."

Richard stopped, cup halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"

"It is the twenty-ninth day," he said. "The truce ends tomorrow."

Richard lowered the cup. He was impressed, and deeply saddened, by the fact that Ilian was counting every day, like a prisoner marking the cell wall.

"I want to thank you," he added, voice firm, looking directly at Richard. "What you did. This truce. It worked." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I am better. I am ready to work, as the agency wants."

"I am glad you are better," Richard said, voice low. "I... I have a meeting with Director Vance tomorrow morning. To discuss the next steps. I want you to be aware of everything."

"I know," Ilian said. "And it is because I am ready that we need to talk. Before you go. You need to know the truth, to be prepared. About Project Argus."

Richard leaned forward. "About Argus? What do you mean?"

"Professor, I trust you," he said, voice calm. "You are the project leader. And your team is facing difficulties, making it work. The simulation models do not work. From the reports, I saw it has been three years trying to stabilize the data, and they fail."

"It is true, Ilian, but that is why you are here. To help us, let's review the steps and find the reason for these sequential failures."

"They are right to fail."

Richard blinked. "What... what did you say?"

"The models. They are right to fail," Ilian repeated. "Because the problem is not your team's calculation. It is the premise. Kessler's theory is wrong. I know it is difficult for you to hear this, but it is the truth."

Richard froze. Saying Kessler's theory was wrong was heresy. But he was also confused. Richard had avoided asking about Kessler after learning of Ilian's personal relationship with the great scientist, but now that the subject had returned, he had some questions.

"Ilian, wait." Richard leaned back, eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with deep confusion. "You tell me this now. But... when I brought that book... and that night, after the chess game... you asked me questions. You asked me to explain Kessler's theory. You seemed confused about the fundamentals."

He leaned in, voice gentle. "But you told me he was your tutor. For five years. You know this theory better than I do. Why did you pretend you didn't understand?"

Ilian froze. His game was discovered. He was caught in a manipulation. He lowered his eyes, silence stretching, heavy. He couldn't formulate an answer. Shame was a cold sensation in his stomach.

"I... I am sorry, Professor. Forgive me."

"Sorry for what, Ilian? Why did you do that?"

Ilian's voice came out low, admitting the tactic. "I... I was testing."

Richard was shocked. "Testing? Testing me?"

"I needed to know if you were like him. Like Kessler."

"What do you mean? I don't understand. Be honest."

Ilian looked up, voice cold with the memory. "I needed to know if you were... blind. If you would defend the theory, even if the data was wrong. Kessler... he could not see. His pride would not let him."

Richard processed the information. Ilian was testing him. "And did I pass the test?"

Ilian ignored the question, focused on the mission. "Professor, I am sorry, I trust you. That is why I want you to understand why Project Argus is failing. I can explain the reason, please, listen to me."

He slid one of his notebooks over. The notebook containing the correct math.

"The math is there, it is still unfinished, but I can go over all the calculations with you," Ilian said. "Kessler's flaw. But I need... a laboratory. And a partner."

Richard looked at the notebook, stunned. "Ilian. It really is hard to hear this, however, I am willing to hear every detail of what you mean. If it is true, this will change a lot of things, it will be an upheaval in our field."

"Thank you very much, Professor, I knew you were different," Ilian interrupted. "But tomorrow, at the meeting, you cannot say these things to anyone. We need to prove it first. Make Project Argus work."

The strategist was now in command. "You have to tell them... that I will cooperate, you will supervise all my work, ensuring I will do nothing wrong. Tell them we need access to the lab. Together." Ilian looked directly at Richard. "I need you to be my partner. I need you to cover for me so we can build the practical proof."

Breathing deeply, Richard paused to absorb what Ilian was revealing.

"Ilian, I really am shaken by these claims of yours. But yes, let's study this problem together and see what conclusion we reach, okay?"

Ilian seemed to relax a little, and continued. "At the hospital, Dr. Hayes gave me a choice. Stay confined in a military base until I fixed Argus... or be 'socialized' with a family, where they thought I would be more productive."

"I refused. I didn't want... people. Didn't want to talk to anyone."

"What made you change your mind?"

"He showed me a photo."

"A photo?"

Ilian looked up and stared directly at Richard, with total vulnerability, but his voice still firm.

"It was a photo of you. From your university profile. Hayes said: 'It is this man. A professor. He understands.' ... And I... I accepted. I chose you."

Richard closed his eyes, the weight of that trust crushing him.

Ilian interpreted Richard's silence as acceptance. The partnership was formed.

"Professor," he said, voice changing, losing emotion and returning to the cold logic of work. "If you have time now... I can start showing you."

Richard opened his eyes, still shaken by the "photo" confession, but the scientist in him took control. "Yes. Yes, now. Show me."

Ilian opened the flawed Argus diagrams.

"Kessler's premise assumes a vacuum," he began. "But we are not in a vacuum. Argus fails because the theory ignores soil composition, humidity, atmospheric interference... It is not obvious. That is why no one saw it in fifty years. That is why Kessler never saw it."

Richard leaned in, the academic now totally focused. "Ilian, this is the standard attenuation equation. We all use it. If what you're saying is true..."

"It is true," he said. "Here is his model." He pointed to the Argus diagram. "And here is mine." He pointed to his notebook. "They look almost the same. But the flaw is here. In this variable he ignored."

Richard looked at the two pages, side by side. The math was dense, complex. It wasn't obvious.

"I... I'm not seeing it, Ilian," Richard admitted, frustrated. "Your variable... is it a correction? It seems... like an unnecessary complication. Kessler's theory is about elegance, simplicity."

"It is not a complication. It is reality," he said, with almost professorial patience. "Kessler 'cleaned' the math. He ignored the 'noise.' But the 'noise' accumulates. His model works on a small scale, but on a large scale, like in Argus, it fails."

Richard rubbed his temples. "This... this will take weeks to prove. If we had a simulator here, we could run both models..."

"No," Ilian said, firmly. "The computer is fast, but it hides the premise. The simulation is already failing because the premise is wrong. It does not show you why."

He picked up a pencil. "But manually... I can show you. Step by step. I will redo the Argus calculations with you, and I will compare them with mine. I will show you where the data starts to accumulate the error."

Richard looked at Ilian, at the absolute certainty in his eyes. And he knew, with frightening clarity, that the young man was convinced he was right.

"Right," Richard said. "Start. It will take a few weeks to do this math manually, but if you're sure, I'm willing to see."

They worked. The only sound in the room was the scratching of Ilian's pencil and Richard's occasional questions. Time disappeared.

It was the ring of Richard's cell phone, vibrating on the table, that broke the trance. It was almost one in the afternoon.

Richard looked at the ID. "It's Elara."

He answered. "Yes, honey?... Ah. Yes, of course. We're working. We're coming."

He hung up and looked at Ilian, seeming surprised by the time that had passed. "They're back. Lunch is ready."

He started to get up, but Ilian was already closing his notebooks.

"You should go, Professor."

"Aren't you coming?" Richard asked.

"No." His social battery for the day had been spent on that conversation. "I... I prefer to stay here. And you need to rest."

He looked at Richard with genuine concern. "Tomorrow's meeting will be... difficult. You need to be well."

Richard stopped, touched by the reversal of care. "Right, Ilian. I'll go. But... thank you. For trusting me."

Ilian just nodded. The partnership was sealed.

After Richard left, he didn't have lunch. He returned to the work desk, to the silence of his refuge. Looked at the Argus diagrams. Felt... hopeful. A strange sensation, almost painful. Richard hadn't called him crazy. Hadn't defended Kessler. He had listened. Had agreed to try. For the first time, Ilian wasn't alone with his discovery.

Richard still couldn't see the flaw. Ilian understood. It was hard. It was like trying to show a man that the sky isn't blue. Richard needed a better map. Ilian was genuinely willing to help Project Argus. Now that he had a partner, Argus wasn't a threat anymore, it was the lab. It was the proof.

But beneath the hope was the coldness of reality. Tomorrow's meeting. He was afraid, not for himself, he was used to it. He was afraid for Richard. He was sending his only protector into a room full of wolves, armed only with a theory that seemed like heresy. He feared they would pressure the professor too much, hurt him on his account.

He picked up the pencil. The only thing he could do was arm Richard better.

He spent the rest of Sunday afternoon there. Creating schematics, drawing flowcharts, trying to simplify the complex math. He was building the bridge for Richard to cross. He worked until late at night. His mind wasn't focused on tomorrow's "battle" with Vance, that was just procedure. His mind was focused on the journey that had begun.

Richard had shown him a new world, a strange universe made of gentle touches, laughter, and "inefficient" fishing lures. Now, Ilian needed to show Richard his universe. A hidden world, made of pure math, where the physics Richard knew was just a shadow of the truth.

He knew it would take weeks to guide Richard patiently through the tangle of calculations until the professor could, finally, see the light for himself.

Chapter 67: The Bureaucratic Cage

At eight-thirty in the morning, Richard knocked on the guest house door. He was in his best suit, his academic armor, but felt like a diplomat entering unknown territory.

Ilian opened the door. He looked calm, focused. The anxiety of the previous days had been replaced by cold determination.

"Professor."

"Ilian." Richard tried to smile, attempting to convey a confidence he didn't feel. "I'm heading out for the meeting."

Ilian looked at Richard's suit, his analytical gaze measuring the tension in the older man's face.

"You do not need... to wear yourself out for me," he said, voice low. "Just tell them I will cooperate. Tell them I already have a 'calibration solution' in mind. Tell them we will work together."

"Exactly," Richard said, placing a hand on Ilian's shoulder, a gesture the young man could now tolerate. "That's all they want to hear. I'll handle the bureaucracy. Focus on your physical therapy."

Ilian nodded. "Yes, sir. Good luck."

Richard left.

The drive to downtown Boston seemed normal. People walked to work, clutching coffee cups. But Richard felt as if he were carrying a secret that could rewrite modern physics.

He wasn't focused on Miller or Vance. He was focused on Ilian's math. On the flaw Ilian was going to show him. He was nervous, yes, but it was the excitement of an academic on the verge of discovery.

He arrived at the anonymous office building in the financial district. The lobby was almost empty, all glass and steel. A security guard checked his ID and directed him to the elevator.

The elevator ascended in absolute silence. A man in a suit waited for him when the doors opened into a long, windowless hallway and guided him to the conference room.

Richard entered. The conference room had a long, polished table. Director Vance sat at the head, her presence dominating the room. Dr. Hayes was to her right, looking very calm with a cup of coffee in front of him.

And to her left, with a smile, was Agent Miller.

Director Vance, an elegant woman in her sixties with impeccably styled hair, stood up and smiled at him.

"Richard. Thank you for coming. It's been a while," she said, voice friendly.

Richard, visibly tense with Miller's presence, relaxed a little. Vance's friendliness was disarming. "Director Vance. It's good to see you, given the circumstances."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry it has to be under these circumstances. Coffee?" She pointed to an espresso machine in the corner. "Please, sit down."

Richard accepted a coffee and sat down, placing his briefcase on the table. He straightened his tie, assuming his role as an academic, feeling now as if he were among professional allies.

Vance sat down again, the friendly smile still in place, but her eyes became focused. "Well, let's begin. The 30-day truce is over. Richard, your report. How is our asset?"

"Director Vance, the truce was a total success, I want to thank you," Richard began, his voice full of a professor's conviction. "Ilian has improved greatly in all aspects. He is strictly following the physical therapy program and feels better physically."

Richard continued, focusing on the human details that, to him, were the true data. "He is interacting with my family. Most importantly, his mind is focused. He is ready to cooperate. Despite the truce, he worked on the project for a few days, is already familiarizing himself with the architecture we use, and has even identified what he believes to be an innovative 'calibration solution' for Project Argus."

Vance listened, but before she could respond, Dr. Hayes intervened, defending his own protocol.

"Director," Hayes said, "Professor Anderson's data aligns perfectly with my projections. The 'anchor' protocol is a success." Hayes looked at his own notes. "Our reports show a drastic decrease in cortisol levels since social interaction increased, significant improvement in general health. He went on a fishing trip with the Professor's friends. Went to an observatory. He is forming bonds. This cooperation on Argus is the direct result of the emotional stability the Professor has given him."

Richard, feeling validated by Hayes, added: "Yes, as I said, he is ready to cooperate. He has already identified a 'calibration solution'..."

Miller let out a low laugh, a dry, humorless sound that cut off Richard's speech.

"Ready to cooperate?" Miller repeated, tone full of contempt. "Professor, with all due respect, you are an academic. You are being deceived."

Richard froze. "Deceived?"

"But of course," Miller said. "The asset isn't 'stable.' He is acting. He is a cunning saboteur, and he is telling you exactly what you want to hear to keep his comfortable refuge and his truce." Then he repeated Richard's words with obvious scorn: "A 'calibration solution.' Of course he has." Miller leaned forward, smile disappearing. "Professor, do you even know who you are truly protecting?"

"A misunderstood genius..." Richard began.

"He is the architect of Project Falke," Miller interrupted.

Richard froze. He knew the name. The friendly fire disaster. The hushed-up military scandal that haunted the agency. "The Falke? The... the disaster in Libya?"

"The same," Miller said, voice now like ice. "Killed more than a dozen American soldiers. And now you are taking their killer on... fishing trips."

The intensity of Miller's personal hatred made Richard recoil.

"That man," Miller continued, "shouldn't even be on American soil. He should be in a hole, locked up without bail. And believe me, many in the agency agree with that." He cast a cutting look at Hayes. "If it weren't for the... progressive ideas... of Dr. Hayes and the HPP team, he would never see the light of day."

"That... that can't be," Richard said, shaken. "He was a teenager in Germany. He..."

Miller laughed again. "A teenager who was kidnapped by the Russians at seventeen precisely because he was the architect of Falke."

Richard felt the blood drain from his face. Kidnapped. Russia. These were pieces of information Ilian had never given him.

"And do you know what the Russians did when Falke failed catastrophically?" Miller continued. "They sold him. Sold him like garbage to the Arabs. Because even the Russians realized what he truly is. An unstable saboteur. And now, he is on our project."

"We have a handwritten note from him, Professor," Miller said, tapping a folder in front of him. "Warning about 'faulty calibration.' He knew it would fail."

Vance finally spoke, her cold voice cutting the tension. "Your 'calibration solution,' Professor, sounds terribly familiar. We must be extremely careful."

Richard was floored. The image he had of Ilian, the victim, had just been confronted with the agency's image: the saboteur.

"I don't... I don't believe it," Richard stammered.

"I don't care about the history," Vance said. "Argus is failing and we need him to move forward. But the rules have changed. And Agent Miller has a point. The asset really is described as unstable and prone to sabotage. Therefore, the rules are these, Professor:"

Richard felt the noose tighten.

"One: he does not work alone. He is a consultant, not a leader. Two: all his work, every equation, will be submitted to your senior team. The other chief engineers will review and sign off on his work. He is just a tool. You are the supervisor of this tool."

Richard looked at Hayes, who remained impassive. He looked at Miller, who smiled victoriously.

"I cannot treat him that way," Richard said, his moral integrity fighting back. "He isn't a saboteur. And I am not a handler."

"Do you refuse to supervise him?" Miller asked with a smile. "Great. General Thompson paid a personal visit to the asset. His report is quite clear: the asset is unstable, and your 'truce' was a security risk. His recommendation, Professor, is that Ilian be transferred immediately to the Level 5 Cell. Do you prefer your office... or the General's basement? The choice is yours."

"That is barbaric! He won't cooperate under torture!"

Miller sighed, as if bored. "Professor, you still haven't understood the game. Do you think he's an employee we can fire? If he refuses to cooperate... he ceases to be an 'asset' and becomes a 'security risk'."

"And the agency," Miller continued, voice low and precise, "has a protocol for 'risks' that cannot be contained. We won't just lock him up. We will solve the problem. Permanently."

The threat hung in the air. Permanently. Richard realized, with icy horror, that the choice wasn't between Ilian's happiness and his misery. It was between his cooperation and his death.

"I..." Richard swallowed hard, voice hoarse. "I will supervise."

"Good," Miller said, satisfied. "And while we're at it, control his outings. He isn't free to wander outside the property perimeter. We don't want to lose the entire investment made with him falling and breaking his neck. Keep him on a leash."

Richard froze. "What? What are you talking about?"

Miller opened the folder in front of him, as if reading a field report. "Saturday, 09:15, asset leaves safe zone. 09:45, he is nearly a kilometer deep in the woods, near the creek. Alone."

Richard was shocked and saddened. He knew Ilian liked the solitude of the trail. "That... that is his walk."

"Those are the rules, he is not free," Miller laughed, a dry sound.

Richard was shocked by the control the agency had over Ilian. Before he could respond, Director Vance raised her hand.

"Agent Miller, thank you. Your assessment is noted," she said, cutting the tension. "Now, Dr. Hayes, the Human Potential Program's action plan."

Hayes, who had been silent during Miller's attack, opened his folder. His tone was calm, academic, the exact opposite of Miller's intensity.

"Professor Anderson," Hayes began, "Agent Miller is correct about security, but the HPP is focused on productivity. And our data is clear."

He looked at Vance. "The isolation Kessler imposed, and which he suffered in Russia, was detrimental to his intellectual and social development. Our model shows the asset's maximum potential will only be reached through socialization with his peers." Hayes looked back at Richard. "Dr. Finch's visit was a perfect example. Ilian was challenged intellectually and responded positively. He needs to be challenged academically."

Vance nodded, making the final decision. "Therefore, Professor, these are your orders. First, supervise the Argus work, with your team taking responsibility and signing off on everything, we cannot accept any sabotage, as Agent Miller said. Second, you will start scheduling these academic meetings to challenge him. Bring your engineers, as you did with Finch. We want him to engage. The HPP believes it is the fastest way to make him fully cooperate."

Richard remained silent, processing the orders. He was now, officially, Ilian's jailer.

Vance stood up. "Good. We are understood."

She looked at Richard, her initial friendliness gone, replaced by cold efficiency. "I know this is a lot for you to process right now, Richard, but Dr. Hayes will be your support. Any questions regarding the handling of the asset, you can ask him directly."

She looked at Miller, who was smiling, satisfied. "Agent Miller, let's go."

Vance and Miller left the room, closing the door. The sound of the click was deafening. They had, deliberately, left Richard alone with Hayes.

Richard sat in a fog of shock and disgust. Hayes watched him calmly.

"Professor?"

Richard turned. "What you are doing... threatening... watching... is monstrous."

"What will you do now, Professor?" Hayes asked, voice calm. "Will you run home and tell him everything? Tell him Miller considers him a saboteur? That he will be eliminated if he doesn't cooperate?"

"He deserves to know the truth!"

"And what do you think will happen?" Hayes asked, approaching. "The asset you call Ilian, what will he do with that information? Think carefully. He will break. He will regress. He will stop cooperating. And Miller's protocol... the elimination one... will be activated. You yourself will have pulled the trigger."

"So I have to lie to him?" he asked incredulously.

"You don't need to lie," Hayes said. "You continue the protocol that proved to work. You use kindness. You use care. You must not use fear. Your only weapon isn't Miller's truth, it's the affection you created."

Hayes looked at Richard with clinical intensity. "You keep him calm, keep him cooperating, and that way you keep him alive. Do not tell him the details, Professor. That is your true function as 'primary handler'."

Hayes softened his tone, becoming less the clinician and more the strategic ally. "Richard, listen to me. About what Agent Miller said. Falke, Russia, the sabotage accusation... tell him nothing."

"But he deserves to know..." Richard began.

"No," Hayes interrupted. "He has to tell you about that himself. Wait and he will tell you that story, in his own time. If you confront him now with Miller's 'saboteur' narrative, you will destroy the trust you spent these days building."

Richard processed the logic. It was manipulation, but perhaps it was the only way out.

"As for normal activities, do everything to continue," Hayes said. "The outings, the fishing... all that is good. The trail walk? Miller sees a flight risk, I see therapy. Continue. Just... tell him not to stray too far, for his own safety. Keep him safe, but don't imprison him."

"Professor, I know this is a lot for you to absorb. But I am on your side. I don't want to see Ilian eliminated. Miller sees a saboteur; I see an asset that needs to be recovered, not broken. My personal phone is available 24 hours a day. Any doubt, any problem, call me." Hayes stood up. "Keep him alive, Professor."

Hayes left the room, leaving Richard alone. He was, officially, Ilian's jailer, forced to "handle" him to keep him alive.

When Richard found the strength to drive back home, everything seemed strange. The outside world, the traffic, people on the sidewalks, passed by him like a blur, a silent and irrelevant movie.

He was in shock.

His mind replayed the words from the meeting like shards of glass. Saboteur. Falke. Security risk. Elimination. Permanently.

Hayes's lie about Michael's age, his own guilt for having been manipulated. And now, the final order: he, Richard, was the "primary handler." His new role wasn't to protect Ilian from the agency, it was to control Ilian for the agency.

His task was to lie. To smile. To use the kindness and affection he had built as the most effective tools of that bureaucratic cage, all to keep Ilian cooperative. To keep him alive.

He parked on the gravel at home. Turned off the engine. Silence was filled by his own breathing. How would he do that? How would he look into the young man's eyes and lie? He took a deep breath, composing his face into a mask of tired normalcy. He needed to act.

In the guest house, Ilian was exhausted. Monday morning physical therapy, the thirtieth day, had been brutal. He had paid the price for his cooperation. Now, he was sitting on the sofa, an ice pack on his knee, but he was alert. He wasn't focused on the pain. He was focused on the door. Waiting.

He felt anxious, but ready. His strategic plan, entrusted to Richard the previous day, was in motion. Today, he would start the long game to prove his theory, to arm his protector with the truth. He just needed confirmation. He heard footsteps on the gravel. The door opening. Richard entered.

Ilian analyzed him. The professor looked tired, serious. Ilian's anxiety spiked. He needed the data.

"How was the meeting, Professor?"

Richard looked at him. For a second, Ilian saw deep pain in the older man's eyes, a hesitation that made his stomach freeze. But it vanished, replaced by a tired smile.

Richard's performance began.

"It was... good, Ilian." Richard forced a tone of normalcy. "Exactly as we planned. They liked hearing about your recovery and willingness to cooperate."

Ilian relaxed visibly. The air left his lungs in a sigh he didn't even realize he was holding. The plan had worked. His strategy of confessing the truth to Richard, of arming him, had succeeded.

"They were very impressed with your progress," Richard continued, choosing words, transforming Miller and Hayes's orders into "good news." "Director Vance agrees you are ready to... formally collaborate."

The bureaucratic cage began to descend.

"They want you to start interacting more with the senior team. Finch and others. They want all your work to be... 'integrated.' They will review and sign off on everything we do. It's a sign they are taking you very seriously."

Tension returned to Ilian's body. He looked at his notebooks on the table. "I thought it would be just the two of us."

"And it will be," Richard lied, voice soft. "The two of us, here. But we will have to 'show' the work. It's bureaucracy, Ilian. We have to keep them happy. It's the price for continuing our work."

Ilian processed the logic. It made sense. A tactical concession. He nodded, reluctantly.

Richard didn't mention the trail. He couldn't. He couldn't tell him he was being watched, that his solitary Saturday walk had been reported. He saved that information for later.

Ilian, now believing Miller's threat had been neutralized and his partnership with Richard validated by the agency, felt immense relief. He looked at Richard, and his usual mask of factual control dissolved, revealing devastating sincerity.

"Thank you, Professor. I will try hard." His voice became lower, almost a murmur, the confession of a newfound hope. "I... I am happy. I want to have this opportunity. To live like this. For longer." He made the final connection, looking directly into Richard's eyes, without flinching. "I am happy I chose to come here. That I chose you."

The declaration of trust was Richard's final punishment.

Guilt hit him with physical force, stealing his air. That young man was thanking him for a life that was, in truth, a suspended death sentence. A cage maintained by Hayes, watched by Miller, and now, locked by him. He couldn't sustain Ilian's gaze anymore. He just nodded, throat tight, unable to formulate a word.

He stood up abruptly. He needed to leave. Needed to breathe.

"I need... I need to go. Helena is waiting for me." He left the guest house, almost fleeing.

Ilian stood alone in the living room, watching the door close. He felt genuinely hopeful. His strategy had worked. The partnership was sealed.

Outside, on the gravel path, Richard stopped beside his car, hands shaking. The cold autumn air filled his lungs but didn't relieve the feeling of suffocation.

Ilian Jansen had just thanked him for betraying him.

The question arose from a dark place in his mind. Am I really better than them? Kessler broke him with sadistic discipline and loud music. Orlov mutilated him with tools to punish his stubbornness. And I? I deceive him with paternal smiles. I lie. I use the trust he placed in me, the trust he chose to have in me, as the most effective leash of all.

He felt dirty. But Hayes's cold, logical voice echoed in his head. What is the alternative, Professor? Elimination. Keep him alive.

He looked back at the guest house where Ilian was.

Is a lie an acceptable price for a few more days of peace? Is a calculated omission an excuse to keep him alive? He didn't have the answer. He only knew that, unlike the others, he was doing it out of affection. Which, somehow, made the betrayal even deeper.

Richard walked to his house, the weight of that "primary handler" crown crushing him. The game had begun, and he hated every move he was being forced to make.

Ilian remained alone in the guest house. Richard's abrupt exit after the meeting left him momentarily confused, but the conclusion was logical: the professor was just tired. The meeting was a success. The cooperation plan had worked.

He spent the afternoon focused. Morning physical therapy had been tiring, as always, but the pain was background noise. For the first time, he wasn't counting down. The truce hadn't ended, only changed form.

He sat at his desk. Opened the Project Argus material. The agency's work was no longer a threat, a sentence. Now, it was his lab. It was the board where he and Richard would play the "long game" to prove Kessler's flaw. He was motivated, working with a clarity he hadn't felt in a long time, eager for Richard's next visit.

Hours passed and night fell.

Richard knocked on the door and entered. The cold night air seemed to cling to him.

He saw Ilian still at the work desk, surrounded by papers. He looked calm, but there was focused energy about him.

"Professor, glad you came back," he said, in his almost animated way. "I was analyzing the attenuation data you gave me. I think I found another point of..."

"Ilian, wait." Richard interrupted him gently. He couldn't dive into math. Not tonight. He sat in the opposite armchair, the weight of the day crushing him. He looked visibly exhausted.

"I'm sorry for earlier, for leaving in a rush," he said. The lie began, mixed with a terrible truth. "The meeting today... was good, like I said. But it left me mentally drained." He looked at Ilian. "I don't know how you stood working under that kind of pressure. The rest of my day was lost. Just one morning. One morning in that room, listening to Vance, listening to... Miller. The pressure, the politics." He shook his head, closing his eyes. "I feel completely drained. I can't think straight."

Ilian processed the information. He didn't see Richard's exhaustion as weakness, but as data. He offered his explanation, factually, almost clinically.

"It is because you were still out here, Professor."

Richard frowned. "Out here?"

"You were listening to the noise," he said, voice low. "You were paying attention to them."

He looked away, his mind traveling to a distant place. "Kessler trained me. Not on purpose. But he did." The memory of Beethoven, the long lectures, the hunger. "He taught me to go into my mind and close the door. The world can collapse around... but inside, there are only calculations or what I let in. You are only tired because you were listening to what they said. I learned not to listen."

Richard fell silent, stunned. He was witnessing, firsthand, the resilience Dr. Hayes so admired. The coping mechanism forged in abuse. Ilian's ability to dissociate from reality and focus only on the task.

Driven by guilt for what he knew was a cage, and by admiration for that defense mechanism, Richard felt the need to understand the soul he was now forced to cage.

"Ilian..." he said. "What do you see for the future? What do you really want?"

Ilian seemed to process the question. He felt safe. The partnership was sealed.

"I want to work. Balance the scales," he said, voice firm. "I want to use my mind to save lives. To... compensate. That is why I am ready, Professor. You don't need to fight Vance for me anymore. I will work. I will deliver the Argus results."

Richard froze. Vance's Order One, fulfilled voluntarily.

Ilian continued, not noticing the tension in the professor. Ilian's confidence made him proactive. "We should start tomorrow. Dr. Finch... he seemed to understand the problem. You should schedule another meeting. I have more manuscripts to discuss with him about Argus."

Richard felt short of breath. Order Two. "Academic socialization." Ilian was doing exactly what the agency wanted.

"Yes, Ilian," Richard said, voice heavy with guilt that sounded only like fatigue. "You are right. It is an excellent idea. I... I'll call Finch tomorrow." He forced the words out. "And I'll organize my schedule at the university to... supervise the work."

Ilian looked up hearing the word "supervise." He processed it. The word used by all his jailers. He saw the conflict on Richard's face and misinterpreted it, thinking it was just fatigue.

"Professor, you do not need to supervise me," he said, with simple logic. "I will not do anything wrong." He paused, thoughtful. "I know how to design safety locks now... much more efficient locks."

The innocent mention of his crushed hand made Richard recoil.

Ilian continued, focused on the mission he thought was primary. "Your work is much more important," he said, pointing to Kessler's book on the table. "You need to focus on helping me clarify the premise error. That is our true collaboration."

Richard couldn't answer. Ilian's trust was total, absolute. And Richard's betrayal, now, was complete. The young man was thanking him for a partnership that didn't exist, while unknowingly arming him to fulfill the agency's orders.

"Right." Richard made the tactical decision. "Tomorrow, I'll be here."

He took a deep breath. It was time for the other order. "And yes, you're right. We need to deliver results on Argus. After Finch, I'll arrange a meeting for you to meet the rest of the senior team. Let's integrate you."

"I do not want to integrate. I just need you as a partner to spread the error of Kessler's premise."

"Tomorrow we can discuss that part about integration. I really just came to see if everything was okay. I'm very tired. I'm going to bed early. We'll talk better tomorrow."

The front door closed with a soft click. Richard was gone.

Ilian remained motionless in his work chair for a long time, listening to the silence. He should feel relief. The partnership was sealed. The meeting had been a success, as the professor said. His plan of strategic cooperation, of offering work on Argus and meetings with Finch, had been accepted.

But there was noise. Data that didn't fit his equation.

That morning, when Richard returned from the meeting, Ilian was exhausted from physical therapy. Anxious for the answer. He didn't process the data correctly. He had done exactly what Kessler did: disregarded the noise because it didn't fit the desired theory.

The theory was: "Richard is my ally, the meeting was a success."

The noise was: Richard's exhaustion. The devastated look. The way the professor could barely face him, even now at night.

Ilian needed air. He stood up. Went to his room and grabbed the new jacket Richard had given him. The gift from the canceled fishing trip. Put it on over his shirt, the thick material a comforting weight on his shoulders. Went to the glass door of the bedroom, opened it, and stepped out onto the dark patio.

The cold night air hit his face. He sat on one of the garden chairs, curling into the jacket, and looked into the darkness.

Now, in the silence, he could recalculate.

Premise One: I trust Richard. His only constant variable. Richard is a good man, but emotionally transparent. Richard wouldn't lie to hurt him. But Richard would lie to protect him.

Premise Two: The Agency. He knew what the agency thought. The three months of interrogation at the military hospital. Dr. Hayes's veiled questions. Miller's open hostility. He was the "Falke saboteur." A dangerous, unstable, defective asset.

Premise Three: The Meeting. Richard went into the "lion's den." Vance, Miller, or Hayes must have mentioned Ilian as a saboteur.

Premise Four: The Result. Richard came back broken. Exhausted and acting strangely.

The conclusion was inevitable.

The meeting hadn't been a success. It had been a defeat. Richard hadn't won the truce, he had been cornered. The agency didn't believe he would cooperate.

He closed his eyes in the cold, frustration bubbling in his chest. Frustration with himself.

"I did like Kessler," he whispered to the night. He had discarded the most important variable. He had ignored the "noise."

The "noise" was Richard's devastated face. The way the professor could barely look him in the eyes. The way he fled the guest house earlier, unable to sustain the lie. Richard was a terrible liar.

Ilian reopened his eyes, mind now cold and clear. He redid the analysis, this time including the "noise."

They must have threatened Richard. Threatened to send Ilian to a base, to the Level 5 Cell, the same threat made at the hospital. The entire conversation that night reconfigured in his mind. His offer to bring Finch, to work on Argus. He was just obeying orders he didn't even know Richard had received.

And his final statement... You do not need to supervise me... I know how to design safety locks... You need to focus on helping me.

Ilian closed his eyes, the humiliation of his own tactical innocence hitting him. He wasn't reassuring Richard. He was twisting the knife. He was, unwittingly, describing exactly the partnership Richard had been forced to betray. The professor was suffering. And He was the cause.

A logical solution emerged: remove himself from the equation.

He could ask to go to the military base. It was the life he had always known, after all. The gray cage. That would free Richard from responsibility. Free the Andersons from the danger he represented. He couldn't "run away." He was an asset. Had no money, no documents, nowhere to go. Certainly he was watched, he didn't know how, but the agency wouldn't leave him that free.

His choice wasn't between freedom and prison. His choice was between which prison.

Option A: The Military Base. The gray cage. He would free Richard from guilt, but return to functional darkness. The death of his soul.

Option B: The Anderson House. The golden cage. He would stay, but force Richard to be his jailer, to lie to him every day.

He thought of Helena's greenhouse. Of the smell of earth. Of the chess game. Of the observatory. His decision was cold, analytical. He chose Option B.

Ilian understood his new role. He was the master of the long game. He knew how to "play to lose," to survive. Now, he would do it to protect Richard. But he couldn't leave the professor suffering.

The irony hit him. Richard had helped him with physical fever. Now, he needed to help Richard with moral fever.

Ilian would have to free him.

The agency operated with lies, fear, manipulation. It was their game. Ilian wasn't going to play their game. Letting Richard suffer with the lie was inefficient, leaving his only ally vulnerable.

The only variable the agency couldn't control, the only thing they hadn't predicted, was the absolute trust he had in Richard. The lie was the agency's cage. The truth would be his weapon.

He stood up, body aching from the cold, but mind resolved. He would free him from the need to lie.

Ilian went back inside the guest house. He didn't go to his diary. He didn't need to process emotions. He had a strategy.

He went straight to bed. Tomorrow, the true partnership would begin.

Chapter 68: The True Collaboration

Tuesday morning did not bring the anxiety of before. Ilian woke early, but there was no panic. There was only a cold, analytical clarity. He needed air for the battle to come. He went to the trail.

The morning air was cold, but he barely felt it. He ignored the pain in his leg, moving with a mechanical purpose. He reached only the clearing with the fallen log and returned immediately. The walk wasn't for exercise, it was to sharpen the mind.

He returned to the guest house, went to the armchair in the living room, and sat down. Waited. He was no longer a patient awaiting orders. He was a strategic partner preparing for a negotiation.

Richard arrived punctually at nine. He still looked tired. His guilt was a physical presence in the room. He tried to smile.

"Good morning, Ilian. Did you sleep well?"

"Sit down, Professor," he said, voice calm, indicating the other armchair.

Richard sat down, tense, clearly preparing for his role. "Ilian, about our conversation yesterday... about Dr. Finch. I thought about scheduling it for this afternoon."

Ilian waited for him to finish the sentence. Then, he spoke, not with the force of an accusation, but with the gentleness of an absolution.

"Professor." Richard stopped, caught by the quietness in Ilian's tone. "You do not need to do this. You do not need to lie to me," he continued, voice soft, full of understanding sadness. "I know the meeting with Vance was not good." He looked at the professor, seeing the suffering Richard tried to hide. "You are exhausted because they threatened you somehow."

Richard was devastated, caught red-handed. The performance broke, leaving only the defeated man. "Ilian... I didn't..."

"I know what they think of me," he interrupted, sparing him the effort. "I know what they told you about Project Falke."

Richard looked at the young man. There was nowhere left to run. He had to confess.

"Yes," Richard said, voice hoarse, defeated. "Agent Miller. He... he thinks you are a saboteur. He blames you."

Ilian absorbed the information. A knot tightened in his stomach. Miller. His cruelty, his obsession... It wasn't just professional. It was revenge. And because of this same project, the Russians had sold him. That disaster had destroyed his entire life.

"They are wrong. I did not sabotage Project Falke," he said, voice firm but full of an ancient exhaustion. "What interest could I have in that? I was a prisoner in Germany. Sabotage would bring me nothing." He took a deep breath, forcing memories to align. "I was seventeen when I found the flaw. Kessler was the project leader and wouldn't let me speak directly to anyone on the team. Still, I managed to warn them. But they... they didn't believe me."

Ilian paused, remembering a conversation at the military hospital. "Dr. Hayes told me. He said the agency had 'proof' of my sabotage. A note," he explained. "A note I left in the lab. But it wasn't a threat. It was a warning. I wrote: 'The premise is wrong, calibration problem. The system will fail.' Hayes said they interpreted that as a saboteur's threat. But it was just... the truth."

He looked at his own hands. "I rewrote a part of the project. The correct version. I was trying to make them listen. I was... I was with Kessler. One day we were going to a field test. One of the rare times he let me leave the base."

Ilian's eyes met Richard's. "That was when the car was intercepted. The Russians. I was kidnapped."

"The disaster at Falke only happened years later, when I was already in Russia. Falke failed and killed your soldiers. The Russians thought I was a chaotic agent. They discussed whether they should kill me." Ilian gave a humorless smile. "But profit won. They sold me to the Arabs as 'defective merchandise'."

"I spent months carrying this guilt, Professor. Months. Kessler's team, after I was taken, must have corrected my algorithm. They reverted it to Kessler's flawed theory. His arrogance caused the disaster. Not my math."

Richard didn't move. He stared at Ilian, stunned, as the pieces of the puzzle fit together with horrible clarity. The words echoed in the silent room. Seventeen years old. Kidnapped. Sold. Defective merchandise.

Ilian's innocence. Kessler's failure. Miller's hatred. The agency's cage.

Richard lowered his head, resting his face in his hands for a moment, the sound of his own heavy breathing filling the silence. The guilt he felt for lying was suddenly swallowed by a cold, absolute fury.

He looked up. There was no pity in his eyes. There was a protective anger Ilian had never seen.

"They... they sold you," Richard said, voice hoarse, as if the word were poison in his mouth. "Ilian. What they did to you... what Kessler did... what the Russians did isn't just a crime. It is... it is terrible."

He stood up from the armchair, unable to sit still. Walked to the window and back, his mind trying to process the scale of cruelty. "And Miller... Miller dares to call you a saboteur?"

"Our partnership," Ilian began, "the trust I have in you... is more important to me than anything else. It is better that everything be clarified. That there be no misunderstanding between us." He finally looked up, and Richard saw the determination in his eyes, a vulnerability that was, at the same time, intense strength. "You can ask me whatever you want, Professor. And I will answer. The truth. All of it. You and I. This is the only truth. The rest is noise. Do not lie to protect me, the lie is their victory. It is what they want. For you to be afraid. For you to control me."

Richard felt a knot of guilt tighten his throat. The trust Ilian was placing in him was total, but his own confession was still incomplete. He couldn't build an alliance on another lie.

"Ilian..." Richard said, voice heavy. "I'm sorry."

Ilian looked at him, confused. "For what?"

"Yesterday. At the meeting. When Miller made the accusation about Falke." Richard looked at his own hands, ashamed. "For a moment, I... I hesitated. I didn't know what to believe. I doubted you. And after your story... forgive me. I should have known. I should have trusted you."

Ilian processed the apology. "You only had the data they gave you. You are here now. That is what matters."

"But there's more," Richard said, forcing himself to continue. "The reason I was lying. It wasn't just about Falke. Hayes and Vance... they gave me other orders. Conditions for you to stay here."

Ilian remained silent, his face a mask of concentration. He waited for the data.

"They want you to 'socialize'," Richard said, hating the word. "They want me to hold meetings with the rest of the senior team, regular meetings. And... Ilian..." – the hardest part came now – "...they require all your work to be supervised. Every analysis, every line, will have to be reviewed and signed off by me and the other chief engineers before being accepted by the agency."

Ilian didn't react. His expression didn't change. He just absorbed the information.

"I didn't tell you yesterday," Richard continued, voice low, "because Dr. Hayes warned me. He said if I told you all this at once... the weight of the news, the distrust, the supervision... he said you would regress. That you would close off. That you would break."

Richard took a deep breath, needing to expose the last and dirtiest part of the secret. "They are watching everything, Ilian. I don't know how. But in the meeting, they mentioned it. They knew on Saturday you walked further on the trail. Your walk... they knew."

Richard expected an explosion or a collapse. But Ilian remained silent for a long moment, processing. Finally, he looked up, there was no panic in his eyes. Only a cold, weary clarity.

"I suspected I was being watched," he said factually. "Just don't know how. The cell phone. The notebook. Satellite." He shrugged, as if talking about the weather. "It does not matter. It has always been like this."

He looked directly at Richard. "And Dr. Hayes... he is not always right about my psychological profile. I will not break."

He leaned forward. "Thank you for telling me the truth, Professor. Now, we can really play the game." Ilian nodded, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes. "I am ready to cooperate, Professor."

The truce had ended. The true collaboration had begun. Richard let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. The adrenaline of Ilian's confession, and then his own, gave way to mutual exhaustion.

He felt drained, but immensely relieved. The poison of Hayes and Miller's lie, the lie he had been forced to carry for the last few hours, had been drained. He was no longer a manipulator, he was, finally, an ally.

He looked at Ilian. The young man was there, calm but resolved. Richard truly saw him for the first time, not as the "asset" the agency described, but as the incredibly resilient tactical partner he had just proven to be.

The silence in the room was heavy, but not tense. It was the silence of two forces that had just declared an alliance.

Ilian watched Richard. The professor looked shaken, but there was no more guilt or fear in his eyes, only tired determination. Ilian saw his partner needed a reconfiguration, a return to normalcy. He did the most normal thing he could think of.

"Professor?" Richard looked up, his mind still processing the scale of the Falke lie. "Would you like a coffee?"

The simple offer, an act of care coming from Ilian, a request for normalcy, almost broke Richard. The kindness was so unexpected, coming from a man who had every right to be collapsing.

Richard just nodded. "Yes, Ilian. Thank you. I would love one."

Ilian stood up. The movement was slow. Richard watched him go to the kitchen. The methodical movements, scooping the powder, filling the machine, were an anchor for both. The sound of water starting to heat, the dripping of coffee. They were normal sounds. Sounds of a Tuesday morning, not a conspiracy.

Richard got up from the armchair and went to sit at the kitchen table where Ilian placed the cups of steaming coffee.

"Professor, about what you said." His voice was low, practical. "The 'supervision.' The 'teamwork.' I understand the logic. I will do the work. I will deliver Argus." He paused, gaze fixed on the dark surface of the coffee. "But... the other part. The 'socialization.' I do not want it. I do not need it." Richard saw the raw vulnerability. "I prefer to stay alone. Or with you. You can be the bridge. They give you the data, you pass it to me."

"That is the hardest part. Working with other people." He looked Richard in the eyes, absolute honesty. "Harder than the work. Harder than physical therapy. But... if it is necessary for our plan... I will do it."

Richard understood perfectly. The agency, in its clinical arrogance, thought socialization was the cure. For Ilian, it was the punishment. It was the presence of strangers, the loss of control.

Now, as a real partner, Richard assumed his new role.

"You're right." Richard's voice was firm, now full of renewed purpose. "And we will do it our way. Not theirs. I will be your bridge."

The plan took shape. "I'll talk to Hayes. I'll say you agree to 'integration,' but that it will be on our terms." He leaned in, the partnership now tactical. "It will be exactly like Finch's visit. Controlled. One at a time. They come to you. They explain their part in the project. You give your suggestions. And I will be with you the whole time." The promise was absolute. "You won't talk to anyone alone. I will be the filter."

Ilian processed the solution. A filter. A barrier. A human shield. He would still have to interact. The idea was still uncomfortable, but it was... manageable. He let out a slow sigh, tension visibly leaving his shoulders. He nodded. "Yes. That I can do."

Richard nodded back. "Good. Then that's how we'll do it."

They drank the rest of the coffee in silence. The tension was gone. The cage still existed, but now they were on the same side of the bars, looking out. True collaboration, tactical and emotional, had begun.

Richard, now as a partner, knew what he needed to do. "I'm going to my office to make a call, Ilian. Set the rules with Hayes. I'll be right back."

Ilian just nodded. He understood.

While Richard crossed the lawn back to his house, Ilian stood waiting. He went to his work desk. Started working with an energy he didn't have before, drawing parallels, preparing his "lesson" on Kessler's flaw.

In the silence of his office, Richard took a deep breath and called Hayes. He was confident.

"Dr. Hayes, Richard speaking. I talked to Ilian and we had a significant breakthrough." His voice was firm. "Ilian is ready to fully cooperate with Argus. But we established a protocol."

Richard presented the plan. "Integration meetings will be here, in the guest house. One engineer at a time. I will be the filter. Those are our terms."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. When Hayes spoke, his voice was cold, clinical.

"Professor. 'Socialization' isn't sitting comfortably in his refuge. That is what Ilian wants. What he needs is controlled exposure. He needs to break the pattern imposed by Kessler and the Russians. It will be best for him. I know you don't believe me when I say I'm doing my job to recover this asset, but I intend to make him function as normally as possible."

Richard's confidence evaporated. "Hayes, he isn't ready to..."

"Your plan is acceptable," Hayes interrupted. "Half of it."

Richard froze.

"Tuesdays," Hayes dictated, "will be as you said. One engineer. At the guest house. Technical focus. You can be the 'filter'." He paused. "Thursdays will be at the agency. At the Boston office. A team meeting. Three chief engineers, him, and you. I want to observe his group dynamics outside the nest."

Richard felt the blood drain from his face. "A team meeting? It's too soon. It's too aggressive."

"Professor. He needs to be exposed. I will be there to help. It will be better for him in the long run. The agency is focused only on Project Argus; I am focused on the asset's potential as a whole." Hayes's voice was relentless. "It is non-negotiable."

"And if he can't do it?" Richard's voice was almost a whisper.

"Don't worry, he has accomplished harder things. I'm sure he will manage to adapt. Thursday, at two in the afternoon. The agency car will pick him up. Be ready."

Hayes hung up.

Richard sat, the silent phone in his hand. He had failed. In his first task as an ally, he had failed terribly. He had promised Ilian protection, a "bridge," and now, in two days, he would have to march with Ilian into enemy territory. He looked out the window at the small guest house. How would he tell the news?

He returned. The walk back felt like a condemned man's. He entered the guest house knocking calmly.

Ilian looked up from his work, ready to start the partnership. But he saw Richard's face and knew immediately. The hope in his eyes went out, replaced by the cold, analytical mask.

"They did not accept," Ilian said. It wasn't a question.

"He... Hayes... he has new conditions." Richard sat down, and explained the new agreement. Tuesdays here. Thursdays, there.

Ilian absorbed the information. His face was a mask, but Richard saw the tremor start in his left hand, the crushed hand, an involuntary reaction to stress.

Richard swallowed hard. "The first meeting is this Thursday, at two in the afternoon."

Ilian looked down at his own diagrams. At his math. At his redemption plan. The cage still existed. And on Thursday, the bars would get much, much tighter.

Richard looked at the kitchen wall clock. It was past eleven in the morning. He made an executive decision, his first act as a true partner.

"Right," he said, voice firm. "I had thought about calling Finch today, scheduling him to come this afternoon, as we discussed. But that's too much for one day," Richard continued, seeing Ilian's reaction and responding to it. "I think we've had enough emotions for today. I'll postpone it. Let's take the rest of the day for us."

The relief on the young man's face was deep. He just nodded, grateful.

"Now," Richard said, looking at the work desk covered in papers. "We have the afternoon free. Let's work. Just the two of us. No audience. Show me Kessler's flaw again. Slowly."

And so, Tuesday afternoon unfolded. Not in tension, but in intense focus. Richard sat next to Ilian at the work desk, not as a supervisor, but as a colleague. Ilian, now in the role of teacher, began to explain his math, comparing the Argus diagrams with the drafts in his notebook.

The atmosphere shifted from confession to collaboration. Richard, for the first time, began to see the elegance of Ilian's logic, the subtle flaw everyone had ignored for decades.

It was only in the late afternoon, head full of new equations and mind strengthened by the partnership, that Richard returned to his home.

Chapter 69: The Filter Pattern

Ilian was left alone. The morning’s tension, the confession, the exposed truth, the hard work of the day... everything gave way to a heavy silence. The house, which in the morning seemed like a partnership headquarters, now seemed like a cell.

He processed the news of Hayes’s "deal." Tuesdays here. Thursdays, there.

The Thursday meeting seemed like a monster approaching down the corridor of time.

He needed air. Went to the bedroom. Grabbed the coat Richard had given him. A tactile comfort. He went out through the glass door of his room and onto the patio, sitting on the garden chairs. The night air was freezing. He curled up inside the coat and looked up, searching for the stars, his celestial atlas, his refuge of logic.

But the stars brought no peace. His mind was stuck on Hayes’s demand: "socialization."

Why?

The question throbbed. It wasn't logical. He had agreed to cooperate. He would deliver Argus. Why was Hayes doing this? Why force him to interact with the other engineers?

The word echoed. Engineers.

The image of the stars dissolved, replaced by a room at the German military base. He was fourteen years old.

The smell of coffee. Kessler, proud of his "asset," had dragged him to the engineering room. The senior team, men aged forty to seventy, was stuck on a data feedback problem in the targeting system.

Kessler, with a sneering smile at his colleagues, said: "Ask the boy."

Ilian, not understanding the social dynamic, only the logic, looked at the whiteboard for a good while until he found the problem. He had no tact. He turned to the chief engineer, a man with a red face and thick mustache.

"It is inefficient," Ilian said. "Your phase correction calculation is failing to compensate for processor lag. The premise fails here. Really inefficient."

He remembered the silence. The humiliation in the man's eyes. The stifled laughter of the other engineers.

The punishment didn't come from Kessler. It came later.

In the hallway, the chief engineer and two others cornered him. They didn't dare touch him, he was Kessler’s valuable property. But words were weapons.

"Think you're brilliant, don't you, boy?" The man's voice was low, full of icy contempt. "Kessler’s little pet anomaly."

"Pointing out 'flawed premises'..." the other said with scorn. "Impressive arrogance. Maybe it's a side effect of your condition."

And then, the low blow, the one he never forgot, the attack on his physical disability.

The chief engineer, with a quick, disdainful movement, grabbed his cane before Ilian could react. With a gesture of pure contempt, he threw the cane down the hallway, where it slid and hit noisily against the far wall, now meters away and completely out of reach.

He turned back to Ilian, who was frozen. The engineer’s sneering smile widened.

"What's it like thinking you're so smart and having this inefficient leg?"

The memory made Ilian shrink in the dark patio. He wasn't afraid of the work with the engineers. The work was easy. He was afraid of bruising some ego without realizing it.

That night, in Germany, Kessler found him curled up in his room. He didn't console him. He was furious. Not because of the insults, but because his "asset" was refusing to return to the lab.

Kessler made a tactical decision. "You don't need to talk to them," he said, his voice cold. "They are stupid. They don't understand you." Kessler placed himself between Ilian and the world. "From now on, you speak only to me. I will be your bridge. I will protect you from the noise."

Ilian accepted with desperate relief. The pattern was set.

Orlov, in Russia, instinctively adopted the same pattern. Talk only to me.

And now, sitting in the cold, Ilian understood the terror of the Thursday meeting.

Hayes, with his "exposure therapy," wasn't "socializing" him. He was breaking the survival pattern of his entire life.

The Thursday meeting was the recreation of a trauma. Being thrown into a room with three chief engineers, men he would inevitably offend by trying to correct the project. It was a minefield.

Chapter 70: The Crack in the Bud

Wednesday morning began with a cold weight in Ilian's stomach. The Thursday meeting.

He woke early, as always, but anxiety was a physical presence. The idea of being taken to the agency office, to a room with three chief engineers, was a threat far deeper than physical therapy.

His morning routine passed in a fog. Before preparing for the pain of therapy, he went to the window to check his plant, only to stop in surprise. The fat green bud at the top of the stalk, which had been sealed for weeks, was no more. There was a crack.

Leaning in, fascinated, he forgot the Thursday meeting for an instant. Through the narrow opening, a glimpse of dark color could be seen inside. Red. Helena's promise. A strange and unexpected emotion tightened his chest, something that wasn't anxiety or fear. It was... joy. Pure and simple.

For a long time, he just stood there watching, struck by an immediate desire to record the moment. To save that data point. Maybe draw it later, in his notebook. When the thought of taking a photo arose, his gaze shifted, for an instant, to the impersonal agency cell phone.

The idea of using that surveillance tool, the symbol of his control, to capture something so personal and alive seemed like a profanation. The plant was his. The moment was his. They didn't belong to the agency.

Rejecting the idea, he touched the tip of the bud with his fingertip. It was real. The plant was alive and changing. He stood watching, absorbing the only good data point in a day that promised to be full of anxiety.

The doorbell rang. Nine o'clock. David and Ben. The physical therapy session was grueling as always. Ilian was stiffer than usual, his mind focused on tomorrow's threat. Stress made his muscles tense, less cooperative.

"Relax, Mr. Jansen," David said, his voice neutral, as he forced a stretch that made Ilian gasp. "You're fighting me today."

Ilian didn't answer. He just gritted his teeth, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He endured the pain in silence, his mind distant, rehearsing how he would deal with the engineers, how he would avoid their gaze, how he would hide the tremor in his hand.

When they left, Ilian was trembling with exhaustion. He went slowly to the sofa and applied ice to his knee and hand, the cold a welcome pain masking the deeper ache.

The afternoon dragged on. He tried to work. Opened the Argus diagrams but couldn't focus. The math seemed blurred. The memory of Kessler's chief engineer's voice returned. What's it like thinking you're so smart and having this inefficient leg?

Richard had warned that he needed to sort out his schedule at the university and wouldn't come to the guest house. But he had invited Ilian to join the Anderson family for dinner.

Night arrived. His first instinct was to isolate himself. To prepare for tomorrow's battle, as Kessler had taught him. The silence of the guest house, his refuge, now seemed like Kessler's same punitive isolation.

But the opposite of that isolation was the Andersons' kitchen.

He reached the glass kitchen door and stopped, facing his usual obstacle: the three steps. He didn't hesitate. He just tapped lightly on the glass.

The door opened almost instantly. It was Richard who answered, his face lighting up seeing Ilian.

"Ilian! Glad you came," he said, stepping down to help the young man.

With Richard's firm support, the ascent was controlled and safe. The kitchen was warm, smelling of real food. Helena and Elara were already at the table. The atmosphere was light.

Richard guided him to his usual spot at the table. Helena and Elara greeted him enthusiastically, saying they had arranged a piece of roast chicken with lemon and herbs especially for him.

He sat down. For a while, he just listened. He felt good being there. Forgot, for a moment, the engineers and the conference room. Elara was telling a funny story about a classmate at the university.

Richard and Helena listened, smiling.

Ilian, feeling genuinely part of that warmth, felt the urge to contribute. He had his own news of the day. It wasn't a tactical analysis or a confession. It was just information. He waited for a lull in the conversation. His voice came out low, but voluntary.

"The amaryllis." All three turned to him, surprised he had initiated the conversation.

"What about it, dear?" Helena asked.

Ilian looked at her, allowing himself to share his small victory. "The bud. It opened a little today. I... I can see the color. It is red."

The reaction was immediate and genuine.

"Oh, Ilian, how wonderful!" Helena exclaimed, clapping her hands softly. "I knew it! I said it would bloom for you!"

Richard smiled, paternal pride in his eyes. "That's great, Ilian. Great."

"Finally!" Elara said, laughing. "I thought that plant was never going to open. I was already creating theories."

Ilian looked at the smiling faces. Their joyful reaction to his small news warmed him inside. He wasn't alone.

After some time, the exhaustion of physical therapy, combined with mental tension, began to weigh on him. The anxious night awaiting him demanded he rest. He knew he needed to go.

"Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Anderson. Elara. Professor."

He began the slow movement to stand up. Richard stood up with him.

"I'll walk you to the door, Ilian."

Richard, as always, helped him down the three treacherous steps, back to the cold, dark lawn. They stopped for a moment in the darkness, the cold air contrasting with the kitchen's warmth.

"Ilian," Richard said, voice low and serious, all the dinner humor gone, replaced by tomorrow's reality. "Try to sleep well tonight. You need to be rested for tomorrow."

Ilian just nodded, gripping his cane.

"The agency car is coming to get you at two in the afternoon," he continued. "I'll be at your house around one-thirty. We'll wait together."

Ilian looked up. He wouldn't have to face the arrival of that car alone. That small act of solidarity was immense. "Thank you, Professor."

"Sleep well."

Ilian crossed the lawn back to his refuge.

Chapter 71: Socialization

Thursday morning began with a cold weight in Ilian's stomach. The meeting. He woke early, but there was no panic. There was only a cold, analytical clarity. He needed to maintain the routine. It was his way of fighting anxiety, of imposing order on the chaos awaiting him.

After his morning routine, he went out to the trail. The air was cold, but he barely felt it. He ignored the pain in his leg, moving with a mechanical purpose. But the woods felt different.

On Saturday, the trail had been a conquest. Today, it was contaminated territory. He knew he was being watched. The peace of the place had been stolen. The sounds of birds, once a sign of life, now seemed artificial. Every shadow seemed to harbor a camera.

He reached the clearing. Sat on the fallen log. How did they know?

His mind began calculating variables. Cameras in the trees? Inefficient. The area was too large. A drone? Satellite? The cell phone? It couldn't be, because he didn't leave the house with that phone, and if not for Harris's efficiency, who always put it to charge, the battery would have died long ago.

He reached a cold conclusion: it didn't matter how. What mattered was that they knew. And, as Richard had confirmed, they wanted Richard to know, so Ilian would be controlled.

He looked at the continuation of the trail. His first reaction was to retreat, go back to the safety of the house. But if he stopped walking, the agency won. Some other day he would go deeper into the trail. Today, no. He breathed in the cold air deeply and returned, sweaty and tense. He didn't go to the guest house.

It was Thursday. He had an "appointment."

He went straight to the greenhouse.

Entering, the humid heat and smell of earth enveloped him, an immediate contrast to the cold paranoia of the trail. Helena was there, smiling, already separating terracotta pots and a bag of substrate.

"Good morning, Ilian. I thought maybe you wouldn't come today, given your afternoon meeting," she said gently.

"It is Thursday," he replied simply. The routine was the only thing that made sense. He went to the workbench.

They worked in silence for a while. Ilian focused on the tactile task of filling the pots, using the drainage logic she had taught him. It was comforting. But Helena watched him. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were stiff, movements precise but lifeless.

"Richard told me you're worried about today's meeting," she said softly, stopping what she was doing.

Ilian stopped too. Dirt on his hands. "I do not want to go," he admitted, voice low. "I do not like... meetings. It should be enough for me to cooperate from here."

Helena didn't answer directly. She walked over to one of her own plants, an amaryllis in a pot on the bench, which was starting to open, the crack revealing the red inside, similar to the one the young man had in his house.

"Look at her," Helena said.

Ilian approached.

"She's afraid, you know?"

Ilian stared at her, confused. "Why?"

"It's dark in there. The bud is tight, it's safe." Helena's voice was soft, poetic. "Opening up is an effort. It's painful. The husk has to tear." She touched a leaf gently. "She doesn't know what's out here. There might be strong sun, there might be wind, there might be pests. It's easier to stay closed. But if she stays closed... she will never bloom. She will never show the world the beauty she has inside."

She finally looked at Ilian, her eyes gentle but firm. "Sometimes, Ilian, we need to open up, even if it's the scariest thing in the world. Even if the process is painful. It's the only way to show who we really are."

Ilian stood in silence for a long moment, looking at the flower. The metaphor was beautiful. And, for the flower, it was true.

"The plant does not know what is out here," he said, voice low and cold, factual.

Helena, thinking he had understood, smiled.

"But I know," Ilian continued. "I have tried to 'open up' in meetings like this before. In Germany." Helena's smile vanished. "It was never good," he said. "They... do not like it when I speak." He looked at Helena, his eyes now reflecting the memory of trauma. "The beauty they see is not the flower, Mrs. Anderson, it is just the anomaly."

Helena was left speechless, realizing her gentle metaphor had struck his trauma dead center. She didn't know what to say. Instinctively, she just placed her hand on his arm, a brief but firm touch.

"You aren't in Germany anymore, Ilian. And Richard will be there with you."

Ilian didn't answer. He just returned to his work, with silent efficiency, finishing filling the last pot. His work there was done.

He said goodbye to Helena. Went back to the guest house. It was almost eleven in the morning. He showered, hot water washing away dirt and sweat, but not the tension. He put on his "armor," dark trousers and a clean long-sleeved T-shirt.

He didn't eat lunch. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath, once. He wasn't there anymore.

He was in the cold darkness of the dome. The faint red light illuminated the metal of the large telescope. He felt the cold metal of the railing under his fingers, Richard's firm arm serving as support.

He leaned in to look. And the universe opened up.

The Orion Nebula. There, there were no engineers with sensitive egos. There was no Miller. There was no judgment. Just the silent logic of the cosmos.

He was there, floating in M42, when he heard the sound. The soft click of the front door opening. His eyes snapped open, ripped back into his body.

Richard stood in the doorway, face serious, ready for battle. "Ilian? It's time."

He stood up. The movement was stiff, body protesting, but his mind was sharp. He wasn't in panic. He was a soldier preparing for inspection. He grabbed his cane and followed the professor out into the cold, clear afternoon air.

A black sedan was parked on the gravel. It wasn't Richard's car. This was official. The driver was a stranger, a silhouette behind glass. In the passenger seat was Agent Leo. The agent got out of the car, giving a slight nod, and opened the rear door for Ilian.

Richard got in first, sliding to the far side. Ilian followed. The process of getting into the car was his first battle, a slow and painful negotiation with his knee. Finally, he was inside, sitting next to Richard. The door closed, sealing the silence.

The car began to move. Ilian didn't look out the window. He focused on an undefined point on the back of the front seat. The car smelled of a mix of expensive leather and chemical cleaners.

He could feel the engine vibration rising through the floor of the car, up his leg, and lodging in his stomach. A slight dizziness, the familiar nausea, began to surface. He controlled it, breathing slowly. His right hand gripped the handle of the cane, which he held firmly between his knees. His knuckles were white.

Richard, beside him, was tense, but his presence was a solid warmth.

After some time, the car descended into an underground garage. The sound of tires changed, now a high-pitched noise echoing on polished concrete. Fluorescent lights passed in cold white flashes. The air grew colder, smelling of exhaust. The car stopped directly in front of a bank of elevators.

Richard got out first and helped Ilian up from the low seat. They entered the elevator. The steel doors closed. Richard pressed button "27".

"We should be done by six, Ilian. Everything will be fine." He spoke, trying to soothe the tension.

Ilian just watched the numbers rising. Didn't answer. The elevator stopped smoothly. The doors opened. He was hit by sensory overload. The low hum of the central air conditioning system. The smell of carpet. The light, cold, white, reflected off gray walls.

He stepped out of the elevator. The hallway seemed endless. Richard was by his side. He took a step on the thick carpet. Two. Three.

And stopped. The world tilted. The dizziness had returned. His body, his traitor, failed.

"Professor." The voice was a whisper, almost inaudible. He couldn't look at Richard. "Bathroom. I need the bathroom."

Richard saw the contained panic, the sudden pallor. "Of course. Over there." He guided him quickly to a door marked as the men's room.

Ilian went inside. The door closed. Richard stood outside, heart pounding, hands clenched in fists. He isn't ready. Hayes is wrong.

Footsteps in the hallway.

"Dr. Anderson. Where is Ilian?"

Richard turned. Dr. Hayes stood there, calm, in his impeccable suit.

"Dr. Hayes. He..." Richard gestured to the bathroom door. "He needed a moment."

Hayes looked at the door, then at his watch. "He shouldn't be alone right now."

"Give him a minute," Richard asked, voice tense.

"No," Hayes said, voice calm but relentless. "I need to see his state before we go in."

Before Richard could protest, Hayes pushed open the bathroom door. Richard followed right after. The place was silent, lit by white light. Ilian wasn't in a stall. He was leaning with both hands on the white porcelain sink. His head was down. He was perfectly still.

Hayes saw the immediate contrast. A drop of blood, bright red, dripped from Ilian's nostril into the pristine white basin. And then another. He wasn't panicking. He was managing. His breathing was slow, controlled, deep, exactly as he had been taught at the military hospital. He was containing the damage.

Hayes approached silently.

Ilian saw him in the mirror. Didn't startle.

Hayes watched the blood dripping rhythmically onto the white porcelain for a moment, his face impassive, analytical. "Interesting," Hayes said, voice calm, clinical.

Ilian remained silent.

"Kessler used intimidation," Hayes continued, almost to himself, looking at Ilian's reflection in the mirror. "Orlov used pain. They taught you to retreat, to close off. But you learned to manipulate their control. The question is, Mr. Jansen... is that what you are doing now?"

He took a step closer. "The meeting. The prospect of interacting with the group. The anxiety. Your body is betraying you, and you are here trying to find a new control strategy?"

Ilian finished wiping the blood with a paper towel. Looked coldly at Hayes's reflection in the mirror, his mental fortress intact.

"It is the dry air," he murmured. "Of the building."

Hayes smiled. The mind was there. Fighting. Lying.

"Of course." Hayes's voice was crisp. "Wash your face, Mr. Jansen. They are waiting." He said, exiting into the hallway.

Richard approached Ilian. Took a clean, folded cloth handkerchief from his suit's inner pocket. It was white linen. "Take it." His voice was low.

They left the bathroom. Hayes was already in the hallway, waiting. Richard walked on one side, Hayes on the other. Ilian felt like he was being escorted. But he couldn't walk and press the handkerchief at the same time. He needed his right hand for the cane.

He tried. Took a step, leaning on the cane, while his right hand went back to his nose. The movement threw him off balance.

"Ilian, lean on me," Richard said, offering his arm.

"No," he said, voice muffled by the cloth. "I can do it."

He lowered the handkerchief, right hand gripping the cane. Took two quick, painful steps on the carpet. Stopped. Leaned on the cane, body tense, and brought the handkerchief back to his face, pressing hard, head down, breathing through his mouth.

Hayes and Richard stopped with him, forced to wait in the silence of the hallway. Ilian lowered the handkerchief. Took three more steps. Stopped again. Pressed the handkerchief to his nose.

The walk down the long gray hallway took an eternity. A torturous procession of stop and go, every pause a visible reminder that his body was betraying him in front of his observers.

Hayes stopped in front of a dark wooden double door at the end of the hall and opened it. "After you."

Ilian entered. The room was exactly as he feared. Bright, cold, silent. The air smelled of new carpet and coffee. His gaze swept the environment. Immediately, he saw them. Two dark domes, one in each upper corner of the ceiling. Cameras. He was being recorded.

The table was "U" shaped, facing a huge TV screen on the wall. A coffee table, untouched, stood near the door. Five people were already seated, and they all turned to look at him.

On one side, the Observers. Dr. Hayes joined them. A man and a woman Ilian had never seen. Wearing formal clothes, sitting back straight, notebooks closed and pens in hand. They weren't engineers, they were HPP specialists.

On the other side, the Engineers. Dr. Finch, whom Ilian recognized, and two others. They looked calm, academic, with their computers ready and folders of papers.

All six looked at Ilian, who was pale, limping, with a white handkerchief pressed firmly against his face.

Hayes indicated the seats: in the center of the "U," facing the screen. Ilian was physically trapped between the observation team and the engineering team.

Ilian sat down. His left hand disappeared into his lap. The right held Richard's handkerchief firmly against his nose, hiding half his face. He was motionless. Richard sat beside him. The professor opened the meeting, voice tense, trying to sound normal. "Thank you all for coming. The goal is to acclimate Dr. Jansen to our project. Dr. Finch, why don't you start?"

Dr. Finch smiled warmly at Ilian. The TV screen came to life with graphs.

"Dr. Jansen," Finch said, speaking directly to him and the other engineers. "What you showed me about the 'data integration window' was a breakthrough." He turned to the older man named Dr. Pike, and the younger man, Dr. Yamamoto. "We were losing data packets because our sampling window was too wide. We thought it was noise. Dr. Jansen proved it was a second signal, out of phase. He helped us recalibrate the aperture timing."

Ilian listened to Finch's voice. There was no contempt. No sarcasm about his "condition." It was purely about the work. His right hand, holding the handkerchief, relaxed a little. The blood flow, which was a constant response to anxiety, began to slow.

Finch spoke for a few more minutes until Dr. Yamamoto, interested, asked a question. "That is fascinating. Dr. Jansen, how did you compensate for the lag? Did you use a prediction algorithm?"

The room went silent. All eyes turned to Ilian. The engineers waited for an answer. Ilian just stared at the table, right hand still covering his nose and mouth.

Finch, Pike, and Yamamoto exchanged confused and awkward glances. Why doesn't he answer?

The HPP team leaned in, observing, taking notes. This was the trauma they wanted to see.

Richard intervened, assuming his "Filter" role. "Dr. Yamamoto, Dr. Jansen processes things differently. He will answer. Let's wait a moment."

Ilian quickly took the handkerchief from his face to make a note on the blank sheet in front of him and slid it to Richard.

Richard read, voice clear: "Dr. Yamamoto, Dr. Jansen asks... 'Why use prediction? Prediction introduces noise. The signal already exists. A negative delay was used in the processor.'"

The engineers were amazed by the answer and made their considerations. The atmosphere changed instantly. The social tension broke, replaced by a high-level work session.

Ilian felt the shift. The social threat disappeared. They weren't looking at him. They were looking at his mind. Slowly, cautiously, he lowered Richard's handkerchief. The bleeding had stopped. The white fabric was visibly stained red. He folded it discreetly and placed it in his lap, out of sight.

The meeting ended three hours later. Richard, seeing Ilian's physical exhaustion, the subtle tremor returning to his hand, decided to wrap it up.

"Gentlemen, I think today was incredibly productive. But Dr. Jansen is in recovery. We need to stop here."

The engineers closed their laptops, looking electrified. Finch stood up. "Dr. Jansen, this was excellent. Can't wait to run these new simulations."

The engineers thanked Ilian and Richard and left the room, talking excitedly about "negative delay."

In the room, only Ilian, Richard, and the three HPP observers remained. They didn't move. They remained seated, watching.

The performance was over. Ilian felt suddenly exposed. The observers' silence was worse than the engineers' questions.

Richard leaned toward him. "It's over, Ilian. You did it."

Ilian didn't answer. Didn't look at Hayes's team. Just started the slow process of standing up, grabbing his cane. Turned to Richard. "I need to go to the bathroom."

Without waiting for an answer, he left the conference room, leaving Richard alone with the HPP team.

Hayes smiled, closing his notebook. "Excellent, Professor. Very controlled. We had excellent observation. He is totally conditioned to Kessler's pattern. We'll have to address that later, but the cooperation through your 'filter' was remarkable."

"Remarkable?" Richard said, voice low and furious. "Dr. Hayes, the way you three just sat there staring. Analyzing his every move. It was embarrassing." He stood up. "Even I felt embarrassed. We weren't in a meeting, we were being watched. How do you expect him to 'socialize' when you treat him like a specimen in a lab?"

Hayes's smile disappeared, replaced by his clinical calm. "Professor, what you call 'embarrassing,' I call a 'controlled environment.' The session was a success. At least he answered the questions."

Hayes and his team stood up. "We'll see you next Thursday, same time."

They left, leaving Richard alone in the conference room, realizing that today's "victory" was just the first of many cruel tests. He stood for a long moment. Leaned both hands on the polished table, breathing deep, feeling the weight of his new role. Straightened his tie, recomposing his own mask.

He opened the door. Ilian was coming out of the bathroom. Richard walked across the gray carpet, the sound of his steps seeming too loud. He wanted to say something encouraging, but Hayes's words about the "filter" felt like poison in his throat.

He stopped beside Ilian. The young man didn't turn. Kept looking forward.

"Let's go home," was all Richard could say.

They walked slowly to the elevator. The doors opened, and they entered the small metal cubicle. Descended the floors in absolute silence, the tension of the meeting room descending with them. The cold air of the garage hit them when the doors opened. The black agency car waited, engine running. The driver and Agent Leo were in the front seats, silent.

Richard and Ilian sat in the back. The doors closed, sealing them in quiet.

The black agency car glided through the night. Richard and Ilian sat side by side, a distance of inches between them that felt like an abyss. The silence was a physical pressure, almost suffocating.

Richard was tense, body rigid. He looked forward at the road lights, but his mind was stuck in the conference room. Replaying Hayes's final analysis: He is totally conditioned to Kessler's pattern. We'll have to address that later. He had failed as a filter. Worse, he now knew Hayes would use him to break Ilian even further. He looked at the man beside him. He was perfectly still. More still than a human being should be.

He sat rigidly, cane between his knees, right hand resting on the handle. Looked forward, but his eyes registered nothing. The performance had left him drained. He was processing the data: the cameras. The "U" shaped room. The bloody handkerchief. The engineers' calm. The HPP observers' cold analysis.

The car finally exited the highway, entered the quiet neighborhood, and stopped on the gravel in front of the guest house. The house was plunged in darkness. The main house, in the distance, glowed with warm, inviting lights.

Agent Leo got out and opened the door for Richard.

Richard got out. Ilian, with excruciating slowness, maneuvered to get out of the car. Body stiff from tension protested. He stood on the cold gravel, cane firmly in hand. Richard was by the door, his guilt almost palpable. He needed to say something. Fix it.

"Ilian, about today's meeting..."

Ilian interrupted him. He couldn't. Didn't have the energy for Richard's compassion, which, in that moment, felt almost as invasive as the meeting itself. He needed silence.

"Thank you for the help, Professor." The voice was low, empty, formal. He maneuvered to pass Richard and reach his door. Richard followed him, trying to return to the subject.

"Ilian, about next Thursday, we will..."

Ilian stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn around. His shoulder remained rigid.

"Professor. Excuse me. I need... very much... to be alone." He entered and closed the door. Richard was left outside, in the dark, rejected.

Inside the house, Ilian didn't turn on the lights. Darkness was a relief. The bright light of the conference room had felt like an interrogation tool. He walked through the dark living room and simply collapsed onto the sofa.

He was drained. The performance, the bleeding, the torturous walk down the hallway, the surveillance of the cameras, the interaction... everything drained him. He was empty. Couldn't think about the meeting. It was too much noise. Too much trauma. He closed his eyes in the darkness. He wasn't in the guest house anymore. He was on the wooden deck. Felt the warmth of the sun on his face. Heard the sound of the river running over stones. The smell of nature filled his lungs.

He was lying on his back on the warm wood, the fishing hat Richard had given him covering his eyes. In the distance, he could hear the safe sound of George's laughter and Richard's calm voice, discussing a lure.

Hours passed, Ilian woke slowly. Darkness was total, disorienting. He was on the sofa. His neck ached, stiff from falling asleep in an awkward position.

He realized he was still in his meeting clothes. A sharp, hollow pain hit him, stronger than the pain in his neck. Hunger. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, hours ago. He turned on the lamp next to the sofa. The amber light seemed weak, barely cutting the darkness. Saw Richard's handkerchief on the coffee table. Picked it up.

The linen fabric was dry, stiff. Dark stains, rust-red, marked the white cloth. His blood. The proof of his weakness. A wave of shame hit him, cold and nauseating. He went slowly to the kitchen, handkerchief in hand. Hunger commanded him. Opened the fridge and grabbed one of the packages without reading the label, anything would do. It was just fuel.

After eating, he went to the sink, handkerchief in hand. Turned on the cold water.

He tried to scrub the fabric. The process was a frustrating demonstration of his limitation. Held the handkerchief with his right hand, and tried to use his left to rub the soap. But the stiff fingers of his left hand had no strength or dexterity, sliding uselessly over the linen.

A wave of irritation rose through him. It was illogical. It was just a handkerchief. But the feeling of powerlessness was so familiar, he couldn't control it.

Frustrated, he reversed. Tried to hold the fabric taut with his left hand, so he could scrub with his right. It was worse. His left hand could barely close, unable to hold the fabric firm against the force of his good hand. The handkerchief slipped, wet and slippery.

Irritation gave way to a cold anger, directed at himself, at his useless hand. The dried blood stain didn't come out. Under his clumsy effort, it became just a light brown smear, ugly, spreading through the fabric.

Frustrated, he left the wet, defeated handkerchief in the bottom of the metal sink. Went to the bedroom, didn't change clothes, just mechanically removed his shoes and fell onto the bed, exhausted.

Chapter 72: The Ramp

Friday morning arrived. Ilian was awake long before dawn. Today, the schedule dictated physical therapy. Physical pain was a known adversary, almost a comfort compared to the psychological terror of the previous day.

He went through his morning routine. He was ready to face the new day.

Shortly after eight in the morning, he heard footsteps on the gravel. Too early for David. He opened the door and found Richard. The professor looked tired, eyes marked by worry. He clearly hadn't slept well.

"Good morning, Ilian. How are you?" Richard's voice was low, almost hesitant, as if afraid of the answer.

"I am fine, Professor," he replied. And it was true. He was there, standing. He had endured.

Richard seemed surprised by Ilian's calm. He entered, anxiety still on his face. "Ilian... I thought a lot about yesterday. The meeting." He paused, guilt evident in his voice. "It was... it was a mistake. It was too much, too soon. I am sorry. I failed you."

Ilian watched him. The professor was suffering, blaming himself.

"Do not worry, Professor," he said, voice quiet but firm. "I will not break."

Richard looked at him, shocked by the strength contained in that sentence. The professor had spent a sleepless night, consumed by guilt, feeling defeated. And Ilian, who had been the victim of Hayes's ambush, was there, pale, yes, but standing. Richard realized, with humbling clarity, that Ilian had processed the meeting better than he had himself. How did he do it? How did he continue living, functional, amid so much chaos?

The guilt on his face gave way to action.

"I can't undo what Hayes did," Richard continued, "but I can change the scenery. I called the guys last night, after I left here. The cabin is ready. We're going there. Today."

Ilian processed the information. The cabin. The river. The silence.

"Today?" he asked, surprised.

Richard hurried on. "Yes. I know it's last minute, but George and Arthur don't mind. Men are like that, just agree and go. I thought the fresh air..."

Ilian interrupted him. "I do not know, Professor," he said, with a slight smile. "Today is Friday. It is very last minute." He paused, as if considering. "I need to check my schedule. The day seems... very full."

Richard froze. He looked at Ilian, processing the words. Schedule. The joke. The subtle sarcasm, coming from this man, after that day. A genuine smile full of pure relief broke across Richard's face. He shook his head, the sound of his low laughter filling the small house, breaking all the tension.

"Ah, Ilian..." he said, smile still on his lips. "Your schedule. Right. Well, cancel whatever you have." He smiled, guilt finally dissipating. "We leave right after lunch. Be ready around one o'clock."

"I will be ready, Professor. Thank you. For everything."

Richard left, leaving him alone with the news. He stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, processing the sudden relief. The night before, after the meeting, he was so broken that his only refuge had been his mind, he had returned to the wooden deck, to the sound of the river and the warmth of the sun, to endure the pain. And now, less than twenty-four hours later, Richard was turning that mental escape into a physical reality. The surprise of that gift was immense. He took a deep breath, a new determination on his face. Physical therapy would be just the price of the ticket.

The doorbell rang at nine. David and Ben.

The session was once again intense. The pain of therapy was just a toll, the price of admission to the cabin. He was focused, enduring every painful stretch, every minute on the treadmill, not as a punishment, but as a task to be completed. He wasn't fighting David, he was fighting to get to Richard's car.

When they finished, Ilian was trembling with exhaustion, but David nodded, satisfied. "I see you're more focused today, Mr. Jansen. Good progress."

As soon as David and Ben left, Ilian went to the sofa to apply ice, and immediately saw Harris, who was already finishing his work.

"Mr. Harris, excuse me," he said.

Harris stopped.

"I asked for detergent. For the laundry."

Harris, emotionless, slid his finger across the screen. "The request was received, Mr. Jansen." He looked up, expression cold. "And it was vetoed."

Ilian frowned. "Vetoed? Why?"

"The agency determined that your time is allocated to Project Argus and rehabilitation," Harris said, as if reading a manual. "Laundry service is provided so you do not need to waste time with household chores. Anything else?"

"No."

The agent turned and left. Ilian sat on the sofa in silence, processing the cold, absolute logic. He could understand the veto on salt, it was justified as "medical orders" for his health. It was control over his biology. But this? Detergent?

Harris's justification was even more dehumanizing. They weren't controlling his health, they were controlling his time.

A wave of cold, helpless anger rose through him. But he suppressed it with his usual efficiency, a mental muscle trained by years of captivity. He thought of Kessler. Thought of Orlov. Thought of Hayes. If he stopped to absorb every insult, every small indignity, every denial of his humanity... he wouldn't last. He would drown in the weight of a thousand small defeats. His survival depended on filtering out the "noise."

He had to choose his battles. Physical therapy was a battle. The Thursday meeting was a war. Detergent? Detergent was just noise.

The doorbell rang again. It was Dr. Evans. He entered, his professional gaze landing on Ilian on the sofa.

"Good morning, Ilian. I heard you're going on a trip."

Ilian looked up. "Good morning, Doctor. Yes. I am going fishing."

The blood draw was quick, professional.

"Richard told me the plan. Excellent idea. Some fresh air will do you good." Evans checked Ilian's vitals. "But be sensible. Don't overdo it. You are still in recovery. Remember to take all your medications."

After the doctor left, silence finally fell over the guest house.

At one o'clock, Ilian was ready. He had showered and put his belongings in the new backpack Richard had given him. The cardboard box, his old luggage, stayed behind.

Before going to the door, he stopped for a moment in the living room, in front of his amaryllis. He leaned in to observe. The crack in the green bud was visibly larger than on Wednesday, the dark red inside more promising, a silent promise that life was moving.

Richard arrived and helped him carry his things to the car and hand his plant over to Helena's care.

As soon as they hit the main road, the exhaustion of therapy, the tension of Harris's visit, and the deep relief of escape finally exacted their price.

Ilian sat in the passenger seat. The safety of the car, the afternoon sun warming his face through the window, Richard's calm presence beside him. He closed his eyes.

After some time on the road, Ilian woke to the soft sound of the engine slowing down. The car was stopping. He blinked, disoriented. The constant vibration of the road had stopped.

"Ilian. We're reaching our technical stop."

Richard's calm voice anchored him. He looked out. It wasn't the cabin. It was the quaint little café from the first trip. The afternoon sun was still high.

This time, there was no panic. Therapy had left his body sore, but the stop was familiar. They entered the café. The smell of roasted beans was pleasant. The break was brief, restorative.

Back in the car, Ilian was fully awake. Caffeine and the anticipation of arrival kept him alert. He spent the last hour of the trip looking out the window, watching the landscape change. Wide roads gave way to rural paths, surrounded by hills and dense forests.

When Richard finally turned off the main road onto the gravel path leading to the cabin, the dashboard clock read 5:11 PM. The afternoon sunlight was low, golden, cutting through the cold air and creating long shadows among the trees.

The professor stopped in the same spot as before. The sound of the engine died, immediately swallowed by the deep silence of the forest. Ilian began the slow process of getting out of the car, twisting his body and preparing his right leg to meet the packed dirt. Richard had already gotten out and walked to the passenger door, waiting beside him. When Ilian finally steadied himself, leaning briefly on the open door, he looked at the back seat.

"My backpack."

"Leave it there for now," Richard said, his voice sounding loud in the quiet. "Let's go in first. We'll get the gear later."

Ilian maneuvered with his cane across the gravel. He was focused on the ground, on maintaining balance on the uneven terrain. When he was a few meters from the house, he finally looked up to face his obstacle. And stopped.

His brain froze. He went absolutely still. The two wooden steps he remembered were no longer there. In their place, rising from the gravel to the porch, was a long ramp, made of new, light wood. It was wide, solid, and had a sturdy, perfectly sanded handrail running its entire length.

Ilian stared, stunned. He looked at the ramp, then at Richard, who was now smiling openly. He looked back at the ramp. Ilian remained completely motionless. It wasn't the ramp itself that paralyzed him. It was the logistics.

His mind instantly calculated the act. George and Arthur had to measure the angle, the exact height. They had to calculate the load bearing. Buy the materials, the beams, the planks. Spend hours, maybe a whole day, cutting, leveling, and assembling.

It wasn't an agency order, it wasn't a functional requirement of a protocol. It was an act of consideration. Engineering used as empathy. Those men... George and Arthur... they saw him struggle on the steps during the first visit. They saw his weakness. And instead of ignoring it, they had dedicated time, effort, and material to build a path. For him.

The magnitude of that act of acceptance, of that silent and practical kindness, hit him with a force that almost took his breath away.

"Don't move, Ilian."

He turned, confused. Richard was standing with his cell phone raised, pointing it at him.

"I have to take a picture," he said, smile widening. "George and Arthur made me promise. They said they wanted to see your reaction when you saw their 'engineering project'." He took the photo.

Ilian remained standing on his ramp, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, an expression of deep and stunned disbelief on his face. When he finally walked up, he realized how firm the surface was, the incline gentle. The handrail was solid. The ascent was almost painless, almost effortless.

He looked at Richard, his voice coming out low. "Thank you, Professor," he said, his voice a bit rough. "For bringing me to this place. For them."

Richard just smiled and said he would get some luggage. He returned, bringing the cooler with food and handing Ilian his backpack.

They entered the cabin, Ilian walked straight to the small back room, the same one he had used last time. He placed his backpack on the bed that he, in his mind, already considered his. The act was simple, a silent declaration of familiarity. He didn't linger in the room, returning immediately to the main living area.

The cabin was cold but welcoming in its familiarity. While Richard took things to the kitchen, Ilian stood in the living room, allowing the feeling of safety to fill him. His gaze swept the familiar environment: the sofa, the dining table, the fireplace. And then he saw it.

On the main wall, hung in a place of honor above the fireplace, was a new rustic wooden frame. Inside it was the photo from the first fishing trip. The four men. Richard, George, and Arthur smiling. And him, Ilian, almost lost in the dark green coat, with that tiny, almost imperceptible smile and his hat.

He hadn't been just a visitor. He was part of the history of that place. Those men treated him like one of them.

"See that?" Richard's voice said, having approached silently. "George doesn't waste time."

Ilian didn't answer immediately. He kept looking at the photo, at his own tiny and almost smiling face, immortalized on the wall. When he slowly turned to Richard, the shock in his eyes was still visible.

"Professor..." he began, but his voice failed. He cleared his throat and tried again, voice low, almost a whisper. "I... I do not understand."

Richard frowned, expression gentle. "What don't you understand, Ilian?"

"This." Ilian gestured, a vague movement encompassing the ramp outside and the photo on the wall. "They... they did all this for me?"

"Of course they did," Richard said softly. "They like you. You're one of us now."

Ilian shook his head, the agency's cold logic colliding violently with the cabin's logic. "I... I do not know how to thank them." The last word was spoken with immense difficulty.

"You don't need to thank them, Ilian. You just... accept."

He was no longer a visitor. He had been added to the history of that place.

"Thank you, Professor."

"Come on. I'll prepare our dinner."

While Richard put Helena's food on the plates, Ilian took the cutlery and glasses and began setting the small table. They sat down. The silence was comfortable, filled only by the sound of forks against ceramic.

"The ramp was already ready last week," Richard said, breaking the silence. "George and Arthur made it for our last trip. They were genuinely disappointed when I had to cancel because of my cold."

Ilian looked up.

"They were anxious," Richard continued, "to see your reaction."

The conversation about the ramp's construction, about his friends' functional generosity, seemed to trigger something in Ilian. He stopped eating for a moment, looking at his own hands on the table.

"Professor..." he began.

Richard gave him full attention, putting down his cutlery.

Ilian hesitated, voice low, searching for words. "You... you remember, at that dinner... at your house. You mentioned your work. A medical project."

Richard frowned, searching his memory. "Yes, the imaging system. I remember."

"You said... 'engineering in the service of life,'" Ilian repeated Richard's exact words, the auditory memory clear. "That... stayed with me. I thought a lot about it." He paused, eyes fixed on the wood texture of the table. "I started thinking about... about rubble. Being buried."

The room went quiet. Richard just watched, waiting, not pressing.

"I have a project," Ilian said, almost a whisper. "An idea. A system for locating victims. To find life in the middle of chaos."

He finally raised his eyes. There was a spark in them now, the focused passion of the scientist, an energy the agency tried, but failed, to extinguish.

"I would like to discuss it with you. But not here. When we return to the guest house. Show you what I have."

Richard, seeing the depth of the opening, the immense trust being placed in him at that moment, nodded slowly. "Ilian, of course. I would love to see it. It would be an honor."

Ilian nodded once, as if confirming a pact. "It is called Projekt Rodzina. It means Family." He took a deep breath, and then the inevitable connection came. "It is... it is the opposite of Falke." He looked down again. "Falke was about finding... targets. About destruction. Engineering used to isolate and eliminate."

His eyes rose and met Richard's. "Rodzina is for finding life. It is a sensor system. For rubble. After an earthquake, a collapse. The biggest problem is the noise. The ground concrete, the twisted metal, the wind... everything drowns out the vital signs."

He leaned forward slightly. "My idea is to use a different algorithm. It does not look for sound. It looks for the pattern. The pattern of a breath under tons of concrete. The pattern of a heartbeat, even if weak, filtered through the chaos." He concluded, his voice firm. "It filters the chaos and finds life. It is to save. To bring back to the family."

Richard sat in silence for a long moment, absorbing the magnitude of what Ilian was creating. His redemption wasn't an abstraction, it was a project, a schematic.

"Ilian," Richard said, voice choked with emotion. "That is... extraordinary. I can't wait to see it."

The young man nodded, a small and rare smile touching his lips. The tension of the revelation dissipated, replaced by a quiet warmth. "I... am glad," he said, voice low. "I really want to show you when we get back."

They finished the meal in comfortable silence. The week's exhaustion, the tension of the agency meeting, all of it finally settled in Ilian. But it wasn't the toxic exhaustion of before. It was a physical, clean tiredness, the weight of the body relaxing in a safe place.

He retired to the back room and fell into a deep sleep, long before George and Arthur arrived late that night. He slept through the sound of their tires on the gravel and their hushed greetings to Richard, completely unaware that the cabin was filling up with friends.

Chapter 73: The Dock

He woke up suddenly on Saturday morning. There was no transition, nor the usual fog of exhaustion. Just silence. The cabin was plunged in deep stillness, the air cold and clean. Turning in bed, the mattress creaked softly as he listened to the sound of Richard's slow, deep breathing from the other bed.

A need hit him. Not a logical thought, but a physical, visceral impulse. The memory. The mental escape he had built the night before, after the agency meeting. The image of lying on the dock, listening to the river.

He needed to see the river.

Moving with silent efficiency, he sat on the edge of the bed and put on his boots. The process was slow, methodical. Tying the laces, pulling them tight with his right hand, while the left just guided the loop without firmness. Once up, he put on the dark green jacket Richard had given him. Cane in hand, he left the room with infinite care, closing the door behind him without a click.

Pausing in the gloom of the hallway, he noticed the light. It wasn't darkness anymore, it was a deep blue-gray, the first announcement of dawn.

The bathroom was his first stop. The morning routine. The freezing water from the sink on his face acted as a shock that brought him fully to the present.

Returning to the living room, he opened the cabin door.

The air hit him like a blade. Cold, crisp, charged with the scent of pine and running water. He stopped on the porch. In front of him, visible in the growing light, was the ramp. George and Arthur's gift.

Placing a hand on the handrail, he felt the sanded wood, solid, cold to the touch, slightly damp from the night dew. The descent was easy, safe, silent. The gentle slope required no effort from his knee. Stepping onto the wet grass, the sound of his boots on the ground was soft, muffled. Guided by the sound, he followed the vague path his eyes could barely discern.

The river.

The noise of water running over stones grew louder, a constant, real sound, not the desperate memory of a few days ago. The path descended gently toward the bank.

He arrived. The large wooden dock projected over the water. And, as he remembered, to overcome the small drop to the river, there was a ramp, anchoring the structure to the bank.

Ascending the ramp, he noticed the wood of the dock was older, rougher. Walking to the edge where the water rushed, he stopped for a moment, just breathing the cold air. Then, slowly, in a series of controlled and painful movements, he lowered himself, leaning on the cane, until he finally managed to sit down. Immediately, he lay back in the center of the dock, exactly as he had done in his mental escape.

The focus became entirely sensory.

Through the jacket, the cold, rough wood pressed against his back. He extended his right hand and ran his fingers through the gaps between the boards, feeling the texture of the aged wood, the cold dampness. Looking up, he saw the sky wasn't so dark anymore, it was changing, brightening.

Processing the fact, the timeline became clear. Twenty-five years. Kessler. Orlov. The Agency. Windowless rooms. Surveillance. Threats. And now, this dock. This river. This cold air.

His mind, trained to find refuge in dissociation, had fled to this exact spot. And again, physical reality was better than the escape. It was more solid. More real. A slow, almost imperceptible smile formed on his face. It wasn't joy. It was relief. A deep, absolute relief that relaxed muscles he didn't even know were tense.

Closing his eyes allowed the sound to envelop him. The river wasn't a single sound, it was a complex symphony. There was the sharp, constant hiss of fast water passing over small stones, a sound that filled the air. They were physical sounds. Pure. There was no low-frequency electric hum of military labs, nor the echo of guards' boots in concrete hallways. It was just water and stone.

When he opened his eyes, the growing light revealed the texture of the world. He took a deep breath through his nose. The air was so cold it hurt his lungs slightly, bringing the earthy, damp smell of decaying leaves on the forest floor and the green, sharp scent of pine.

His right hand moved over the dock again, feeling the wood. The roughness wasn't uniform. In some spots, it was almost smooth from the passage of time, in others, it was splintered. There was fine, tiny sand trapped in the cracks. He felt the cold dampness beginning to slowly penetrate the thick fabric of his jacket, a real sensation of cold that anchored him to the spot.

This wasn't an escape. It was an arrival.

He wasn't a military genius, nor a damaged asset, nor a patient. There, lying on the cold wood, listening to the river, he was just a set of sensory data points. His mind and his body were finally in the same place, at the same time. At peace.

Chapter 74: The Noisy Care

The air inside the cabin was warm, heavy with the strong smell of coffee and food.

Richard and Arthur were already seated at the small table eating. At the stove, back turned, George commanded the space. He was concentrated on an omelet, flipping it with surprisingly delicate care. George had made the salted breakfast for the others and was now preparing the special meal.

The cabin door opened slowly.

The cold morning air entered, cutting through the kitchen's warmth, and Ilian entered with it. He closed the door silently. The peace of the dock was still intact, a visible calm in his relaxed shoulders and the absence of tension in his face. He stopped, absorbing the scene in the kitchen.

George turned with the spatula in his hand, as if sensing the temperature change. His eyes met Ilian. A huge smile spread across his face.

"There he is! The early bird! Come on, come in, come in! Sit down, your breakfast is almost ready!"

George slid the pale omelet from the pan onto a plate and placed it on the table, in the empty spot next to Arthur.

"Here you go, Ilian," he said, with mock seriousness, thumping the plate onto the table. "I did the best I could with this material. But don't even think about trying to steal our salted food." Ilian smiled and sat down. "Look at that, Arthur," George continued. "He cut his hair! Looks much better!"

Richard smiled into his mug, amused by the scene. Arthur, calmer, just raised his. "Good morning, Ilian."

The three men, for a moment, just looked. They saw the change. It wasn't the tense and scared young man from the first visit. The calm he brought from the river was palpable, a tranquility that seemed to radiate from him.

"You don't need to stare at us like that," George said, breaking the silence with a laugh. "Richard already showed us the photo. Your happiness when you saw the ramp! We're glad you liked it."

Ilian, instead of closing off or looking away, smiled. A genuine, small smile. He looked first at George, then at Arthur.

"Thank you," he said, voice firm, clear. "For the ramp. And for the photo on the wall." He paused, the weight of emotion rising in his throat. He swallowed, composing himself quickly. "I liked it very much."

George seemed momentarily speechless, just nodded, satisfied. He sat down heavily, and the conversation restarted, about the weather, about the current, about the quality of the coffee.

Ilian started to eat. The omelet was tasty, his palate barely noticing the lack of salt anymore. The conversation no longer disturbed him. On the contrary. George's voice was a shield. It was a sound of normalcy, a layer of life protecting him.

In a brief pause, while George stopped to sip coffee, Ilian spoke, his voice quiet but clear.

"I have my own lures now." The three men looked at him. "The professor gave me a box," he concluded, voluntarily.

George stopped with his mug halfway to his mouth. He looked at Richard with an expression of fake indignation.

"An outrage! Richard, you gave him your old lures?" George's voice rose. "The ones you wanted to get rid of? The ones the fish already know and ignore? What kind of friend are you?"

Richard rolled his eyes. Arthur gave a minimal, almost imperceptible smile at his plate. Ilian understood. This wasn't an attack. This was affection.

"They are great lures," Richard said defensively.

"Of course they are," George mocked. Then he turned to Ilian, continuing. "Don't worry. Leave Richard with that rusty junk. I have the special lures, the ones that really work. I'll fix you up a decent box."

Ilian looked at George, voice perfectly serious, the calm of the dock still in his eyes. "I appreciate it. But I will need to analyze their hydrodynamics first. To ensure efficiency."

George blinked, confused by the serious answer. "Hydro-what?"

"Efficiency," Ilian repeated, now smiling.

Richard covered his mouth with his hand to hide a sudden laugh. George finally understood it was a dry joke, an engineer's tease. He smiled. "Efficiency! Don't worry, my lures are the best on the river!"

They finished breakfast amid George's animated talk about the last fishing trip and Arthur's comfortable silence. The noise was welcoming. When the plates were empty and the coffee mugs almost done, the energy in the cabin shifted naturally. It wasn't an order, but a silent consensus that the meal was over and the day's purpose was beginning.

"Right," George said, finally standing up, the sound of his chair dragging on the floor signaling the start of the operation. "Let's get ready. The river is waiting."

The dishes were quickly stacked in the sink by Arthur. Richard began organizing the coolers. George gestured, distributing tasks.

"Grab that tackle box of yours... just so Richard doesn't get sad," George said to Ilian.

A few minutes later, the small cabin emptied.

"Arthur, grab that cooler," George instructed, picking up the other one himself and a bundle of fishing rods. "Let's take the main stuff now and come back for the chairs. The river is waiting!" He went out the door, followed by Arthur. The sound of their heavy boots hit the new ramp and they quickly disappeared toward the river.

Richard didn't rush. He grabbed his own coat and waited near the door, giving Ilian the space and time needed so he wouldn't feel pressured.

Ilian approached the door, stopping at the top of the ramp. With his right hand holding the cane, he took the new tackle box and slid it into the large pocket of his jacket. The pocket became heavy and bulky, but his left hand was now free.

He placed his left hand on the sanded handrail, feeling the solid wood, and his right steadied the cane on the ramp. He began to descend at his own pace.

Richard came out and descended with him, his calm steps adjusting to Ilian's. They headed toward the sound of the river and the distant voices of their friends.

Arriving at the dock was an explosion of activity.

George and Arthur barely waited. The sound of coolers hitting wood, rods being assembled with quick metallic clicks. They were pure efficiency, eager to start.

Richard's priority was different. He walked to the most stable spot on the dock and unfolded the canvas chair for Ilian.

"Here," he said. "A good spot. Stable."

Ilian sat down, immediate relief taking the weight off his right leg. He blinked, the bright light bothering him. Reached into his own jacket pocket and pulled out the fishing hat. Adjusted it on his head. The familiar brim descended, creating an immediate shadow over his eyes, a small personal refuge.

Richard, seeing the gesture, smiled and handed him the fishing rod, the same one from the first trip.

"Remember how to do it?" Richard's voice was calm, practical. Not the voice of a teacher to a student, but of a friend to another. He demonstrated the wrist movement, a short, fluid gesture.

Ilian watched. Then, he tried.

The movement was clumsy. His straight right leg hindered his balance. His left hand, which should stabilize the base of the rod, lacked firmness and slipped. The first cast was short, the heavy line falling just a few meters from the dock. He didn't get frustrated. Just analyzed the error. Wrong angle. Insufficient force. He reeled in the line, adjusted the lure, and tried again. The second cast was better. The lure traveled further, hitting the current.

He settled into the chair, entering a rhythm. The rod in his hand. Eyes on the water. He was calm.

Suddenly, the sound of a line tightening, the sound of Arthur's reel. The silent master pulled in the first fish of the day. It was very small, silver, and thrashed furiously in the air. Arthur removed it from the hook with a quick movement and threw it back into the water, disinterested.

"That is theft, Arthur!" George spoke from the other side of the dock. "You scared mine!"

Half an hour passed. The sun began to truly warm up, burning off the cold morning mist. Ilian felt the heat on his face, a warmth that seemed to penetrate his skin.

Richard returned triumphant, bringing a fish.

Ilian caught nothing. His line remained slack in the water. But he didn't care. He was completely immersed in the sensory experience. The sun warming his knees through his clothes. The cold wind rising from the river, smelling of water and earth. The constant sound of the river running over stones. The fishing rod in his hand.

The sun got higher. George's impatience was almost palpable. He, the head fisherman, had already caught two good-sized fish, and Ilian, the novice, was sitting there, perfectly at peace catching nothing.

George couldn't take it. He marched over to Ilian's chair.

"That's enough. I can't watch this anymore." Ilian looked up, confused. "It's the lures!" He declared, pointing at the young man's line as if it were a personal offense. "Richard sabotaged you! He gave you the worst lures! The fish look at that and laugh!"

Before Richard could protest, George was opening his own tackle box, a complex arsenal. He took out a smaller box, clear plastic, new, full of shiny, colorful lures.

"Here." He placed the box at Ilian's feet. "Keep this one. A gift from me. Guaranteed efficiency."

Ilian looked down at the shiny lures.

"May I?" George asked, pointing to the fishing rod Ilian held. The question took Ilian by surprise. He nodded, mute. "Great," George said, and only then took the rod from Ilian's hand, with great care. "I can't stand watching that antique of Richard's scare the fish anymore."

He pointed to the box on the ground. "Which one do you want? Pick one."

Ilian looked at the options. "The... silver one."

"Good choice!" George said, genuinely pleased. He took the silver lure from the box, cut the old line with pliers, and began tying the new one with quick, efficient knots. "Done," he said, handing back the rod. "Now try."

"Thank you, George," Ilian said, voice low. He cast the new shiny lure. The result was exactly the same. Nothing. Reeled in and cast again. Nothing.

But he remained visibly calm, at peace, which seemed to frustrate George even more.

"Unbelievable," he murmured. "They must be sleeping." He turned to Arthur. "Come on. Let's go downriver. There's nothing here. Let's leave the amateurs with the small fish."

George and Arthur, now on a serious mission, gathered their things and moved to the riverbank further down, where the current made a sharp bend. Their noise diminished, becoming a distant murmur.

Silence returned to the dock. Richard, who watched everything with a calm smile, moved a little closer to Ilian's chair. "Don't get frustrated because of him," he said, in a low voice. "George thinks the only way to have fun is catching something."

Ilian took a moment to answer. He didn't take his eyes off the tip of his rod, which bobbed gently with the current. Looked at the river, sun shining on the water, then at Richard. A small smile touched his lips, a smile his eyes reflected.

"Professor... I do not mind not catching anything." He paused, and the next words came out with the weight of confession, the simplest and deepest truth he knew. "I am just... happy to be here."

Richard stood in silence, absorbing it. The simplicity of it. The victory.

Ilian looked at the professor. The emotion he felt, gratitude, relief, this happiness, was a weight in his chest, something he didn't have the vocabulary to express. Words weren't enough. He needed a gesture.

Deliberately, Ilian leaned forward in his canvas chair, a movement that tensed his back muscles. With his right hand, he guided the long fishing rod down. He didn't let go. First, he touched the tip of the rod to the dock's wood, and then, carefully, slid his hand down the handle until the entire rod lay safely on the wooden floor beside his chair, parallel to his outstretched leg.

The process freed his hand. Richard watched, confused by the methodical movement.

Then, Ilian straightened up again in the chair and did the unthinkable. He extended his right hand. The good hand, the cane hand, the action hand. It hovered in the air between them, slightly trembling with emotion, but firm. An invitation.

But as the hand hovered there, Ilian’s mind was violently dragged back. To an office in Germany.

Ilian was twelve years old, standing in a corner of Kessler’s office, dressed in the impeccable gray uniform Kessler had ordered for him. The sleeves were slightly too long, covering half of his thin hands. He remained motionless, as he had been taught.

"He is young," said the deep voice of General von Klein, seated in the leather armchair across from Kessler’s desk. The military officer watched Ilian with purely logistical interest, like someone evaluating a new radar.

"Youth is irrelevant," Kessler replied, without lifting his eyes from the papers he was signing. "His neuroplasticity is the asset. He processes mathematical patterns with the speed of a savant, but with the theoretical understanding of a doctoral candidate. He is a useful anomaly."

Kessler set down his pen. The sound was the signal.

"Come here, Ilian," he ordered.

Ilian obeyed instantly. He walked to the desk, stopping exactly where he knew he should. "This is General von Klein," Kessler said, leaning back in his chair. "He is responsible for funding our new laboratory. It is thanks to him that you have a roof, food, and books to read. You owe your current existence to this man."

Ilian looked at the General. The man was giant, imposing in his uniform.

In Ilian's mind, a quick memory of the orphanage surfaced. He had once seen the director receiving wealthy donors. The director smiled, bowed slightly, and extended his hand. That was how important men sealed deals. That was how respect and gratitude were demonstrated.

Ilian wanted to show he knew how to behave. Wanted to show he was worth the investment.

With innocent determination, Ilian took a step forward, breaking the protocol distance. He looked at the General and, in a gesture he considered adult and polite, extended his right hand, small, trembling, and stained with blue ink, toward the officer.

"Thank you, sir," Ilian said, waiting for the shake.

"NO!"

Kessler’s scream exploded in the room like a gunshot.

Ilian jumped back, recoiling his hand as if he had touched fire. The General, who was merely watching the small extended hand with slight amusement, didn't even have time to react.

Kessler stood up in a fluid, furious motion, rounding the desk in long strides. He didn't look at the General. His fury was focused entirely on the boy.

"What do you think you are doing?" Kessler hissed, stopping inches from Ilian’s face.

"I..." Ilian stammered, heart hammering against his ribs. "You said... I wanted to thank... like at the orphanage..."

"You are not in an orphanage!" Kessler cut him off. "And you are not the director of anything to initiate a greeting."

Kessler grabbed Ilian’s right wrist tightly, yanking the boy's hand into the air, exposing it under the chandelier light.

"Look at this," Kessler said with disgust, twisting Ilian’s hand to show the graphite-stained palm and ink-smudged fingertips. "Look at this filth. This is a tool. It is a work instrument. It is for holding a pencil."

He released Ilian’s wrist with a sharp shove.

"A handshake," Kessler continued, voice cold and didactic, "is a social contract between peers. It is a gesture of equality. When you extend your hand first, you are presuming that you are equal to this man."

Kessler turned to General von Klein. "Forgive the insolence, General. He forgets his place."

The General shrugged, indifferent. "It is just a child, Albrecht."

"No," Kessler corrected, turning back to Ilian. "It is an investment that requires calibration. Arrogance is a software defect."

He looked into Ilian’s eyes.

"You are not a peer of the General. You are not an equal. You do not have the right to impose your physical presence, to initiate contact, or to invite anyone into your personal space. You wait. You serve. You work."

Shame burned Ilian’s face, hotter than any fever. He had tried to be polite, to be "good," and had committed a cardinal sin. He hid his right hand behind his back, gripping it with his left, wishing it would disappear.

"Never again," Kessler said, enunciating every syllable like a sentence. "Never again extend your hand to anyone. The initiative is not yours. Touch is not your right. Your hands are not for greeting. They are for producing. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Ilian whispered, staring at Kessler’s polished shoes.

"Get out of my sight. Go wash off that ink. And do not return until you have understood the difference between a scientist and his equipment."

Twelve years later, on a wooden dock near Boston, that same hand still hovered in the air. Kessler’s lesson screamed in his mind to retreat, but he did not move.

Richard froze. He looked at that outstretched hand. He understood what was being offered. It wasn't a casual gesture. It was Ilian's trust, manifested physically for the first time.

Very slowly, as if handling something priceless, Richard extended his own hand and took it. The grip wasn't strong. It was just contact. It was just a handshake, a basic human protocol that, for Ilian, was the most seismic thing he had ever done.

He looked into Richard's eyes. "Thank you, Professor. For everything."

Richard squeezed his hand once more, the knot in his throat so tight he could barely speak. "You're welcome, Ilian."

Ilian released the hand, the gesture complete. Leaned down again, picked up his fishing rod from the dock, and put it back in position. Returned to looking at the river. His right hand seemed to tingle, almost burn, still alive with the warmth and pressure of the contact. His heart beat fast in his chest. Forced himself to breathe. The protocol had ended. The risk had been rewarded.

He processed what he had just done. He had initiated physical contact. Voluntarily. Not as defense, not as a reaction, but as a gesture of pure will.

The magnitude of it left him momentarily breathless.

Richard leaned back, heart also pounding. Looked at the river, but didn't see it. The barrier had fallen.

They stayed there, in silence, for another hour or two.

The break came from George's voice, not of defeat, but of noisy satisfaction.

"Alright! That's enough!" He began pulling in his line with broad movements. "Caught enough for us for a week." He bragged about the good-sized fish he had caught. "I'm hungry!"

The fishing day was over.

The group packed up the gear. Ilian, in silence, put away the tackle box George had given him, placing it in the large jacket pocket along with the one Richard had given him. He felt quiet, his mind fully occupied processing what had happened.

The walk up from the river was slow. When they reached the cabin, Ilian moved toward the porch ramp. The movement, now, was routine. Left hand finding the handrail, right hand steadying the cane, and ascended the wood with a naturalness that hadn't existed before. It was his path.

When they entered, George, proudly holding the fish he had caught, was triumphant.

"Right!" he announced, putting the fish in the kitchen sink. "I'll handle lunch. We're eating fresh fish. Richard, you and Ilian can go take a shower and rest. Arthur, help me clean these beauties."

Richard nodded, knowing it was an excellent idea. The thought of a hot shower and clean clothes was incredibly appealing.

An hour later, the cabin was filled with a delicious smell of fish and lemon.

Ilian came out of his room, showered and in clean clothes. He felt renewed. Found the others in the kitchen. George was at the stove, commanding. Richard and Arthur were already seated.

"There he is! Your piece is here," George said. He pointed with the spatula to the plate already set aside on the table for Ilian. "Don't you dare look at ours," George joked, a glint in his eyes.

Ilian looked at the fish. Then at George. "Thank you very much, George."

They ate lunch. Ilian's fish was tender, flavorful. Conversation was easy. George retold, exaggerating, the "fight" with his biggest fish.

After lunch and cleaning the kitchen, a satisfied tiredness fell over the group. Ilian went back to his room, not to process, but simply to rest, and ended up sleeping.

He woke to the sound. A soft but persistent drumming on the roof. Rain. He sat up. The sun had set, and the room was plunged in cold gloom. The sound of rain outside seemed to make the cabin even safer, more isolated from the world.

He left the room. The main living area was transformed. External light was nearly gone, just a blue-gray. The fire was lit, a vibrant mass of orange flames crackling, casting a warm glow on the floor.

The scene was one of total calm.

George was sprawled in the most comfortable armchair, near the fire. He had fallen asleep. Richard was sitting on the sofa, under the lamp light, reading a book.

And Arthur was sitting at the dining table.

The table was covered by a cloth, and on it, fishing gear was meticulously disassembled. Small jars of oil, clean rags, and the metal parts of reels.

Ilian, naturally drawn to mechanical and precise activity, approached the table. He didn't go to the sofa, seeking Richard's presence, but pulled out a chair and sat at the table, near Arthur, without invading his space.

He just watched.

There was no conversation. The only sound in the cabin was the rain on the roof, the crackling of the fire, and the soft metallic click of small gears in Arthur's hands. Ilian watched Arthur finish assembling a reel. He cleaned it, lubricated it, and assembled it with silent efficiency. Spun it, listening to the smooth sound of the mechanism, and nodded, satisfied.

Then, Arthur picked up the second reel, which was still dirty with sand and river water, and slid it gently across the table until it stopped in front of the young man.

The invitation was clear.

Arthur took a clean rag and a small bottle of oil and placed them next to the reel, in front of Ilian. Said nothing. Just went back to working on his own piece.

Ilian looked at the reel. A complex mechanism of small gears. He knew this would be incredibly difficult.

He accepted the challenge. He pulled the reel closer. Picked up a small screwdriver with his right hand. The first challenge was holding the reel body to unscrew the cover. He tried to use his left hand, but his fingers lacked strength, couldn't close firmly. The metal piece slipped.

He adapted. Didn't try to hold the piece in the air anymore. Braced the piece firmly against the table, using his own body weight and the wood's friction as an anchor. With the piece immobilized, he used his right hand for the fine work, unscrewing, cleaning.

It was slow. It was clumsy. Several times, tiny screws fell from his left hand when he tried to transfer them. But he was making progress.

Arthur worked silently beside him, never correcting him, never rushing him. Just working in parallel. Arthur's calm presence normalized Ilian's struggle, taking away any shame. It wasn't a failure, it was just a different process.

Night advanced. Richard closed the book. The sound of the cover hitting softly made Ilian look up, his hands now dirty with grease. Arthur was finishing his last piece of gear. George was still sleeping.

Richard stretched, speaking low so as not to wake his friend. "Ilian, it was a good day." He paused, tone casual, but look intentional. "Unlike last time, tomorrow we leave early. Right after breakfast, okay?"

Ilian just nodded to Richard. "Understood, Professor." Didn't question. Returned focus to the reel. He was focused, warmed by the fireplace, dirty with grease, and completely at peace.

"Good." Richard continued. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed." He looked at the two men concentrated at the table. "Good night, Arthur. Good night, Ilian."

Arthur grunted a "Night, Richard," without looking up.

Ilian looked up from the reel. "Good night, Professor."

Ilian's shield had disappeared. The room suddenly became quieter. Now, it was just the cabin sounds: rain on the roof, crackling fire. Ilian stopped his work for a second. Richard's absence was a vacuum.

He looked at Arthur.

Arthur wasn't watching him. He was 100% focused on his own task, wiping an oily rag on a metal piece, his movements methodical and calm.

The silence wasn't threatening. It was collaborative.

Ilian looked at the disassembled reel in front of him. The task wasn't finished yet. He didn't feel the need to flee. He lowered his head and returned focus to the stubborn gear on the table, his skillful right hand searching for a small slot. He didn't withdraw. He remained.

Richard hadn't closed the bedroom door, but had deliberately left it ajar, just a crack. Didn't turn on the light. Sat on the edge of the bed, in the dark, and waited.

He listened. His ears pricked up, expecting the inevitable sound: Ilian's chair dragging on the floor. The familiar sound of the cane hitting the wood, followed by the uneven rhythm of the young man's steps. Expected that Ilian, now that his "filter" had withdrawn, would flee to the safety of the bedroom.

What he heard was different.

The sound of rain on the roof. The soft crackling of fire in the fireplace. And, coming from the table, the metallic click, soft and methodical, of reel parts being handled.

A minute passed. Two. Five.

Ilian didn't come. He remained. He stayed alone with Arthur.

Richard sat in the dark, processing the magnitude of the act. Rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the deep tiredness of the day. His mind went back, inevitably, to the dock. To that extended hand.

He remembered the man he had met weeks ago. The "asset." The Ilian of the first meeting: a silent shadow who barely made eye contact, who recoiled at any sudden movement, who asked permission for basic acts. A man who panicked at being touched.

And now that same man was in the next room, voluntarily working on a complex mechanical task with Arthur, hours after initiating first voluntary physical contact.

Richard felt a wave of emotion, not just relief, but a paternal pride so intense his eyes stung in the dark. Exhausted, physically and emotionally, he finally lay down, pulling up the blanket. Fell asleep to the sound of rain and the distant, almost imperceptible sound of Ilian and Arthur working together in the living room.

Chapter 75: The Return and the Invitation

Sunday morning arrived cold and quiet. The sound of rain had stopped, replaced by a deep silence in the woods, the air heavy with humidity.

Ilian woke before the gray light turned yellow. The first sound was his own breathing in the cold room. He sat up, his body aching in a good way.

He went to the bathroom first for his morning routine. The routine was the anchor. Opened his pill case, the bitter ritual his body demanded to function. Swallowed the morning medication with a glass of water, the familiar chemical taste anchoring him in the present.

Only then did the day begin.

In the silence of his room, he dressed methodically. Packed his few things in the backpack. Lastly, he picked up the tackle box George had given him. He held it for a moment, the plastic cold and smooth. He packed it carefully in the side pocket along with Richard's box. Grabbed his dark green hat and adjusted it on his head. He was ready.

He left the room. The cabin smelled of strong coffee.

George was at the stove, preparing a round of coffee. Arthur was sitting at the table, silent, drinking his. Their energy was slow, lazy, the energy of a fishing Sunday that was just beginning.

"Good morning, Ilian! Sit down." George nodded towards the table. "Your eggs are almost ready."

Richard entered through the porch door, bringing the cold air with him. He had already packed most of the heavy equipment in the car, with Arthur's silent help.

"I still don't understand all this rush," George said, placing a steaming mug in front of Richard, who had sat at the table. "The sun's barely up! We're going to stay and fish a bit more."

"Commitments," Richard said, but the word sounded soft, resigned. He accepted the coffee. "But we have time for one last decent coffee."

The four men sat at the table in the soft morning light. The rain had stopped. Conversation was easy. Richard and George talked about the river current, about the weather. Ilian, as always, was quiet and calm, absorbing. He wasn't an intruder anymore, he was part of the group's comfortable silence.

Finally, after a second mug of coffee, Richard looked at the wall clock. He sighed, an audible sound.

"Well, now seriously. We need to go."

The energy shifted. Calm dissipated, replaced by departure logistics. Richard and Ilian stood up and started taking their mugs to the sink.

"Whoa, whoa!" George said, raising a hand, not moving from his chair. "Leave that there. Arthur and I will take care of it later."

Richard hesitated, the cleaning instinct speaking louder.

"Go on," George insisted, with a smile. "You have a long drive."

Ilian, standing midway with his mug in hand, looked at Richard. Richard nodded, relaxing. "Thanks, George."

Ilian just placed the mug on the sink and thanked him.

Richard put on his coat. Ilian grabbed his backpack.

The farewell was on the porch. George and Arthur came out with them into the cold morning air.

"I'm already looking forward to the next trip. We have to see you catch a real fish," George said, looking at Ilian.

Arthur, who had finished cleaning Ilian's reel the night before, just looked at him and gave a brief nod. It was a gesture of mutual respect, an acknowledgment of the shared task.

Richard was already heading to the car. Ilian, however, stopped. He turned to George and Arthur.

"Thank you... for everything," he said. He paused, and then, the words coming out spontaneously, surprising even himself: "I would like to come back. Soon."

George broke into a wide smile, genuinely pleased. "You bet, we'll hold Richard to it! And don't forget what I said about those lures."

Ilian nodded. Descended the porch ramp. The movement was now familiar. Got into the car where Richard was already waiting.

The sound of the car door slamming was muffled but final. The silence inside the vehicle was an immediate contrast to the noisy morning. Ilian settled into the seat and pulled the seatbelt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding loud in the quiet.

Beside him, Richard looked at the cabin one last time. On the porch, George raised a hand in a final wave.

Richard started driving. The soft sound of tires on wet gravel was the only noise. They left the forest path behind, and the car entered the paved road. The sound changed, becoming the constant, smooth hum of asphalt.

As the car glided down the road, Ilian was calm. Looking out the window, watching the green, rain-soaked landscape pass by. He was processing. Replaying the weekend's sensations: the weight of the rod in his hand. The smell of grease on his fingers. The crackling of the fireplace. The sound of rain. And, above all, Richard's handshake. He was anchored.

Richard, beside him, was quiet. A satisfied tiredness, the tiredness of a successful weekend, was stamped on his face. The silence between them wasn't the anxious void of the trip to the agency, it was a shared, comfortable silence.

After an hour of quiet driving, Richard signaled and took the exit for the usual café. The place looked the same as on the first trip, but Ilian's anxiety wasn't there.

"Need to use the bathroom," Richard said simply, parking the car.

They didn't eat. The stop was functional. Ilian used the bathroom and waited near the door, watching the calm movement of the place. Richard went to the counter. Ilian watched him pay for two small brown paper bags.

"Cookies," Richard explained when they came out, the smell of fresh coffee in the air. "For Helena and Elara. They love the cookies from here."

Back in the car, the journey resumed, peaceful, the easy rhythm of a Sunday morning.

When the dashboard clock read 10:57, Richard was slowing down, calmly entering the gravel driveway of the guest house.

Ilian got out, grabbing his cane. Richard took Ilian's backpack from the back seat, the extra weight of the tackle box making it heavier. Handed the backpack to Ilian, and before he could turn to leave, Richard spoke, his voice calm but with a warmth that seemed to be a continuation of the weekend.

"Ilian, rest. It was a long weekend." He paused. "Helena and I would like you to come have dinner with us tonight." The invitation sounded natural, weightless. "At seven, is that okay?"

"Yes, Professor. Thank you."

Richard smiled, a genuine smile of satisfaction. "Great."

Ilian stood for a moment on the path, the backpack weighing on his shoulder. The dinner invitation echoed in his mind. The property's stillness seemed different now. He turned and opened the guest house door. Entered and closed it. With a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of his lungs, he took the backpack off his shoulders and let it drop onto the sofa. It wasn't a gesture of exhaustion, it was satisfaction.

He took a long shower, the hot water comforting. Returned to the main room. Sunday sun streamed through the window. The stillness was total.

Silence filled the house. Hunger, a simple physical sensation, recalled him to his routine. He went to the kitchen, finding the fridge stocked as always, and heated a pre-made meal. The microwave's hum was the only sound in the house.

He sat at the small kitchen table and ate in silence. The food was functional, tasteless. The contrast with the shared lunch of the previous day. Only after washing the plate, the sense of duty fulfilled, did he feel ready to process the weekend. Went to the sofa. Pulled his personal diary from the hiding place.

Opened to a new page and tried to describe the feeling. But words seemed too big. Ended up writing just fragments, impressions: Water. Wood. Fire.

They were just nouns. They were insufficient. Missing the logic, the structure of what he felt. Words failed to capture the sensation of silent camaraderie from the night before. So he picked up the pencil. His hand, steady, began to draw. Didn't draw a river. Didn't draw a fireplace.

He drew the reel. He drew from memory the internal mechanism he and Arthur had cleaned. The small gears meshing, the bearings. He drew the "Silent Gear."

For Ilian, the engineer, the greatest proof of trust wasn't an abstract emotion. It was the act of Arthur handing him a complex machine and trusting he would understand it. The silence. The shared task.

He drew for almost an hour, losing himself in the lines, the shading of the metal. Then put the pencil aside. Looked at the drawing. Felt calm. Processed.

Emotion had been cataloged. Now, there was work to be done.

He put the notebook back in its hiding place. Sunday afternoon still stretched out. Went to the work desk and dove into the Project Argus data.

He worked for several hours. The afternoon sun descended, the light in the room shifting from gold to orange and, finally, to a blue-gray. He was focused, analyzing the data from the last meeting, silently implementing the negative delay logic he had noted for Richard.

When he looked at the clock, it was almost six.

A deep, satisfied tiredness hit him. The weekend's tiredness, combined with the mental fatigue of focused work. He got up and went to the sofa. Lay down and closed his eyes. Didn't sleep. Just rested, in the quiet, waiting for dinner time.

At seven o'clock, twilight had turned into night. Ilian got up. Put on his shoes, grabbed his cane, and left the guest house.

Walked across the lawn slowly. The main house was lit up. Headed to his usual path: the kitchen door.

It was the path he always used. It was the site of his difficulty, where the steps seemed like a small mountain to him. The kitchen light was on, spilling a yellow glow onto the patio.

He approached. And stopped.

His brain froze, unable to process the visual data.

The steps were not there.

Where once there was the obstacle, the barrier separating him from the high threshold of the door, now there was nothing. Just a path.

It wasn't a wooden ramp, like at the cabin. This was different. It was an elegant, smooth structure, made of masonry and stone that matched the patio perfectly, as if it had always been part of the house's architecture. The incline was gentle, almost imperceptible, descending in a soft curve to the patio level. Beside it, a brushed metal handrail gleamed under the porch light, offering silent support.

Ilian stood still, body rigid, cane planted in the ground. His chest tightened. He couldn't breathe.

Richard and Helena had altered the structure of their own house.

The magnitude of the gesture hit him, not as a thought, but as a physical wave. The planning. The workers. The dust. The cost. The heavy work, all done in secret while they were away fishing. The secret Richard had kept.

He didn't feel happiness. The emotion was too big, too heavy. He felt a deep shock, a wave of something so overwhelming it made his eyes sting in the cold night air.

This wasn't an invitation to dinner. This was an invitation to belong.

He couldn't stand there forever. They had invited him, and he needed to respond to the gesture. Taking a deep breath, cold air filling his lungs, he forced his leg to move. The first step. He placed his shoe at the base of the ramp and raised his left hand. The brushed metal handrail was cold under his palm, colder than the cabin wood, but incredibly solid.

The angle was perfect. His knee didn't complain, and the cane found firm traction. The movement was smooth, fluid, almost effortless, the feeling of an obstacle, of a daily failure, simply vanishing. He reached the top, standing on the landing at the kitchen door threshold. On the same level.

He stopped, his whole body trembling, not from cold, but from contained emotion. He stood at the door, where warm kitchen light shone through the glass and the muffled sound of voices drifted out. Waiting a little longer for his breathing to calm, he raised his right hand and knocked. Three short, muffled raps. The sound echoed in the night's stillness.

He waited.

He heard footsteps approaching the door, light, quick steps that were clearly not Richard's. Then came the sound of the lock turning, a soft metallic click, and the door opened.

It was Helena. She stood there on the threshold, framed by the warm kitchen light, drying her hands on a dish towel. Helena looked at him. Her face wasn't calm. She was visibly emotional, a smile on her lips. Before Ilian could formulate a single word, she spoke, voice choked.

"Ilian..."

She took a step forward onto the ramp landing and made a small gesture with her free hand, a gesture encompassing the new stone structure. "We... Richard and I... we wanted it to be easier." She looked him in the eyes, and pure emotion overflowed, hitting him with a force he wasn't prepared to withstand. "We want you to come always, dear. Anytime. I wanted you to know this door is always open for you."

It was a second blow.

The structure was the shock of logic, of engineering. Her words were the shock of the heart. Always. Anytime. It was an acceptance so total, so verbalized, that his chest tightened, air getting stuck in his throat. He could barely breathe. His own eyes stinging, betrayed by emotion.

He lowered his gaze to the stone ramp, tracing its outline with his eyes in the porch light. Needed to say something. Needed her to understand he saw what she had done. Raised his eyes again. His voice was low, hoarse, almost broken by the emotion he tried to control.

"Mrs. Anderson..." he began, stopping to find air. "This..." He gestured briefly to the ramp, hand trembling. "This... meant a lot to me."

The statement was simple. Factual. And, coming from him, it was a devastating confession.

Helena, hearing the weight behind those simple words, felt the knot in her own throat tighten. He didn't just see a ramp, he saw the meaning.

"I know, dear," she said, voice incredibly gentle. "I know."

Seeing he was at his absolute limit, her maternal instinct took over, and she saved him. She sniffled, drying her eyes quickly on the dish towel she held, and took a step back, retreating into the kitchen and opening the door fully.

"Come in," she said, voice firmer now, but still full of warmth. "It's cold out there. Dinner is almost ready."

She stepped aside, giving him space. Ilian took a deep breath, a shaky inhale. Moved his cane. The sound of the rubber tip hitting the light stone of the landing. He took the step. Crossed the threshold. The house's warmth enveloped him like a blanket.

He saw Richard, further back, near the stove. The professor said nothing, he just watched, face a mask of pure anxiety and deep relief. At the kitchen table, already set, Elara was sitting, eyes big and curious, watching him in silence.

No one spoke. Helena didn't rush him with more words. She, and Richard, and even Elara, seemed to understand. They respected the silence. They understood, without him needing to say it, the weight of that moment.

With a gentle gesture, breaking the stillness, Helena walked to the table and pulled out the chair opposite Elara. A silent invitation. Ilian moved, steps slow, body still tense with emotion. He rounded the table and sat in the chair she had indicated.

He was sitting. At the table. With them.

It was Richard who finally broke the silence. His voice was purposefully calm, normal, a balm for the emotion.

"Well..." he said, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. "I think we can start."

Helena put the roast chicken on the table. Dinner began. The tension of arrival dissipated slowly, replaced by the sound of cutlery and calm conversation. Richard, sensing Ilian needed space to process the emotion, began telling Helena and Elara about the weekend.

He didn't talk about the handshake. He talked about safe things: George's impatience, the rain the night before, how disappointed George was that Richard caught a fish before him.

Ilian ate. The food was delicious. He was more relaxed than he had ever been in that house. He was warm, fed, and the sound of Richard's voice was a comfortable background noise. There was a pause in conversation.

Ilian spoke, voice low but clear. "I... I helped Mr. Arthur. Last night."

Helena and Elara looked at him. Richard stopped eating, surprised and visibly pleased.

"Really?" Helena asked softly.

"We were cleaning the gear," he explained, looking up, seeing he had their attention. "The reels." He thought of the grease, the metal, the silent task. "I saw how the mechanism works. The gears. It is very precise."

He didn't mention his struggle with his hands, only the task.

Elara, curious, asked: "Is it complicated?"

Ilian shook his head. "No, it is just logical."

Richard smiled at Helena, a smile of pure victory. Ilian's integration was complete. The conversation continued, easier now.

When dinner ended, conversation continued quietly. Ilian felt exhausted, the weight of all the day's emotion finally settling in. Knew it was time to go. Prepared to get up, grabbing his cane, and stopped, remembering something. Turned to Helena, who was collecting plates.

"Mrs. Anderson..."

She stopped. "Yes, Ilian?"

"My plant. The amaryllis. I left it with you."

"Yes, I took very good care of it. Elara, please bring the amaryllis, honey."

Elara went to the hallway and returned with the plant.

"It's almost open! The red is much bigger!" she said, holding out the plant for him to see.

Ilian leaned in to observe. It was true. What was just a narrow crack on Wednesday, a glimpse of red, was now much more torn, green petals separating to reveal the flower inside. Dark, velvety red emerged with force. In another two, maybe three days, it would be fully open.

He looked at the plant, and then at the dark ramp outside. There was a logistical problem. He needed his left hand for the handrail and his right for the cane.

"Let me help," Richard said immediately, realizing the impasse. He took the pot from Elara's hands. "I'll carry it for you."

"Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Anderson. Elara."

"Come back anytime, Ilian," Helena said, voice full of warmth. "The door is always open."

Ilian went to the door and stepped out onto the ramp landing. Night air was cold on his warm face. Descended the new ramp, left hand on the metal rail, right on the cane. The movement was secure, autonomous. Richard followed right behind carrying the plant carefully.

There, in the dark patio, Richard spoke, voice calm. "Get some rest, Ilian." He paused. "I'll come by your house tomorrow. Around 3 PM. We can work a bit on Argus." Richard handed him the pot.

Ilian, standing in the dark, holding his plant pressed against his left forearm, looked at Richard's silhouette against the kitchen light.

"Yes, Professor. I will be waiting." Ilian turned and walked slowly across the wet grass, the path back to his own house, balancing the weight of the cane on his wrist and the weight of the plant on his arm, taking the amaryllis with him.

Unlocked the door, maneuvering pot and cane, and entered the house. Closed the door, and silence enveloped him. Placed the amaryllis on the small table near the window. The day was complete.

Chapter 76: The Retreat

Ilian fell asleep in the guest house. Sleep came fast, heavy, rocked by the physical tiredness of the trip and the overwhelming emotional exhaustion of the day. The image of the ramp, the smell of food in the kitchen, the warmth of the dinner... everything led him to a state of relaxation he hadn't felt in years, maybe never.

He slept dressed in normal clothes as he always had, since he was twelve. The armor was in place. Dark trousers. A clean T- shirt. Socks. Only his shoes were on the floor, aligned next to the bed, ready to be put on. It was the uniform of survival, a habit etched into his nervous system. A prisoner is always ready for transfer.

Sleep deepened. The newfound safety dissolved. The weekend's vulnerability, the handshake, accepting the ramp, the family dinner, was registered by his primitive brain not as healing, but as a tactical error. A dangerous lapse in defense.

Restlessness came. There were only sensations. The chemical smell of cleaning product, strong enough to burn his nostrils. The sound of heavy boots on polished concrete, echoing in a dark corridor. The sensation of cold, smooth metal against the skin of his back. And the brutal, crushing weight of a combat boot’s sole pressing down on the center of his chest, pinning him to the floor, preventing any movement while the world spun.

And then the sound. A deafening noise coming from above, as if the roof itself were vibrating, about to be ripped off. The deep, pulsating sound of helicopter blades, vibrating in his chest, mixing with the chaos.

And then, the pain. Not a memory, but a physical, explosive sensation. The sharp, crushing pain in his left hand. The sound of his own bones breaking, again, and again.

It was two in the morning. He woke with a gasp of air that tore the silence of the room. Sat up abruptly, heart racing, a tachycardia so violent it made him dizzy. He was drenched in cold sweat. His shirt and trousers stuck to his skin, the damp fabric chilling rapidly in the still air of the room.

Throat dry. He looked frantically around, eyes wild, expecting to see the walls of a cell. He saw the weak moonlight coming through the guest house window.

He was safe.

But the terror didn't diminish. Panic was a chemical reaction flooding his system, indifferent to reality.

He swung his legs out of bed. His damp, cold clothes stuck to his thighs. He hunched over, putting his head between his knees, trying to breathe. Nausea hit him, the familiar symptom of his panic. The nightmare didn't come despite the good day. It came because of it. Because he relaxed. Because he trusted. Because he accepted the ramp, the dinner, the handshake. Because he lowered his guard.

Kessler's lesson: Relaxing is dangerous. Trust is a weapon used against you.

He knew he wouldn't sleep anymore. The bed was now the site of terror.

Trembling, he stood up. The floor was cold under his feet. Went to the bathroom, moving like an automaton. Took off the sweat-soaked clothes, throwing them on the bathroom floor. Put on a similar set. A small act of control over a body that had betrayed him.

He washed his face with cold water at the sink, again and again, the shock of the freezing water anchoring him in the present. His hands shook. Went to the living room. His gaze found the amaryllis on the small table, a dark silhouette. The flower, symbol of healing and Helena's promise, seemed like a cruel lie in the darkness.

He needed order. Needed logic. Went to the work desk. Turned on the agency computer. The screen came to life, cold blue light illuminating his pale face.

Opened the Project Argus files. Complex graphs, satellite images, raw data. He just looked, absorbing the visual information. Then, opened his work notebooks filled with thousands of lines of his precise handwriting, trained to exhaustion by Kessler.

Picked up his fine-point pencil.

The only sound in the guest house at three in the morning was the rhythmic, controlled, almost silent sound of graphite on high-quality paper. He dove into calculations. The sound of his perfect handwriting, letters and numbers that looked printed, filling the page. Pure logic and the order of his own hand against the chaos of his mind.

The gray light of Monday morning entered through the window, pale. It found Ilian exactly where he had been since the early hours: sitting at the work desk.

He was exhausted, but operating at a level of sharp, logical focus that the nightmare had forged. Nausea was still there, a cold, familiar knot in his stomach, but it was controlled. The table in front of him was covered in sheets of paper, filled with Project Argus calculations.

During the early hours, when he had gotten up to drink water, he noticed. The sink. Richard's handkerchief, which he had left there, defeated, on Thursday, was no longer there. He had been processing this information since then.

At nine in the morning, the doorbell rang.

Ilian opened it. David and Ben, the physical therapists, entered. The session began. It was supposed to be recovery, but for Ilian, today, it was punishment. He was exhausted, but his mind was sharpened by the anger and terror of the night. He channeled the remaining adrenaline from the nightmare, the helpless frustration over the missing handkerchief, and poured it all into physical pain.

He pushed his body with fierce control. Where David expected resistance due to fatigue, he found rigid, almost violent discipline. David, observing Ilian's precision, the tremor of exhaustion in his muscles being dominated by pure will, was impressed.

"Your focus is excellent today, Mr. Jansen," he said, voice clinical but genuinely surprised, measuring the angle of Ilian's knee. "Remarkable muscle control."

Ilian didn't answer. Just breathed against the pain, sweat dripping from his face onto the floor.

When the session ended, David and Ben left. Ilian stood drenched in sweat from the effort, visibly trembling. Leaned heavily on his cane.

He heard the sound of boxes closing. Walked to the main room. Harris and his team were finishing, packing away their supplies. Harris was near the front door, checking something on his tablet, ready to leave.

Ilian moved, intercepting him before he could escape. His voice came out hoarse, tired from the exhaustion of therapy.

"Mr. Harris." Harris stopped, hand hovering over the doorknob. He looked up, impatience visible on his face. "The handkerchief," Ilian said. His voice was low, but cutting, controlled. "There was a cloth handkerchief in the kitchen sink. I left it there on Thursday."

Harris didn't even blink. He didn't need to consult the tablet. He already knew.

"Correct," he said, voice perfectly clinical, monochromatic. "It was logged by the sanitation team on Friday." He looked up, meeting Ilian's gaze. "A linen item, contaminated with biological fluids. It was discarded according to protocol."

Harris left. The door closed with a soft click, sealing the silence.

Chapter 77: The Cost

Ilian stood in the middle of the room, the tremor in his legs now uncontrollable.

Discarded.

The word echoed. It wasn't just a handkerchief. It was Richard's gesture of care at the meeting. It was his own failed attempt to clean it, his failure to fix it. And the handkerchief wasn't his. This realization hit him with a new wave of panic, colder and more practical. It wasn't his. It was Richard's. An expensive linen handkerchief, a personal item he had destroyed.

How would he return it?

Helpless anger gave way to a deep, bitter shame. He couldn't just apologize. Restitution was required. But he had no way to replace it. He had no money. The agency hadn't just violated him, it had made him a debtor, unable to fix what he broke.

Helpless anger, the shame of debt. He needed to "get even." The phrase transported him.

He was twelve years old. The German military base. Kessler's impeccable office, smelling of expensive coffee. Kessler was at his desk. Next to his hand was his personal mechanical stopwatch. A high-precision German instrument he used to time Ilian's tests. A symbol of his obsession with efficiency.

"Step forward, Jansen," Kessler said, without looking up.

Ilian moved, anxious. In the tight office space, his right leg, his birth defect, dragged, catching on the leg of Kessler's steel chair. He stumbled, losing his balance. His body lurched forward. He tried to brace himself on the desk, but his hand hit the stopwatch.

The heavy metal instrument slid across the polished surface and fell to the floor. There was no shattering of glass, but a dull thud. The sound of internal gears coming loose.

Absolute silence.

Kessler slowly raised his eyes. He didn't look at Ilian. He looked at the "inefficient" leg that caused the stumble. He bent down, picked up the stopwatch. It was destroyed. He placed it back on the desk.

"An accident, Jansen," Kessler's cold voice said. "It is merely a failure in your function. But failures have costs. A cost must be paid."

Touching the broken stopwatch, Kessler spoke. "This was a personal item. This is our agreement: You break something, you pay. With your time. With your work. Thus, we remain efficient. We do not waste."

Forced to work 36 hours straight without sleep, Ilian solved a cryptography problem. The lesson was learned: Debts are paid with work. Especially for personal items.

Trembling in the guest house, he returned to the present. The memory solidified. Payment for Richard's personal handkerchief was required. The wall clock read 10:44 AM. Since he couldn't pay with money, he had to use the only currency he possessed: his work on Argus.

Opening his Argus calculations, he pinpointed the flaws immediately. System errors, data collection inefficiencies, slow algorithms he had observed weeks ago and kept silent about. They were his ace in the hole, his intellectual insurance policy, his silent power.

For four hours straight, he worked feverishly, driven by the manic logic of "settling the debt."

The output wasn't just volume, it was high-level optimization. Fueled by cold, self-destructive rage, he began writing solutions. Methodically, he corrected every error he had observed, improving the performance of the entire infrastructure, rewriting sampling items to increase speed and accuracy.

Piles of paper filled with his perfect handwriting, detailing the corrections and the math behind them. It was his payment. It would be the foundation of what he would deliver to Richard today, and the proof of "cooperation" he would present to Finch and the team at the next meeting.

Lunch was skipped. Morning nausea and the manic logic of debt canceled out hunger. Work continued, driven by the echo of Kessler's voice: A cost must be paid.

At 3:00 PM sharp, there was a knock on the door. Ilian didn't hear it. He was elsewhere. His mind was in the flow of numbers, in the pure order of mathematics.

A second knock, harder. Richard opened the door and entered. "Ilian?"

Silence was the only answer.

The first thing Richard noticed was the sound: a fast, rhythmic, almost violent scratching. The sound of graphite being forced against paper.

Ilian was at the work desk. Richard could see the tension in his shoulders. The desk was covered in piles and piles of paper, much more than usual. And several worn-down pencils on the table.

Richard approached, alarm starting to rise in his throat. He could see Ilian's pale face, jaw clenched in absolute focus. He hadn't noticed Richard entering.

"Ilian?" Richard said softly.

Ilian didn't stop. The sound of the pencil continued, fast, precise.

Richard moved closer, now beside the desk. "Ilian!"

Ilian stopped.

The hand froze mid-equation. He turned, not all at once, but slowly, like a man waking from a deep sleep. His eyes, previously fixed on the page, took a second to focus on Richard. Blinked, twice, disoriented. His gaze went to the window, seeing the afternoon light, and then to the wall clock.

"Professor?" His voice was hoarse, dry from disuse. "Is it 3 PM already?"

"Yes," Richard said, voice laden with worry. "Ilian, what happened?"

"Mr. Harris was here," he said, voice empty, emotionless. He turned back to the desk, not to Richard. "The handkerchief was discarded."

Richard frowned, confused, trying to remember. "What? The meeting handkerchief? Ilian, don't worry about that, it's just a..."

"A cost must be paid." His voice was icy, a perfect echo of Kessler. He pushed the piles of Argus work to the center of the table.

"I worked. Since 10:44. I need to pay for your handkerchief."

Richard looked at the piles of paper, horrified. "Pay? Ilian... you don't owe me anything. You don't need to pay."

Ilian finally looked up. His eyes were dead, empty of the weekend's light and trust.

"No," he said. "I have not paid." He gestured to the piles of work. "I have started to pay."

Richard felt a chill down his spine. "What... what do you mean, 'started to pay'?"

Ilian looked at Richard as if he were slow. The logic was simple. "A damaged or lost personal item is paid with thirty-six hours of work." He looked at the wall clock. "I only did four. Thirty-two remain."

Richard stood paralyzed. Horror hit him. Thirty-six hours. Ilian wasn't just upset about the handkerchief, he was trapped in a trauma, executing a punishment protocol that only existed in his head. He intended to work all night, and the next day.

"Ilian..." Richard began, voice weak. "This isn't... Kessler isn't here. You don't owe anyone anything."

"I need to finish the work, Professor." He turned back to the desk, picking up the pencil.

The sound of the pencil restarted, frantic but perfectly organized. Richard looked at the mountain of work, the manic "payment," and realized, horrified, that Kessler's brainwashing wasn't just in command, it was executing a sentence.

Richard stood there, paralyzed for a moment. He couldn't argue with a ghost's logic. Silently, he pulled up a chair and sat across from Ilian, not as a colleague, but as a helpless witness.

He sat there, watching the broken man in front of him work to pay a debt that didn't exist. He didn't understand the logic of the punishment, but he understood it was a punishment. He saw the trance: the glazed eyes, the way Ilian didn't respond to his presence. He knew this was trauma in action.

He waited almost thirty minutes. The sound of graphite was the only noise in the room.

Richard needed proof. Needed to know how deep the trance was. He got up, went to the kitchen, and filled a glass with water. Placed it on the table.

"Ilian," he said, voice calm. "Drink the water."

The pencil stopped.

Ilian's right hand, like a robot, dropped the pencil. Picked up the glass. Brought it to his lips. Drank all the water, mechanically, in one go. Placed the glass back in the exact spot. Picked up the pencil and restarted instantly. Richard felt a chill. Ilian was there, but he wasn't. He couldn't let this continue. Decided to use the only logic Ilian seemed to be following: the debt.

Richard didn't sit down. He stood beside the table.

"Ilian. Stop."

The pencil stopped. Ilian didn't look at him, but his right hand gripped the pencil so hard his knuckles turned white.

"I need to pay," his voice was monotone, emotionless.

"The handkerchief was mine," Richard said, voice firm, authoritative, but not cruel. "It wasn't Kessler's. It wasn't Orlov's. It was mine." Ilian froze. This was a new variable. The equation was wrong. "I am the creditor," Richard continued, taking ownership of the twisted logic. "I define the payment protocol. I define the price."

Richard picked up the pile of work Ilian had already completed, the Argus optimizations, pages and pages of them. He held it up.

"The value of this," Richard said, "is the payment. The price is paid. I declare the debt settled. We are even."

He used the keyword. "We are even."

Ilian heard the word. Even. Kessler's permission to stop.

The pencil didn't fall. Ilian deliberately placed it on the sheets of paper, aligning it perfectly with the edge. The tension in his shoulders vanished at once. He let out a long, deep sigh, a shaky sound, as if he had been holding his breath for four hours. Pushed the chair back. Didn't look at Richard. Stood up, grabbed the cane, walked the few steps to the sofa, and lay down.

In less than a minute, he was deeply asleep.

Richard was stunned by the instant "shutdown." He went to the sofa, watching him. His breathing was deep, regular, the breathing of pure exhaustion. Terrified and deeply curious, Richard returned to the work desk. Picked up the sheets Ilian had produced. Began to read.

He was shocked. It wasn't meaningless work, it wasn't repetition. It was optimizations. Brilliant ones. Solutions to data latency problems Finch and the team had been trying to solve for months. He understood that Ilian's "payment" was real, a sacrifice of his own intellect.

He sighed, sitting in the chair, watching the young man sleep, processing the depth of the trauma he had just witnessed. He stayed there for over an hour. The afternoon sun began to lower, filling the room with orange light.

At 4:49 PM, Ilian stirred on the sofa. Woke up, not with a start, but with deep, foggy confusion. Blinked heavy eyes and sat up slowly. Saw the room, bathed in afternoon light. Saw Richard, sitting in the chair, watching him. Saw the table, covered in his papers.

"Professor?" His voice was weak, hoarse from sleep and disuse. "What... what time is it?"

"It's almost five," Richard said calmly, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. "You slept a little."

Ilian looked at the table. "I... I remember Harris. The handkerchief." Looked at the piles of paper, confused. "Did I... work?" He had no clear memory of the feverish trance, just a foggy hole.

"Yes," Richard replied simply. "You worked. But as I said, the debt is paid. Don't worry about it anymore."

Richard stood up, changing the subject, breaking the tension. "Are you hungry?"

Ilian, feeling drained and empty, realized the hole in his stomach. The trance had depleted him.

"Yes."

"Great," Richard said, relief flooding his voice. "I'll prepare something."

The Kessler Protocol had been disarmed. The Richard Protocol was back in command.

In the kitchen, he moved with silent efficiency. Ilian remained sitting on the sofa, quiet, listening to the domestic sounds: the fridge opening, a plate being placed on the counter, the microwave click.

Richard didn't prepare just one meal. He prepared two. Called Ilian to the kitchen table. It was an act of normalization. A gesture saying they were, simply, sharing a late meal.

"Eat, Ilian."

They ate in silence. Not the comfortable, lazy silence of the cabin. It was a fragile, post-trauma silence. Focus was only on physical need. Ilian ate methodically, the food anchoring him, his exhausted body absorbing the fuel.

When he finished, he felt a little more present. The fog of dissociation was lifting but leaving him with a feeling of emptiness. It was time for his medication. He got up and went to the counter where his pill organizer was. Opened the plastic case.

He stopped. Looked at the small compartment marked "12:00". The pills were still there. Looked back at Richard. There was no panic on his face, just deep, logical confusion. A hole in time. He had no memory of choosing not to take them, he simply wasn't there.

"Professor," his voice was low, "I... I did not take the noon dose. I do not... remember."

Richard showed no alarm. Just nodded, voice calm and firm, absolving him of the failure. "It's alright, Ilian. It happens. Just take the dose now. No problem."

Ilian nodded, accepting the simple explanation. Took the medication, closed the case. The protocol was complete.

He was visibly exhausted; the trance had completely depleted him. Moved slowly to the bathroom and then returned, sitting on the sofa. Richard, seeing Ilian was exhausted but no longer in danger, knew he couldn't leave. Not yet. Needed to stand guard.

He went to the small bookshelf, picked up a technical book, and returned to the armchair near the sofa. Sitting like a silent sentry.

Night began to fall. The sun set, and the room darkened, lit only by the yellowish lamps.

Silence deepened.

The only sound in the guest house was the occasional turning of a page by Richard. Ilian remained on the sofa, eyes closed, finally processing, unloading. He wasn't sleeping, just existing in a state of safe repose. Richard's presence in the chair was an anchor, keeping nightmares away.

Around seven in the evening, Ilian finally stirred. Broke the silence. His voice was tired, but it was his.

"Professor?"

Richard looked up from the book instantly. "Yes, Ilian."

"Tomorrow's meeting." Ilian's voice was logical, focused on the future. "With Dr. Finch. Is it confirmed?"

Richard closed the book. Relief on his face was immense. Ilian's mind was back, in the present. "Yes. It is confirmed. He will come at two in the afternoon."

Ilian nodded, satisfied. "I am tired." He paused, and a minimal trace of humor, the first light after the storm, appeared in his voice. "I think I will sleep. And you better go, before Mrs. Anderson comes to drag you to dinner by force."

Richard smiled, a genuine, exhausted smile. The little joke was the sign that the crisis had, in fact, passed.

"You're right," he said, getting up from the armchair. Put the book back on the shelf. "Good night, Ilian. Rest. For real, this time."

"Good night, Professor."

Richard left. Ilian heard the soft click of the door closing. He was alone. Exhausted, but normal.

He was too tired to go to the bedroom. Just settled on the sofa, pulling the blanket from the backrest. Fell asleep almost instantly.

Chapter 78: The Elegant Work

Ilian woke up on the sofa. His body was heavy, the muscles in his neck and back stiff from sleeping in the wrong position. The Tuesday morning light entered pale through the window. The fever of the Kessler trance, the manic rage, had disappeared. All that remained was a deep exhaustion and the confused fog of lost time.

He stood up, leaning on his cane. Routine was the anchor.

He went to the bathroom. Took his medication. Then returned to the kitchen and methodically prepared his breakfast: unsalted eggs. He was focused on forcing normalcy back, on imposing order on the chaos he barely remembered.

He was finishing eating when he heard a knock on the door. It was 7:33 AM. Too early.

Richard opened the door and entered. Ilian looked at him, surprised. Richard looked terrible. His eyes were red, bloodshot. Clearly hadn't slept well.

Richard wasn't there to work, he was there to inspect. His eyes swept over Ilian, from head to toe, frantically searching for signs of the automaton from the previous day. The role reversal was noted. Ilian was calm. Richard was anxious.

"Professor?" Ilian's voice was low, hoarse. "Are you alright?"

The question seemed to surprise Richard. "Yes, Ilian. Good morning. I just... I just wanted to see how you were." The excuse was weak.

"I am fine, Professor," he said calmly. Pointed to the almost empty plate. "I am finishing breakfast. Then I will go to the trail."

"The trail," Richard repeated, voice a bit tense. "Right. Just... be careful. You had an intense weekend and yesterday's therapy was heavy. Don't overdo it. And stay... stay close. Where we know it's safe."

Ilian watched him for a moment, noticing the professor's obvious anxiety. He interpreted it exactly as Richard intended: a medical concern for his physical fatigue. He nodded, to calm Richard.

"I will only go to the log in the clearing," he said, voice reassuring. "Do not worry."

The message was clear: Yesterday's protocol is over. Today's routine has begun.

Richard, seeing that Ilian was truly present, that his eyes were focused, that he was in control of his routine, finally let out the breath he seemed to have been holding since the day before.

"Right," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Good. Excellent." He backed toward the door. "I'm going... I'm going to the university. I'll be back around 2:00, just before Dr. Finch."

"I will be waiting. Have a good work."

Richard left, visibly relieved.

Alone, Ilian cleaned the kitchen. Then, grabbed the cane and went out into the cold morning air. Went to the trail. He just walked, his usual shuffling pace, the cold air on his face. Went to the fallen log and sat down. Thought about the strangeness of Richard's visit. The anxiety in the professor's eyes.

He returned to the guest house around ten. Had hours before the meeting. Went to the work desk. And stopped. The piles of paper.

He sat down. With a sense of strangeness, picked up the first sheet. Looked at the work. Didn't remember writing it. Remembered physical therapy, speaking to Harris, the discarded handkerchief, the cold rage, and then, a blur. A gray hole.

He only remembered waking up on the sofa with Richard watching him.

He began reading the papers. Page after page, his own handwriting. Recognized the math. It was his work. They were the optimizations he had been silently keeping to himself.

A shiver ran through him. It happened again.

This had happened other times throughout his life. Moments of complete forgetting. He would wake up exhausted, with the feeling of having done something he couldn't remember. He didn't panic. The logic was impeccable. The work was done. It was high quality. Therefore, he would use it.

What left a bitter taste in his mouth was the memory of Richard's visit in the morning. The anxiety in the professor's eyes. What had he said to Richard? What had he done to scare him? He only hoped he hadn't said anything. Hoped Richard's anxiety was just... care.

He breathed deeply, pushing the fear to the back of his mind. Couldn't fix what he didn't remember. The work was there. He organized the piles of paper, preparing them for the meeting.

He ate his solitary, functional lunch. Then, picked up a book and sat on the sofa to read, calmly waiting for the 2:00 PM meeting.

At 1:50 PM, Richard arrived. He was much calmer now, dressed professionally. His eyes went immediately to the work desk, it was devoid of the paper piles, it was tidy.

Just past two in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was Dr. Finch. He entered, nodded briefly to Richard, but his eyes went straight to Ilian. As on the first visit, Finch wasted no time with social chatter.

"Ilian. Good to see you," Finch said, going straight to the work desk. "I'm stuck in a recognition protocol." He opened his briefcase, taking out Ilian's notes from the previous meeting.

"The negative delay," Finch said bluntly. "I can't implement it. It's corrupting the data as soon as I apply the filter."

They sat at the table. Ilian, seeing Finch's equation, picked up a pencil and a fresh sheet of paper.

"You are filtering at the wrong point," he said, voice calm. He was in his element. "Phase drift is a symptom, not the cause."

For thirty minutes, it was just pure science. Finch and Ilian scribbled equations on sheets of paper. It wasn't a meeting; it was a collaboration. The sound of Ilian's pencil was calm, methodical.

"If you filter the noise before matrix integration..." Ilian drew the diagram.

Richard watched, deeply relieved. This was the healthy interaction he had hoped for. This was the real Ilian, not Kessler's automaton.

When the meeting ended, Finch thanked them. "Richard. Ilian. Excellent. See you on Thursday." He nodded, already mentally back in his lab, said goodbye, and left.

Richard closed the door behind him. The guest house fell silent. He looked at Ilian, who was calmly organizing his pencils. He was immensely relieved.

Ilian, satisfied with the intellectual exchange, looked at the door through which Finch had left.

"Dr. Finch is focused," he said, in a low voice. "I like him."

Richard smiled. A genuine, but tired smile. "He likes you too, Ilian."

Richard's gaze then moved from the door to the work desk, which was now clean except for the pencil. The box containing the piles of work from the previous day was beside Ilian's chair, out of sight, but not out of Richard's mind. The morning anxiety returned, but in a different form.

"Ilian..." he began, hesitant, not wanting to break the peace, but needing to know. "That other work. What you did yesterday." He couldn't say "the payment." "You didn't show it to Finch."

Ilian looked up from the pencil. Professional calm vanished, replaced by the cold, opaque logic of protocol.

"No." He paused, his eyes going to the closed box beside his desk, where he had organized all the sheets. "That is not for Dr. Finch. It is a core infrastructure optimization. It affects the entire project. It is not just for him. It is for the meeting. On Thursday."

Richard felt a knot of tension undo in his chest, replaced by a wave of pure relief and respect. The trance was over. The debt was paid. And what remained wasn't ongoing trauma, but... strategy.

Ilian wasn't acting like a victim or a prisoner paying a debt. He was acting like the scientist he was, deciding how and when to present his most important work to the rest of the team.

"Right," Richard said, finally understanding. "For Thursday. Good idea."

The crisis had, in fact, passed.