Project Rodzina - Part 11

Here are a few more chapters in the Ilian Jansen saga; we're almost at the end of the first book.

I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you so much for the feedback.

Chapter 79: The Flower

Ilian woke before sunrise in the silence of the guest house. Sleep had not been an escape, but a heavy rest, free of nightmares. His mind was quiet. He got up in the darkness and followed his routine.

When he reached the living room, which was still submerged in the bluish gloom of dawn, his eyes were immediately drawn to the small table near the window. To the amaryllis.

He stopped.

The flower had bloomed completely. In the silence of the house, while he worked and slept, it had completed itself. The thick, waxy petals had curled back, revealing the flower's interior. A deep, velvety red, almost black in some parts, but vibrant. It was a silent explosion of life.

He didn't go to the trail. This was his ritual.

He approached, as if standing before something sacred, picked up the pot, and brought it to the kitchen table. He sat in front of it. He was mesmerized. It was physical proof that Helena's promise had been kept. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he had ever owned.

He extended his right hand, long pale fingers trembling slightly. He touched the edge of one of the petals. The sensory focus was intense. The texture. It was soft, much smoother than he imagined, a cold velvet. But it was firm, full of life. He traced the curve of the petal, feeling the slight dampness of the morning air on it.

An impulse he didn't understand took over him. A need for more contact, to absorb that perfection. He leaned in, carefully, and touched the open petal against his cheek. Closed his eyes. It was an explosion of pure sensations. He felt the absolute softness, the cool freshness of the flower's moisture against his skin. Inhaled the scent. It wasn't a sweet fragrance, but a subtle smell. It was just beauty. Pure. Undeniable.

He stayed there, motionless, for a long time, over an hour, just absorbing this sensation of peace, of growth, of life.

The sun began to rise. Golden morning light entered through the window, hitting the room. The light illuminated the vibrant red of the flower and lit up the rest of the house.

Reality returned.

Today is Thursday. Today is the Agency meeting day.

The pure, sensory joy the flower had given him collided instantly with the anxiety of the impending meeting. Nausea, which had disappeared, returned suddenly, a cold, familiar knot in his stomach. The flower was life and growth, the Agency was control and survival.

He forced himself to get up, moving away from the flower. Prepared his coffee, movements now methodical, tense. Sat at the table, coffee steaming. His mind, now armored against the flower's beauty, reviewed the previous day.

Wednesday had been calm. Physical therapy, as always, was exhausting but functional. Richard had come in the afternoon, at 3:00 PM. They worked on Argus. The atmosphere was calm, professional, very similar to Tuesday's session with Finch.

Late in the afternoon, Richard had given him the news. "Dr. Evans called," he said, putting away his papers. "Because of Thursday's meeting at the agency, he's postponing your immunosuppressant injection. It will be on Friday only, after your physical therapy."

Ilian, sitting there with his coffee, remembered the immense relief he felt. He wouldn't have to face Hayes's observation room while dealing with the feverish fog and muscle pain of the injection.

He finished the coffee. Returned to the present. Thursday. He didn't go to the trail. But it was still Thursday. He had his appointment. He left the guest house and went straight to the greenhouse.

When he entered, the air hit him like a blanket. Warm, humid, smelling of wet earth. The total opposite of the meeting room awaiting him. Helena was there, smiling, wearing an apron stained with soil.

"Good morning, Ilian. I'm glad you came, even with your meeting today."

Ilian stopped in front of her, the meeting's anxiety momentarily forgotten by the memory of what he had just seen. He needed to tell her.

"Mrs. Anderson..." he began, voice low, almost reverent. Helena stopped what she was doing, sensing the intensity on his face. "The flower," he said, his eyes meeting hers. "It opened this morning."

Helena smiled, a warm smile. "Oh, how wonderful!"

"It is..." he hesitated, searching for the word. "It is the most beautiful thing I have ever... I have ever seen."

The confession was simple, direct, and caught Helena by surprise. The raw emotion behind the statement made her eyes water.

"It is the reward, isn't it, Ilian?" she said, voice incredibly gentle.

Ilian looked up, confused. "Reward?"

Helena smiled, a soft smile, touching a fern leaf beside her. "For the time. For the care." She looked at him, her eyes conveying the deeper message. "The beauty was there all along, Ilian. Hidden in the dark. It just needed a safe place and patience... to decide to open."

Ilian processed her words. A safe place. The metaphor he had rejected the previous week now hit him with the force of truth. He nodded, once, understanding. The emotion was communicated. He felt anchored.

"Come," Helena said softly, giving him an out. "I think these seedlings need us."

Only then did he start to work. They worked side by side. In silence. Today's task was transplanting small seedlings into larger pots. Ilian's focus was sensory. His right hand diving into the moist, warm soil. The smell of the earth.

When he finished the work in the greenhouse, he returned to the guest house. Showered, washing away the soil and sweat, and put on the meeting uniform. Dark trousers. A clean, long-sleeved T-shirt. Had lunch. The meal solitary, functional. He ate without tasting.

He went to the work desk. Looked at the piles of paper he had produced on Monday. He had meticulously arranged them in a file box. The weapon was ready.

At 1:48 PM, the doorbell rang.

He opened it. Richard was there. "Ready, Ilian?"

Richard's gaze passed Ilian and went to the file box on the table near the door. The memory of the cost of that work passed over the professor's face, a shadow of pain.

"Can I carry it?" Richard asked.

Ilian nodded. Richard picked up the cardboard box. It was heavy, dense with the weight of paper and Ilian's genius. He held it against his chest.

"Ready?"

Ilian nodded again.

They left the guest house. The black Agency sedan was already waiting on the gravel.

Chapter 80: Efficiency

The black Agency sedan glided through Boston traffic. The silence inside the car was heavy. Ilian was focused. Beside him, Richard was visibly tense. Next to the professor rested the box, Ilian's weapon.

The underground garage. The smell of exhaust. The high-pitched sound of tires on polished concrete. The elevator went up. The doors opened. The gray corridor. The smell of carpet. Ilian felt his mouth go dry instantly.

Richard, vividly remembering the nosebleed from last time, leaned in. "Ilian," he asked in a low voice, "do you need the restroom?"

Ilian shook his head without looking at him. "No, Professor." He tapped his trouser pocket lightly. "I brought tissues."

He was prepared. He wouldn't be caught off guard again.

The walk down the hallway was slow. Richard opened the heavy conference room door. Ilian entered. The air was cold. The room was in the same "U" configuration.

Ilian noticed immediately. In his usual spot, at the center of the "U," right in front of his chair, on the polished table, was a box of tissues. A cardboard box, white and blue, clinical. A reminder of his previous weakness.

They were a bit early. The room was semi-empty. In the corners, Hayes and the two HPP observers were already in their seats, watching. On the engineers' side, only Dr. Finch was present, already focused on his papers.

Finch looked up when they entered. Saw Ilian and nodded briefly. The silent respect of one scientist to another. Ilian nodded back. Walked to his seat. Richard placed Ilian's heavy work box on the table beside him. The sound of cardboard on laminate was low but seemed to echo in the room. Hayes watched the object, his expression impassive.

Ilian sat down. Ignored the agency tissue box. Closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on his breathing, controlling the ambient noise, the feeling of the observers on the side of the room.

Hayes stood up. "Professor Anderson, a word outside, please."

Richard looked at Ilian, alarmed at having to leave him. "I'll be right back." Visibly tense and irritated, he stood up and followed Hayes out. The door closed, sealing the silence.

Ilian remained alone in the room, controlling his breathing. He, the two silent observers, and Dr. Finch, who continued to ignore the social dynamic, lost in his own calculations.

Some time passed before the door opened again. Richard and Hayes entered, followed by the other two engineers, Pike and Yamamoto. The tension on Richard's face was visible, the conversation with Hayes hadn't been good.

Everyone sat down. The meeting began.

"Dr. Finch," Richard said, "please. You may begin."

Finch took command. The dynamic was immediately different from last time. Ilian was more engaged. He wasn't shrinking away. He watched the images on the screen, his face pale but focused. The questions came. Pike asked the first one, about data latency.

Ilian picked up his pencil. Wrote the answer on a sheet of paper. Slid the paper to Richard. Richard read, voice clear. "Dr. Jansen answers that latency is a symptom. The cause is the input buffer..."

The system worked perfectly. For over three hours, the technical meeting flowed. Finch asked questions. Yamamoto asked questions. Ilian answered on paper. Richard read. Finally, the technical part was ending. The engineers were visibly satisfied.

"Dr. Finch," Richard said, assuming his role as "conduit." "Dr. Jansen has also prepared a complete optimization of the data infrastructure he analyzed this week."

Richard took the cardboard box beside Ilian and slid it to the center of the table, towards Finch.

The silence in the room was absolute. Finch, Pike, and Yamamoto looked at the box. Hayes and the HPP observers leaned forward.

Finch stood up to take the box, returned to his seat, and opened it. Saw the piles of paper, perfectly organized. He picked up the first sheet. Began to read and passed it to the other engineers. All sheets numbered and organized by topic.

Low murmurs were heard. Finch looked up, his face not of admiration, but of pure intellectual fascination. "Dr. Jansen," he said, voice full of respect. "This is months of work. It will take us time to analyze all the content."

Hayes, seeing the engineers absorbed, looked at Richard. Hayes gave a slight nod. The technical part was concluded.

Richard, understanding the signal, took command of his team.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Richard said, voice firm. "Dr. Finch, why don't you and the team take the box and start digesting the content?" He looked at Hayes, knowing what was coming next. "I think the technical part of our meeting is over."

Finch, Pike, and Yamamoto looked confused, torn from their discovery, but their leader's order was clear.

"Right, we'll need time," Finch said, excited. "Dr. Jansen, excellent work."

The engineers, frustrated at having to stop but enthusiastic about the treasure they had received, gathered the box and left the room.

The door closed. The cage closed. Only Ilian, Richard, Hayes, and the two HPP observers remained.

"Dr. Anderson. A moment, please." Hayes's voice was cold, clinical. "I thought we had discussed the importance of verbal interaction, Professor."

Richard stiffened. "Dr. Hayes, the work was completed. Ilian was brilliant. He cooperated."

"The work was done," Hayes said, standing up and walking slowly to the table, "but the patient failed at integration. He is using the Kessler pattern." He looked at Ilian as if he were defective equipment. "He is using you as a crutch. As long as you continue to be his voice, he will never develop his own."

Hayes stopped in front of Richard. "Your filter, Professor, has become a crutch. And it is hindering his recovery."

Richard opened his mouth to protest. Saw the injustice of the accusation, the trap closing.

"Doctor Hayes." Ilian's voice cut through the room's air. It was low, calm, and laden with coldness. It wasn't the voice of a panicked patient. It was the voice of a strategist.

Hayes froze. The two HPP observers, who were packing their papers, jerked their heads up, surprised. Richard held his breath.

Ilian stood up slowly. Looked, for the first time, directly at Dr. Hayes.

"You love giving labels," he said, voice perfectly steady. "'Crutch.' 'Kessler pattern.'" Hayes stared at him, too shocked to speak. "The goal of this meeting was to deliver the Argus analysis. The goal was achieved. My silence is not a failure. It is efficiency. I was filtering the noise so I could work."

He paused, his gaze briefly passing over Richard before returning to Hayes.

"Professor Anderson is not a crutch. He is the conduit. And the system worked. But you are questioning the conduit. So, let me be efficient for you." He looked directly at Hayes, and the coldness in his voice made even the HPP observers stop breathing. "Professor Anderson must be respected." It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. "Because without him, there is no conduit. There is no work. And this asset becomes inefficient."

The conference room fell into absolute silence. Hayes, the master of psychological analysis, had been completely dismantled by the relentless logic of his anomaly. He was speechless.

Richard, stunned, looked from Hayes to Ilian. The change in the young man was physical. He wasn't the shrinking patient hiding behind tissues anymore. Mental fortitude had taken control. His posture changed. Shoulders, previously tense and slightly hunched, straightened. And when he raised his eyes, there was no panic or fear. There was only the coldness of a completed calculation.

"Dr. Hayes, as Dr. Jansen said, the goal was achieved. This meeting is concluded." Richard looked at Ilian. "Let's go home."

Ilian, moving with deliberate calm, left the room without looking at Hayes or the observers, leaving the HPP team behind in stunned silence.

Richard, stunned and incredibly proud, hurried to follow him.

The silence in the carpeted corridor of the twenty-seventh floor was absolute. Richard watched Ilian, waiting.

He expected Ilian to crumble the second the conference room door closed. Expected the collapse, the hyperventilation, the repeat of the terrible bathroom scene.

They stopped in front of the elevators. Richard pressed the button. Ilian stood motionless. Didn't shrink away. Didn't lean on the wall. Just looked ahead at the polished steel doors.

The professor continued watching him sideways. The young man was pale. Cold sweat shone on his forehead under the cold corridor light. But he wasn't hyperventilating. He wasn't in panic. The only thing betraying the tension running through his body was the tremor in his left hand. The hand crushed by Orlov was having fine, uncontrollable spasms. It was the only flaw in his armor.

The elevator arrived with a soft sound. The doors opened. It was empty. They entered. The doors closed, sealing them in the small metal cubicle. Richard braced himself. Now it would come. The confinement, the silence, the collapse. But Ilian just turned and faced the door, looking at their distorted reflection in the brushed steel. Said nothing.

The descent was silent. Richard was amazed, almost scared. The strength of that young man. He had just faced the system, won, and now stood there, bleeding internally but refusing to fall.

The doors opened in the underground garage. Cold air hit them. The black agency car waited, the driver and Agent Leo in the front seats.

They walked in silence. Got into the back seat slowly. The doors closed.

As soon as the car started moving, Ilian finally rested his head against the window. Richard stayed quiet for a long time, processing what he had just witnessed. Finally, he spoke, voice low, full of admiration he could barely contain.

"Ilian... what you did in there. It was... it was the bravest thing I've ever seen."

Ilian didn't open his eyes. Answered in a whisper, explaining the simple logic of his action.

"He was being imprecise. And he was being noise. I needed the noise to stop."

Richard said nothing more, just nodded. The rest of the trip was made in silence. The car was enemy territory. Agent Leo and the driver were part of the noise Ilian now filtered with cold efficiency. The conversation would wait.

When the sedan stopped on the guest house gravel, Agent Leo got out and opened the door. Ilian moved. The performance exhaustion was deep, a heavy current in his limbs, but it wasn't weakness. It was the tiredness of a job well done.

The walk from the door to the guest house was slow but firm. His right leg protested against the day's tension, but he commanded it. His left hand trembled visibly. The spasms were the physical result of the massive adrenaline dump in the conference room. He didn't hide it with shame. Just closed it as much as he could, an act of management, not panic.

Richard entered the guest house right behind him. The door closed. The sound of the outside world, of the agency car leaving, disappeared. They were safe.

Ilian didn't collapse. Walked to the kitchen, his cane tapping firmly on the floor. Leaned on the counter, left hand pressed against the cold surface. With a steady right hand, he took a glass and filled it with water.

Richard watched, still amazed by the man's strength. His eyes, however, fixed on Ilian's left hand, trembling uncontrollably on the counter.

"Your hand."

Ilian looked at his own hand, almost with clinical detachment, as if it belonged to someone else. "Adrenaline," he said, voice tired. Took a sip of water, the coolness soothing his dry throat. "It is a natural physiological reaction. I cannot stop it." He turned, leaning back against the counter. "It will pass."

"Ilian..." Richard began, the admiration in his voice still raw. "What you did in there. Speaking up. Standing up to him for me..."

Ilian interrupted him, not out of impatience, but out of a need for clarity. Needed Richard to understand the logic of his action. "They needed to understand, Professor. It wasn't just about the noise."

Richard waited. "Understand what?"

Exhaustion was evident on the young man's face, but his eyes were lit with the same logical coldness of the meeting room. "I will not tolerate disrespect toward you," he said, voice low but fierce. "I will not tolerate threats. We have a partnership now."

He paused, gathering his thoughts, giving voice to his strategy. "I chose you as my conduit. If the agency... if Hayes, or Miller, or any other institution decides you are a crutch and takes you from me..." Ilian looked at Richard, the threat clear and absolute, the ultimatum of an asset who knew he had a high market price. "...I will become completely inefficient."

He gestured to the house, the refuge Richard had created. "I saw what this is. I saw the cabin. I saw your kitchen. Your family. I will not go back to being what I was." His voice was a whisper, but it had the weight of steel. "Either it is here, with you, or it will be nowhere."

The professor stood in silence, processing. Ilian had just defined the terms of his own future surrender: if the agency took him, if they broke the only thing keeping him cooperative, he would use silence as his final weapon.

Richard nodded, emotion overwhelming him. Took a deep breath, forcing himself back to logistics, to the present. "Understood, Ilian." He paused. "Rest. You deserve it. Remember Dr. Evans is coming tomorrow."

He just nodded, tiredness visible in every line of his body. "Understood, Professor. I will be ready."

Richard watched him for another moment, undoubtedly the strongest person he had ever met.

"Get some rest." He left, closing the door softly, leaving Ilian alone with his exhaustion, his trembling hand, and the promise of tomorrow's pain.

Chapter 81: Project Family

The next day, at three o'clock sharp in the afternoon, Richard knocked on the guest house door.

"Ilian? It's me." He turned the handle. The unlocked door opened into silence. He entered, anxiety visible. He expected to find Ilian already sick.

The house was silent, but Ilian wasn't on the sofa. He was sitting at his work desk, perfectly still, as if he were waiting.

Richard entered cautiously. "Ilian? How are you? Dr. Evans...?"

"He was here," he replied. His voice was calm. "Left at 1:41." He gave a minimal smile. "I am fine." He paused, glancing at the wall clock. "For now."

Richard frowned. "For now?"

"The fever and nausea," he explained, like a clinician analyzing a patient, "usually start three or four hours after the injection." Looked at the clock again. "I have, perhaps, two more hours of mental clarity."

Richard, realizing the situation, the clock ticking against Ilian's immune system, immediately assumed the caregiver role. "Then you need to rest," he said, voice full of urgency. "Lie down. Prepare yourself. We won't work on Argus."

"No." Ilian shook his head, and for the first time, Richard noticed urgency in his voice. "Professor. I need to work." He stood up, leaning on the desk, the movement costing him visible effort. "I need to show you something. Now."

Richard watched him, stunned. "Ilian, you don't need to..."

"Before... before the symptoms start," he admitted, voice low. "I want to show you while my mind is clear."

Richard, understanding the depth of what was being offered, just nodded. "What is it?"

Ilian walked slowly to the sofa, pulled one of the notebooks from the hiding place. Returned to the desk and sat down. Richard sat beside him.

"I mentioned this at the cabin," he said, opening the technical notebook. "Projekt Rodzina. It is how we find life in chaos." Turned the first page, revealing a complex flow diagram. "I want to show you."

Richard leaned in, anxiety now replaced by intellectual focus. Ilian was racing the clock. His mind was sharp, but he could feel the deep fatigue of physical therapy and the first hint of heat rising through his body. Had to be quick. Needed Richard to understand the premise.

"Professor," he began, voice low, "I told you at the cabin that Rodzina was for finding life. It is an equation balance." He paused, the word hanging in the air. "It is how I want to balance what happened on Falke. Falke was made to find a heartbeat on the surface to... eliminate it."

Richard nodded, face serious.

"Rodzina," Ilian continued, turning the page to another diagram, "is designed to find that same signal. But not on a battlefield. In a collapse. Under meters of rubble."

Richard looked at the diagram. His expression, previously full of admiration, shifted to professional skepticism.

"Ilian..." he said gently, "that is noble. But it is theoretically impossible."

Ilian looked up. "It is not."

"Currently, it is impossible," Richard insisted, now speaking as a fellow engineer. "I understand what you're trying to do, but the noise of a collapse... seismic vibrations, twisted metal, running water... and you want to isolate a weak electrical signal like a heartbeat through meters of concrete? Signal attenuation would make it white noise. It's impossible."

Instead of retreating, Ilian became more focused. The fever of his genius fought against the imminent fever of his illness.

"It is only impossible," he said, voice low and intense, "if you use the wrong theory."

He tapped a finger on a central equation in his notebook. "Everyone's mistake is that they look for the sound of the heart, or the electrical signal. I do not look for that." He leaned in, eyes shining. "I look for the fluid."

Richard frowned. "The fluid?"

"Blood," Ilian said. "The algorithm filters the chaos, the wind, the water, the settling concrete, the seismic vibrations. It is designed to ignore everything except a single thing: the low-frequency rhythmic vibration of blood flow being forced through major arteries. The hemodynamic signature."

Richard fell into absolute silence. Isolating blood flow vibration through meters of rubble. It was impossible.

But for the next hour and forty-five minutes, the impossible was deconstructed. Ilian didn't stop. He turned page after page, guiding Richard through the labyrinth of his design. He explained the sensor arrays, the noise cancellation algorithms, and the specific frequency filters. He spoke with a feverish intensity, racing against his own biology to transfer the data from his brain to Richard’s.

The afternoon light shifted across the desk. Ilian turned to a page densely filled with notes.

"The whole idea is already in my mind, but I did not... I did not dare put the final math on paper. I did not think it safe. I wanted to draw the whole project conceptually first. The notebook..." He hesitated, a blush of embarrassment rising up his neck. "I apologize. It is a mix. I tried to write in English for you, but some of the notes... it is faster to think in my own language."

Richard looked at the pages, seeing blocks of technical English interspersed with dense handwriting in notes in what he assumed was Polish.

"Ilian..." Richard began, amazed.

"Wait," he said, urgency returning. Needed to finish. "The most important part is the filter. The attenuation matrix... it isolates the..."

He stopped. Blinked a few times, the page suddenly seeming too bright. Placed his right hand on his neck, a gesture of frustration. The room suddenly felt too stuffy. Took a deep breath. A fine layer of cold sweat, the harbinger of fever, began to bead on his forehead.

"The malaise," he said, voice frustrated. "It is starting." Closed the notebook. "I... I need to stop. I cannot stay focused anymore."

Before Richard could respond, Ilian, in a last act of lucidity, pointed to the coffee table in the living room. "Professor. Look."

Richard, confused, turned. "What?"

"My plant." Ilian's voice was tired, but there was pride in it. "It bloomed yesterday. You did not see it."

Richard stood up. Went to the coffee table. The flower was there, fully open, a vibrant, velvety red against the room's stillness. Touched the petal, exactly as Ilian had done.

"It's beautiful." He agreed, knowing that plant meant a lot to the young man, and returned to the work desk. Ilian pushed the Rodzina technical notebook toward him.

"Professor. I need to stop." Looked at Richard, and the act of trust was monumental. "Can you... can you read it? To understand? Take it to your house and read it calmly."

Richard, understanding the weight of what was entrusted to him, nodded slowly. "Yes, Ilian. I'll take it. I'll read it with full attention. Thank you for trusting me."

"Do not worry about me, the nurse arrives at eight. I just need to lie down."

"I'm not going anywhere, Ilian," he said, voice firm. "I'm staying here."

Ilian got up and went to the sofa. Lay down slightly on his side on the pillows, closed his eyes. Richard sat in the armchair. Opened the first page of Project Rodzina, standing guard over the scientist and his secret.

He had been reading for only a few minutes, amazed by the math, when his cell phone vibrated. Richard picked it up and saw his wife's name.

"Helena? What is it?" he asked, keeping his voice low. He listened for a moment. It was the kitchen sink leaking again. "Right. I'm coming," he whispered. "Just give me a minute, honey."

Distracted by the urgency, Richard closed the notebook and left it on the coffee table. He glanced at Ilian one last time. The young man had fallen into a restless sleep, his face pale. Richard turned and left the house hurriedly.

Richard had barely crossed the lawn when the guest house front door opened. It wasn't Richard. It was Nurse John. He had arrived forty minutes early.

When Richard returned, 20 minutes later, he found the nurse in the kitchen and was relieved. Then he picked up Project Rodzina from the coffee table and took it with him to the main house.

Chapter 82: The Smile

Friday night was a feverish haze, the nausea and restless sleep induced by the immunosuppressant. Saturday morning was a continuation of that exhaustion. Richard, true to his promise, appeared early but demanded nothing of Ilian. He just sat in the armchair, silently reading the Project Rodzina notebook with an expression of admiration, while Ilian, still weak, simply rested on the sofa.

By early afternoon, the chemical storm finally began to pass. The fever broke, leaving behind only a deep weakness. Ilian woke, feeling frail but, for the first time that day, lucid. Saw Richard still in the armchair, dozing uncomfortably, the closed notebook in his lap.

"Professor?" Ilian's voice was hoarse.

Richard woke up immediately alert. "Ilian? Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

"No," Ilian said, adjusting himself on the sofa. "I... I am better. The fever has passed." He looked at Richard, seeing the tiredness in his eyes. "You have been here for hours. You should go rest. Please."

Richard watched him, seeing the clarity back in his eyes. The crisis had passed. He smiled, an exhausted but relieved smile.

"Right," he said, standing up and stretching. "I'll go, but on one condition. Since you're feeling better... Helena would like you to come have dinner with us tonight. At our house. Around seven."

The invitation was the next step in normalcy. Ilian, remembering the ramp, the safety of that kitchen, nodded. "I will be there. Thank you very much."

Richard smiled, satisfied. "Great. Rest. I'll leave you in peace until then." He left.

Ilian heard the door close. He obeyed Richard's order. The rest of Saturday afternoon passed in deep quiet. He didn't go to the work desk. Didn't read. Just rested with his own thoughts on the sofa, letting his body recover from the morning's fever and exhaustion. Sunlight shifted slowly from gold to orange, and finally turned into the darkness of twilight. Hunger began to manifest.

He went to the bathroom. The ritual was slow, every movement weighted by fatigue. Took a hot shower, the water washing away the residue of illness, put on clean clothes, combed his damp hair with his fingers. He was ready.

Around seven o'clock, he left the guest house. The night air was cold. He walked slowly across the lawn, the rhythm of his cane steady on the earth, heading to the main house kitchen door. He reached the ramp. It wasn't a shock anymore, it was a tool, a symbol of acceptance. He placed his left hand on the cold metal handrail and ascended. His sensory focus settled on the ease of it, the absence of sharp pain, the lack of the unbalanced struggle of steps. It was the feeling of being welcomed even before knocking. He felt a pang of pure happiness and gratitude.

He knocked. Helena welcomed him with a warm smile.

Dinner was a new normal. Richard, Helena, Elara. The atmosphere was light. Ilian was quiet, as always, but visibly happy. He was enjoying the feeling of being well after the medicine, savoring Helena's food and the Anderson family's company. He was more relaxed than he had ever been in that house. And the sound of Richard's voice was a comfortable background noise. There was a pause in conversation.

It was Ilian who broke the silence. He didn't look at Helena or Richard. He looked, deliberately, at Elara, who was sitting across from him.

"Elara."

She looked up, surprised he used her name and addressed her directly. "Yes, Ilian?"

"The amaryllis," he said, voice low but clear. "It has opened completely."

Elara smiled. "I'm sure the flower is beautiful!"

"If you want," Ilian continued. "I can show it to you. After dinner."

Elara, surprised by the personal invitation, smiled genuinely. "Yes. I would love that."

Richard and Helena exchanged a look of pure surprise.

When dinner ended, Ilian began the slow maneuver of getting up from the table. "Thank you very much for dinner." He thanked them, then looking at Elara, "We can go see the amaryllis."

Richard and Helena, who were starting to clear the plates, stopped and looked at each other, surprised by his direct initiative.

Elara smiled, standing up. "Yes. Let's go."

They left via the kitchen ramp. Ilian setting the pace. The walk back to the guest house took a few minutes. It was painfully slow, dictated by the rhythm of Ilian's cane. The air was cold. Elara remained silent.

They reached the house door. Ilian opened it. It was his territory. He entered first. Didn't turn on the soft lamp. Went to the main switch near the door and flipped it. The ceiling light, strong and white, flooded the room.

Elara entered, looking around. The amaryllis was on the coffee table, vibrant. Ilian walked slowly to the small table, with a little difficulty managed to lift the pot with his right hand, then passing it to his left forearm, carried it to the kitchen table and placed it in the center, under the strong light.

He pulled out a chair for himself and sat down. Gestured to the other chair, across from him. "Sit down. Please."

Elara was surprised. He wasn't doing a quick showing at the door. She sat down, placing her hands in her lap.

"It really is beautiful," she said, genuinely impressed. "You have a green thumb."

Ilian, who was looking at the flower, looked up, confused. "Green thumb?"

She laughed, a small, nervous sound, but one that relaxed the air. "It's an expression. It means you are good with plants."

"I am not, it is my first plant," he said, factual. "Your mother taught me." Returning his gaze to the flower, he continued, "You can touch it."

Elara blinked, surprised, looking at him. "What?"

"The petal. It is soft. You can touch it."

Very gently, she reached out and touched the edge of the red petal with her fingertip. "It really is very soft. It's like velvet."

Ilian watched the gesture. Watched her share the sensation he had discovered. When Elara pulled her hand back to her lap and looked up smiling at him, Ilian looked directly at her and gave a genuine, unequivocal smile.

Elara held her breath. The smile transformed his face. It erased the tension, the pain, the distance. She remembered what her father had said about the pearl inside the oyster. And there it was. The smile was the pearl. In that moment he wasn't her father's scientist colleague. He was just a person proud of his flower. Seeing that, seeing the pearl her father had spoken of, was too intimate, almost unbearable.

"Well," she said, standing up. "I need to go. I have to study."

"Thank you for seeing the flower."

"Good night, Ilian." She left, closing the door softly.

Ilian stood in the middle of the illuminated room, heart beating fast in his chest. Looked at his plant on the kitchen table, proud.

Chapter 83: The Perimeter

Sunday morning arrived with a different kind of quiet. The guest house was silent, but it wasn't the silence of exhaustion, like that of the fever. It was the silence of stillness. Ilian knew the Anderson family went to church on Sunday mornings. He was alone.

Waking up, he felt surprisingly well. The exhaustion had finally subsided. He rose and went through his morning routine, noting that the nausea had disappeared completely. In the living room, his gaze fell on the amaryllis, vibrant red under the morning sunlight. He smiled. He felt confident. Almost normal.

The morning was crisp, the sun shining. He decided to take his walk. But today, driven by the confidence he felt, he decided he wouldn't just walk. He would explore the trail deeper.

He went to the trail. The air was cold and clean, sharp in his lungs. The smell of pine and damp earth was keen. He walked with his slow, shuffling pace, the cane tapping dully, his right leg dragging slightly on the fallen leaves. But the pain in his leg seemed distant, background noise muffled by the new confidence vibrating within him.

He reached the fallen log in the clearing. This time, he didn't even stop to rest. He continued.

He passed the spot where the friendly neighbor had stopped him days ago. He remembered the uncomfortable interaction, the man's inefficient assessment of the trail. He continued, entering truly unknown territory.

The trail got a little narrower, the ground softer. The canopy of trees above him grew denser, and the sunlight was now dappled. The rustling of the wind high in the trees and the song of birds he didn't recognize were more intense.

He walked for perhaps another fifteen or twenty minutes. The effort was real. Stopped, leaning against a large oak to rest, chest heaving. He allowed himself to feel the place.

With his right hand, he touched the oak's bark. It was rough, deeply furrowed. Looked down. The forest floor was covered in a carpet of fallen leaves. Observed the distinct shape of an oak leaf.

His gaze followed a line of movement on the ground. Ants. A path of them, marching with methodical purpose over a fallen branch. Watched them for a moment with the same calm curiosity he felt at the fallen log in the clearing. Tilted his head back, watching the slow sway of the highest branches against the blue sky. Felt a pang of genuine, pure freedom. A smile formed on his face.

He was about to continue, to see what was beyond the next bend, when he heard it.

Footsteps. Firm, rhythmic, approaching.

His body froze.

A man was coming down the trail. And Ilian recognized him.

It was the smiling man he had met days ago. The man stopped a few meters away and flashed the same easy smile.

"Good morning!" he said cheerfully, exactly like the first time. "A beautiful day for walking the trail, isn't it?"

Ilian watched him, irritated. His bubble of peace had been invaded again. He didn't want "bad data" about the trail. Didn't answer. Gave only a nod.

The man, noticing Ilian's cold silence, continued with his friendly voice. "Is everything alright? Do you need help getting back?"

"No," he replied. The word was short. It wasn't a thank you. It was a refusal.

The friendly smile on the man's face vanished instantly. His face became impersonal, empty. The man's voice changed, losing all warmth.

"This is as far as you go, Mr. Jansen."

Ilian felt his blood run cold.

"Your approved exercise perimeter ends at the fallen log clearing," he said, voice monotone. "You are well beyond your limit. Return. Immediately."

The final command. The order.

Humiliation was a cold burn, not hot. It started in his stomach and rose, chilling his face, erasing the smile of triumph he had felt moments before. The cage was real. The forest air, which before smelled of pine and earth, suddenly seemed thin, artificial. The birdsong ceased. There was only silence and the man blocking his path.

He looked at the agent. His mind analyzed the equation. Trying to force passage would be illogical, would result in pain and punishment. This was not a battle to fight. Resisting here was inefficient. Helpless, cold anger was there, but he suppressed it with his usual efficiency. The neutral mask, the one he used to survive, snapped back into place.

Self-control was the only thing he had left.

In silence, without a word, Ilian turned. The movement wasn't that of a defeated man, it was a controlled, rigid movement. A strategic retreat.

The walk back was a silent march. Slow, painful. He didn't need to look back. He could feel the agent's eyes on his back, a physical weight, following him.

The world, which moments before was alive with ants and swaying trees, had now contracted. He shut down his senses. Saw nothing more. Didn't see the leaves, didn't hear the birds. The smell of pine disappeared.

His leg, exhausted by the long walk, protested with a sharp burn at every movement. The urge to stop was overwhelming. Upon reaching the clearing, his body begged him to sit on the fallen log, yet he refused. Sitting would be an admission of defeat to the enemy watching his back.

So he pushed on, step by agonizing step, crossing the clearing and ignoring the scream of pain in his knee.

Emerging from the trail onto the open lawn, the sunlight blinded him for a moment. The trek back across the grass proved to be the final stage of torture. By the time he reached the guest house door, he was drenched in sweat, the pain in his right leg radiating with blinding intensity.

He stumbled inside, closing the door against the world. Bypassing the sofa and kitchen, he collapsed into the armchair nearest the entrance, body trembling from effort and humiliation. The cane clattered to the floor.

Motionless, chest heaving, he remained there. Cold sweat began to chill on his skin, plastering the shirt to his back. His eyes fixed on the opposite wall, processing the lesson just learned.

The cage was real.

Richard had warned him, but visual confirmation was different. It was visceral. The agent's fake smile, the abrupt shift to impersonal coldness, the monotone order. Your approved exercise perimeter ends at the clearing. Humiliation burned in his chest, a familiar acidity.

He took a deep breath, once, the guest house air suddenly seeming thin. Anger was useless. Fighting was inefficient. He knew surveillance. It had been the constant companion of his entire life. The cage walls only changed scenery.

He closed his eyes for a moment. The tremor of effort and humiliation still ran through his muscles. He controlled it. With a mental effort that was as trained as it was automatic, he took the incident, the agent, the order, the humiliation, and folded it mentally, like a piece of paper. Filed it away. Data: Exercise perimeter limited to the fallen log clearing. End of analysis.

Ilian shifted in the armchair. The pain in his right leg was a line of throbbing fire. He leaned down, body protesting, and his hand found the cane he had dropped. The touch of wood was solid, real.

He had a perimeter. But, for the first time in his life, he had a home. And that was a freedom he was grateful for. He wasn't defeated. He was just more informed. The only logical response to the threat was control. He needed to reinforce his utility. Channelled the frustration and cold anxiety into the only thing he mastered: work.

He spent the rest of Sunday afternoon sitting at his desk, driven by a focused energy. Dove into the Argus papers, methodically preparing for Tuesday's meeting with Finch. Every equation he solved, every diagram he refined, was a small act of defiance. He was solidifying his value.

When the clock approached six in the evening, he stopped. The work was done. Now, the performance.

Missing Sunday dinner would be a sign of instability, a variable he couldn't allow. It would attract questions from Richard. He needed to go. Needed to act normally.

He showered, put on clean clothes, and combed his hair. He was calm, but it was the cold calm of someone preparing for a mission.

Exactly at seven o'clock, he left.

Crossed the dark lawn, the rhythm of his cane steady on the earth. Ascended the new ramp, the path now familiar, and knocked lightly on the kitchen door.

The door opened to a burst of warmth and light.

"Ilian! Come in!" Helena said, face radiant. The smell of home-cooked food enveloped him.

The mood in the kitchen was warm, normal. Richard, Helena, and Elara were there. Richard looked up when Ilian entered the door, and visible relief passed over his face.

"Ilian! Glad you came," Richard said, gesturing to Ilian's usual chair as he sat down. "How was your day? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Professor. It was a productive day. I rested and worked on the schematics."

Richard relaxed, satisfied with the answer. Dinner was served. Ilian was quiet, as always, but not dissociated. He was present, listening. He was performing normalcy. Family conversation was light. Helena, who was the anchor of family rituals, sighed, looking at a calendar on the kitchen wall.

"I can barely believe Thanksgiving is next month already," she said, more to herself. "I need to start thinking..."

"Mom, please don't make that huge turkey," Elara said, without taking her eyes off her plate. "It's just the three of us. It's always too much food."

Richard smiled warmly, looking first at Elara and then at Ilian. "Well, it's not just three of us this year, honey. I'm very happy we have Ilian with us."

Ilian stopped eating. Heard the exchange of words. Processed the term: Thanksgiving. Thanks? Giving?

Tried to find a logical equivalent in his mental files. It wasn't an engineering protocol. It wasn't a military term. His English was vast, but it didn't contain this. Found no data. Waited for a pause in the conversation. His voice came out low, breaking the silence, addressed to Richard, his trusted data source.

"Excuse me, Professor."

Richard turned to him. "Yes, Ilian?"

"I do not... comprehend the term." He spoke slowly, choosing the technical words he knew. "'Thanksgiving'? Is it a... procedure? An assessment of gratitude?"

The family stopped. Silverware fell silent. Richard and Helena exchanged a quick look, a mix of surprise and deep tenderness they tried to hide. They realized he wasn't joking. It was a culture shock.

Helena recovered first, her voice incredibly gentle. "Oh, Ilian, dear." She laughed softly. "It is a celebration. It is my favorite holiday. It is about... family. And being grateful for everything we have."

Richard, seeing that Ilian still looked confused by the concept, added: "It is a day for family, Ilian. Just to be together. We would very much like you to celebrate with us."

Ilian absorbed the words. Grateful. Celebrate. With us. Looked at the food on his plate, then at the three faces watching him with a kindness that still disarmed him. Didn't fully understand the ritual, but understood the invitation.

Lowered his gaze, voice almost inaudible. "Thank you very much."

"It will be excellent to have you with us for this celebration," Richard said, voice firm and warm.

Ilian excused himself early, using the real excuse of tiredness. Returned to the guest house. He hadn't been defeated by the agent on the trail. He was focused. And now, amidst surveillance and work, he had a new anchor on the calendar. Didn't understand the logic of the celebration. But understood what Richard said. Understood the invitation. The cage still had its perimeter, but for the first time in his life, he felt he had found the center.

Chapter 84: The Stained Equation

Monday morning was an exercise in controlled pain. Ilian woke up, his body protesting against the exhaustion of the previous day’s forced walk, but his mind was clear. The nine o'clock physical therapy was the first hurdle.

He executed it with cold, robotic precision. The pain was intense, but he bore it in silence. When the session ended, he was exhausted, drenched in sweat, but victorious. He was ready for the real battle of the day.

He spent the following hours in tactical rest, eating his functional meal and letting his body recover.

At three in the afternoon, he was sitting at his work desk. His body ached, protesting in every joint, but his mind was sharp. He was focused on the Project Argus schematics, precise handwriting filling the sheets. It was his defense, his way of keeping the mental fortress erected.

He heard the familiar footsteps on the gravel. Richard knocked lightly on the door and entered. He carried the black notebook Ilian had entrusted to him on Friday.

"How are you? How was physical therapy today?"

"Professor, I was waiting for you. Therapy was productive," he said, voice low but firm. He didn't want to talk about pain. His eyes fixed on the object Richard held. "Did you finish reading Project Rodzina?" he asked, anxious for the data. "Did you understand?"

Richard approached the desk, sitting in the chair next to Ilian. He placed the notebook on the table with almost reverential care. "Ilian, I read everything carefully. I..." Richard paused, searching for words, admiration on his face fighting against confusion. "It is extraordinary. The premise... finding blood flow... is simply brilliant. Revolutionary."

He leaned forward. "But, being totally honest, some parts... and the notes you made... I couldn't follow everything." He smiled, a gesture of humility. "It is still very conceptual."

Ilian nodded slowly. It was the answer he expected. "It is conceptual on purpose," he said, voice low. "The final calculations... the math that makes the filter actually work... I did not write down." Ilian lightly tapped his own temple with the index finger of his right hand. "It is here. It is safer."

Richard looked at the young man, at the logical paranoia forged by Kessler and Orlov, and felt a chill. "I understand, Ilian. You're right. It is safer."

"But you... you are safe," Ilian said, in an act of absolute trust. "I want you to know where the notebook stays."

Richard watched as Ilian used the table for support to stand up. The movement was visibly painful. He limped the few steps to the sofa. Thrust his good hand deep into the crevice between the seat cushion and the sofa frame. Pulled the thick cushion aside, revealing the dark, empty space he had created.

Richard stood up, approaching, and saw. There was another notebook inside.

Ilian took the Project Rodzina notebook and placed it carefully next to the other, then pushed the heavy cushion back into place, adjusting it meticulously until the sofa looked perfectly normal.

He turned to Richard, who was speechless. The level of trust demonstrated was overwhelming. Ilian hadn't just entrusted him with a project, he had entrusted him with the exact location of his safe.

"I keep the notebook here," he said. Voice cold, devoid of emotion. He paused, looking straight ahead, not at Richard, but at the wall. "If anything happens to me..." he said, voice perfectly neutral, "you know where to find the project. The premise is correct. You can implement the idea in the future."

The sentence wasn't a joke. It was a testament. It was the delivery of his legacy. Richard was struck by the gravity of those words and felt his throat tighten. He just nodded, for he didn't have the courage to make promises he couldn't keep. Ilian just looked at him, a long silence that said more than any word. Then he returned to his chair at the work desk, sitting down with a sigh of contained pain. "Professor, today I want to return to showing you the development of the Kessler equation."

Richard, still processing the gravity of being the guardian of Ilian's secrets, pulled his chair closer. "I'm listening. You may begin."

His body was exhausted from the morning's physical therapy, but his mind was electric. Physical pain became background noise, irrelevant. He was in his element.

"Professor, let us continue where we stopped," he began, voice low and precise. "Returning to the fundamental point of the premise."

He didn't need to draw Kessler's fundamental wave equation, it was already the basis of all the calculation sheets spread between them, a pillar of signal propagation physics Richard had known for fifty years. Ilian just took a clean sheet, pencil perfectly sharpened, ready for the next derivation.

"We were here," he said, pointing the pencil at the specific component on the note sheet. "Where Kessler assumes that background noise, atmospheric interference, is a static variable. A constant value. He removes it from the main equation to clean the model." Ilian's movements were fast, the handwriting of his numbers and symbols elegant and frighteningly perfect.

"Yes," Richard agreed, following the reasoning. "It's the standard simplification. Makes the math functional. It's elegant."

"It is elegant," Ilian agreed, voice low, "but it is the flaw."

They dove into the conceptual world. The afternoon went by. The sunlight, which entered through the window at three in the afternoon, began to lower, and the room grew dimmer. Ilian turned on the light over the work desk, creating a pool of intense light amidst the growing darkness. It was almost six in the evening. They had been in that debate for almost three hours, the table now a mess of calculation sheets and open books.

Richard was exhausted. His mind ached trying to reconcile Ilian's heresy with fifty years of faith. The young man pushed a second sheet of paper to Richard. The math on it was the opposite of elegant. It was complex, full of new cumulative variables.

"This is the correct premise," he said simply.

The professor leaned in, face serious. Followed Ilian's finger. His mind, trained for decades in Kessler's dogma, tried to find the flaw in the reasoning. But the math was irrefutable.

"Wait," he said. His voice was just a murmur. Took the sheet, pulling it closer. "Let me... let me see this calmly." Stopped speaking. Bent over the papers. His eyes ran from Ilian's derivation to Kessler's text, back and forth. His breathing became shallow. His face, previously relaxed, was now tense, eyes narrowed in pure concentration.

Ilian watched the professor. The tense face. The furrowed brow, an expression of intense focus, almost anger.

It was the same expression...

The guest house, the table, the papers... everything disappeared from Ilian's sight.

Kessler's laboratory in Germany was white, clean, and cold. Ilian, 13 years old, stood in front of a huge whiteboard covered in equations. He was nervous, but his scientific stubbornness was stronger than his fear.

Kessler was beside him, impatient. "Continue, Ilian. I am losing my time."

"Professor, here." He pointed with a trembling finger to a derivation. "Attenuation. You treat it as noise to be filtered. But the math does not hold. If harmonic resonance is treated as part of the signal... your central premise is wrong."

There was a terrible silence. Kessler didn't look at the equation. He looked at Ilian. His anger was cold, disdainful.

"Wrong?" he asked in a low voice. "You dare speak of error in my mathematics?"

Kessler stepped closer. "You are a physical anomaly, a biological engineering error. How dare you criticize my mathematics?"

He pointed to the opposite corner of the room. "Go to the corner. And stand. And do not dare move until you understand your place."

Kessler turned his back to Ilian and activated the lab's sound system.

The first thunderous chords of Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 exploded in the room, hammering the boy's ears. The sound he hated most, at a punitive volume.

Ilian obeyed. Went to the corner, leaning on his cane. The music was a wall of sound, painful. The pain in his right leg, from standing in the same position, started after a while. Tried to dissociate. Tried to close his eyes and focus on the equation in his mind, but the music and physical pain were attacking him simultaneously.

An hour passed. The music repeated. Two hours.

The leg was in agony. The knee felt locked, the hip burned. He was trembling from effort, cold sweat running down his temples. Couldn't take it anymore. With a low, gasping moan, his body gave out. Couldn't support his own weight anymore. Slowly, in agonizing submission, he slid down the wall until he sat on the cold lab floor. His cane fell beside him with a dull thud.

The music stopped instantly.

The sudden silence was louder than the symphony. Kessler turned slowly. Walked to him, looking down at him, huddled on the floor.

"I said to stand. Get up," Kessler said, voice low and annoyed.

Ilian looked at the floor, humiliated. His voice was a trembling whisper, broken by pain. "I... I cannot. Professor. My leg... I cannot."

Kessler gave a small, cruel smile. The victory was complete.

"Correct. You cannot," he said. "It is what I have been saying. Your mind may have sparks, Ilian, but in the end, you are just a defective body that cannot even stand. Your work is as flawed as your leg. Now, clean the board. Erase that nonsense."

Kessler left the room, locking the door.

Ilian remained alone on the silent lab floor. The humiliation was total. He had been punished for being right. Huddled, hiding his face in his hands, he cried. They were silent, hot tears of pure anger and shame, running down his face while on the whiteboard his correct equation was still exposed.

Ilian blinked, returning to the present. Kessler's image dissolved, replaced by Richard's face.

But the expression was the same. The same intense focus. The same furrowed brow. Richard was bent over the papers, his face tense. Ilian shrank back in the chair. Couldn't breathe. The guest house suddenly seemed cold like the German lab. He failed. He angered his mentor. Showed the truth, and now the punishment would come.

Richard finally raised his head. He was shocked. Looked at Ilian, eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost.

"Ilian... he was wrong. The whole time. Kessler. He was wrong."

Ilian couldn't process the admiration in Richard's voice. Only heard the intensity. Was trembling, trapped in trauma. Needed to know what his punishment would be.

"Professor?" Ilian's voice was a trembling whisper. "Are you... are you upset? By the error in the formula?"

Richard looked at him, the joy of discovery vanishing, replaced by deep confusion. "Upset? No." He stood up, energy making him pace the room. "On the contrary! I am..."

"When I... when I showed the error," Ilian interrupted, voice weak, explaining the logic of his panic. "Kessler. He... he became very upset with me."

The confession stopped Richard. The understanding of what Ilian was saying, the association his mind had made, hit the professor with physical force. Realized how deep the trauma was. Kessler hadn't just punished Ilian for failure. He had punished him for the truth. Richard took a deep breath, forcing calm into his voice.

"Ilian. Look at me." Hesitantly, Ilian looked up. "I am not upset," he said, voice firm but full of deep emotion. "I am amazed. This is brilliant. This changes everything."

The tremor in Ilian's body didn't stop, but it changed. It wasn't the tremor of anticipated panic anymore. It was the tremor of post-battle collapse.

Richard saw the young man struggling to process the new reality. The absence of punishment was a data point so strange Ilian's brain couldn't compute it. Richard realized he needed to anchor him, bring him back from the memory of Kessler to their partnership, to the present.

"Ilian, do you understand what you found?" his voice now gaining the energy of discovery. He wasn't talking to a patient anymore, he was talking to a colleague. "I am seeing the error now. It's so subtle, but it's here." Pointed to the papers. "It's the entire premise! He limits the range, he creates the noise we are trying to filter in Argus!" Said with shining eyes. "This isn't just about Argus. This changes everything about wave localization in complex media. It is... it is revolutionary."

Richard was smiling, marvelling. "We aren't just correcting a project. We are correcting fifty years of physics."

Ilian heard the words. Brilliant. Changes everything. Amazed. We.

Validation was the final blow. The mental fortress, built since age 12 to withstand Kessler's torture, had no defense against genuine admiration.

The ringing in his ears, which he had identified as the onset of a panic attack, changed tone. The pressure in his chest wasn't fear, it was something trying to escape. Richard's words weren't punishment. They were absolution.

Kessler was wrong. Richard... Richard saw. He saw the truth.

A sound escaped Ilian's throat. A low, broken gasp that tore the silence of the room. The sensation was violent. It was the sound of over a decade of tension, guilt, forced silence, breaking all at once. The dam broke.

He raised trembling hands, not to defend against a blow, but to cover his face, to hide the reaction he couldn't control. Hunched forward over the table, shoulders shaking convulsively. They weren't silent tears. It was real crying, harsh, the sound of something breaking inside.

It wasn't for the pain of the past. It was for the relief of the present. The certainty that he wasn't crazy.

Hot tears ran down his pale fingers, falling onto the very papers containing the equation of his pain. The professor stood motionless. His paternal instinct screamed at him to hug Ilian, to comfort him. But he knew touch, right now, would be an invasion. Richard understood Ilian wasn't crying for the pain of the past. He was crying because, for the first time, he was safe enough to let it hurt.

So, Richard did the hardest thing he could: he sat quietly. Gave Ilian the dignity of his pain. He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just witnessed. Kept the silence, proving he wouldn't punish him for it.

The crying stopped as abruptly as it began. The sound ceased, but the trembling continued. Ilian didn't move. Remained hunched over, face hidden in his hands, breath coming in short, painful sobs.

The hot relief that had broken him disappeared, replaced by a chill that started in his stomach and rose up his throat. Shame. He had lost control. Had crumbled. Had cried in front of his mentor. He felt exposed, pathetic.

He saw me. He saw the weakness.

Kessler's logic returned with full force: A collapse. Inefficiency. A defective body. Punishment. Where was the punishment? Waiting for the humiliation that should follow was almost worse than the crying.

Ilian remained motionless, trapped in this new agony, unable to lift his head, awaiting judgment.

Sensing the shift, Richard stood up slowly, deliberately scraping the chair against the floor so as not to startle Ilian. He went to the small kitchen, poured a glass of water, and returned. Careful not to get too close, he placed the glass on the work desk, within the young man's reach. It was a practical gesture, an act of care, not pity.

"It is alright, Ilian," he said, voice low and firm.

Slowly, Ilian straightened. He refused to look at Richard. Instead, he used the long sleeves of his shirt to wipe his face angrily, scrubbing at his skin as if wiping away dirt. His gaze fell to the papers, staring at the teardrops that had stained his equation.

A tense silence filled the room.

"I apologize... for the inefficiency," he murmured. "It was a... a collapse. It will not happen again."

Ilian clenched his fists on the table, shame making him tremble. He still couldn't look at the professor.

That was what broke Richard. The young man had just had the most human moment of his life, and he was apologizing for it.

"Ilian," he said, voice thick with emotion. "Look at me." Hesitantly, Ilian looked up, face pale, eyes red. "You have nothing," he said, emphasizing every word, "to apologize for. Did you hear? Nothing."

He leaned in, his own voice filled with admiration he could barely contain. "This isn't a collapse. Ilian, this is a moment of great happiness. And I feel honored. Honored that you trusted me enough to share."

Richard shook his head, his own eyes watering. "You know, when I agreed to host a fellow scientist here, I thought it would just be... work. A project. I had no idea..." He swallowed hard, emotion overcoming him. "I had no idea the greatest emotion of my entire academic life would be here, in this room, at this table, with you."

"This," Richard said, pointing to the tear-stained papers, "this discovery is an honor." He took a deep breath, composing himself, and saw he was overwhelming Ilian. He needed to change the subject, get back on solid ground. "Now we have a lot of work. Wonderful work. We need to show this to the scientific world. We need the experiment." He said, wiping his own eyes.

Ilian watched him, processing the reaction. Admiration. Honor. Happiness. No punishment. Slowly straightened a little more in the chair. Took the glass of water and took a sip, hand still trembling slightly.

"Thank you, Professor," he said, voice still hoarse. "For believing."

Then he extended his right hand across the table. Not the injured hand, but the hand of work, the hand of the scientist. Richard looked at the extended hand. He took it. Ilian's grip was surprisingly firm. Richard squeezed back hard, sealing the partnership.

"The honor is mine, Ilian." A small, almost imperceptible smile touched the young man's lips. Richard smiled back, releasing his hand. "Right. The experiment. We need to think about how we're going to prove all this?"

Ilian pulled the sheets back to him. His mind was back in his safe territory. "The math is here," he said, tapping the sheets. "But the scientific world needs data. We need data."

"How?" Richard asked, sitting down, now fully in collaborator mode.

"The wave lab. Do you have an immersion tank?"

Richard blinked, surprised by the specificity. "Yes, in the hydrodynamics department."

"We need it, and we will need a lot of ice."

Richard frowned, completely lost. "Ice? What for?"

Ilian looked up, and the glint in his eyes was that of a chess master explaining his checkmate. "Because Kessler's theory only works in 'clean air.' The noise he ignores is water, humidity, soil... ice." Leaned forward. "We will put a target inside the water tank, cover it with a layer of ice, and point the radar at it. Kessler's filter will fail. It will see the ice as noise and erase the target along with it."

A slow smile appeared on Richard's face as he understood the plan's genius. "And your algorithm..."

"My algorithm," Ilian finished, voice steady, "will use the ice noise to calculate depth. And it will find the target perfectly."

Richard was enchanted. "Ilian, that is... it is genius. Absolutely genius. I'll book the lab, prepare all the material and..." He turned to Ilian, ready to continue planning the revolution, but stopped mid-sentence.

Ilian's energy had vanished. The hand holding the pencil now trembled visibly on the table, a tremor of exhaustion. The fatigue of that morning's physical therapy, combined with the emotional collapse, the crying, and the tension of finally revealing his secret, hit him all at once.

Richard's enthusiasm instantly turned into concern. "We've been here for hours. I... I got carried away. You're exhausted." He stood up, starting to tidy the papers scattered across the table, as if hiding the math could somehow give Ilian rest. "Let's stop here. You need to rest. Come. Let's have dinner. You need to eat."

"No, Professor. Thank you."

Richard looked confused. Refusal was new. "No?"

"I need silence," he said. Voice was low, but firm. "Need to think. Alone."

Richard analyzed him. He didn't see fear in the man's eyes, nor anxiety, nor the old social rejection. He saw only deep tiredness. He understood. Ilian wasn't pushing him away, he was taking care of himself.

"I understand," Richard said gently. "It's alright." He got up and headed for the door, pausing to look back. "Rest. For real. What you did today was extraordinary. I'll return tomorrow afternoon before Dr. Finch." With that, he left, closing the door softly to leave him alone with the silence.

Ilian remained motionless for a long time. The room was dark, save for the pool of lamp light on the table. He was exhausted. When he finally stood up, the movement was painful; his body, ignored for hours, now screamed for relief. He went to the kitchen to drink water, then to the bathroom, and finally to the glass door of his bedroom. He opened it and stepped out onto the patio.

The night air was freezing, but he barely felt it. He looked up. The sky was perfectly clear, stars shining with cold intensity, his familiar refuge. Standing there, he began to process what had happened

He replayed the crying, the shame, and - most importantly - the absence of punishment. His mind drifted back to Kessler: the cold lab floor, the humiliation of being right, the punishment for speaking the truth. Then, he thought of Richard. The difference was stark. Richard had felt honored. For the first time, Ilian felt lighter.

For the first time in his life, someone looked at both parts of him, the mind that saw Kessler's flaw, and the body that cried in relief and shame at the work desk, and recoiled from neither.

He thought of his Project Rodzina notebook, now safe in the sofa’s hiding place. It was no longer just a secret plan; it was a real project. He wasn't alone with the truth anymore. He had a partner.

He stood there in the cold, feeling the weight of thirteen years of silence, guilt, and loneliness finally begin to lift from his shoulders.

Chapter 85: Locks and Triggers

Tuesday morning began with the familiar pain from the previous day's physical therapy. Ilian woke up, muscles stiff, but mind clear. He executed his routine. Coffee. The silent disposal of extra pills.

He went out into the cold morning air and headed to the trail. The walk was now part of his day, a way to organize his mind. He knew he was being watched, that the peace of the place had been violated, but he refused to cede the territory. He reached the clearing with the fallen log, the limit. He stopped there, looking at the continuation of the path he could no longer explore. Took a deep breath of the cold air, sat for a few minutes, and then returned.

At two-thirty in the afternoon, Richard arrived. The guest house was silent, Ilian was at his desk, immersed in notebooks. The atmosphere between them was one of partnership.

"How was your morning?" Richard asked, sitting down.

"Productive. The trail was... cold." Ilian didn't give more details. He trusted Richard, but didn't need to make the professor worried. "Professor, I like Dr. Finch. He hears the math," he said. "He does not make noise. I was thinking. If we are going to prove Kessler's flaw, we will need allies. Maybe we can trust him."

Richard tensed at the idea of expanding the circle of secrecy. "I like him too, but it could be a risk. Let's take it slow. I'll think about it."

The doorbell rang. Three in the afternoon. It was Finch. Richard and Ilian received him at the work desk. Ilian was calm. Finch was a safe engineer. The atmosphere was academic, almost animated.

"Dr. Jansen," Finch said, visibly excited, opening his briefcase. "Your notes from Thursday caused quite a stir. My team and I spent the whole weekend just analyzing your logic. We haven't run the simulations yet, we didn't have time, but your approach to negative delay is brilliant. We are all intrigued. Which brings me to my second point," Finch continued. "Dr. Jansen, I also distributed your notes on the security protocols."

Ilian's eyes shone with anticipation.

"Our Project Chief Security Engineer, Dr. Thorne, read your analysis on the security locks. He is very interested."

Richard found it strange. He knew Thorne. Thorne was a rigid bureaucrat who saw everything in terms of rules, not innovation. He was the opposite of Finch.

"Dr. Thorne would like to speak with you about the matter," Finch said. "He asked to join our meeting next Thursday."

Richard intervened immediately, assuming his role as a filter. "Alistair, I don't know if it's a good idea to add more people so soon. Thursday's agenda is already full. Let's leave this for another week..."

Ilian heard "security locks." The word was a trigger. His personal obsession was stronger than his social trauma. The Argus security flaw was a problem he needed to fix. He turned, ignoring Richard, and spoke directly to Finch. His voice was low but firm.

"He can participate. I would very much like to hear his opinion and answer all questions." Richard looked at Ilian, shocked. Finch smiled, relieved. "Tell Dr. Thorne yes. And that I have more ideas to share about the protocol flaw."

Finch pulled a few more notes from his briefcase, happy with the visit's success. "Great! He will be very pleased. Let's get to work, then."

They dove into the work. The afternoon slipped away. Richard, Finch, and Ilian debated the Argus diagrams. Richard's "filter" was working perfectly. Richard was present, ensuring safety, which allowed Ilian to focus.

"Prediction introduces noise, Dr. Finch," Ilian explained, voice low but firm. "The signal already exists. Delay is the key."

Finch and Richard entered a heated debate about the sampling window. Ilian stayed quiet, listening to them. The scene was so normal. Two colleagues exchanging ideas. Then, Ilian stood up slowly.

Richard stopped mid-sentence, worried. "Ilian? Tired? Do we need a break?"

The young man looked at the two engineers, both immersed in work. "Would you gentlemen care for coffee?"

Richard smiled, immense pride flooding his chest. "Yes, Ilian. I would love some."

While Richard and Finch continued to debate, Ilian went to the kitchen. He moved with methodical calm. He was in control. He was the host. He prepared three cups of coffee and carried them to the work desk, one by one, slowly.

Finch took the cup, visibly surprised and pleased by the gesture. "Dr. Jansen, thank you. You really made us work today."

They drank the coffee, but the energy in the room had shifted. The intensity of the work session gave way to a productive tiredness. They continued for another half hour, finalizing the discussion points. Finally, Finch checked his watch. It was past six in the evening.

"We totally lost track of time. Gentlemen, it was an incredibly productive afternoon." He stood up, closing his notebook and stretching.

Richard, also looking tired but satisfied with Ilian's progress, stood up with Finch. "Alistair, thank you for coming. I'll walk you to the door."

Finch waved to Ilian, who remained seated, watching them. "Dr. Jansen, it was a pleasure. See you Thursday."

Ilian just nodded.

Richard and Finch left. Ilian remained alone in the silence, listening to the front door close. He began to organize the papers slowly, the smell of coffee still in the air. A few minutes later, Richard knocked and entered again.

"Good work today, Ilian," he said, voice calm. "Helena is finishing dinner. You're coming, right?"

Ilian looked at the professor. The invitation was routine, a safe datum.

"Yes, Professor. I will come. I just need... a moment."

"Of course. No rush. We'll be waiting," Richard said, closing the door and leaving Ilian to prepare for the evening.

Chapter 86: Reviewer Number Two

Wednesday passed in a functional blur. The physical therapy session was, once again, a battle of controlled pain, endured by Ilian with cold determination. The afternoon was spent in focused collaboration with Richard, both immersed in the calculations for the ice experiment, deepening their partnership. Ilian declined the invitation to dinner, preferring the silence of his own space.

Thursday morning, the day of the meeting, began with an almost unreal peace.

Ilian woke up early, anxiety a cold knot in his stomach. He went first to his amaryllis. He anchored himself in that moment of beauty while drinking his coffee. Then, he took his walk on the trail, stopping consciously within the permitted perimeter. Before preparing for the meeting, he spent an hour in the greenhouse with Helena, hands in the warm earth, a last moment of sensory peace before the battle.

At 1:45 PM, he was ready. The agency's black sedan was waiting on the gravel. Richard, beside him, was visibly tense. Ilian, on the contrary, was focused. He wanted this meeting. His obsession with the safety lock flaw, born of his trauma, was now a logical contribution. He was eager to finally speak with the chief engineer and fix the flaw.

The trip there was silent. The gray corridor of the agency building was now familiar. Ilian walked beside Richard with less hesitation, this was the third visit. He knew what to expect.

At the conference room door, Dr. Hayes awaited them with his polished smile. "Dr. Anderson, Ilian! Welcome," he said, eyes shining. "I'm enjoying these meetings so much I'm almost moving to Boston."

Ilian ignored the noise of fake cordiality. Richard just nodded formally, and they entered.

The room was arranged as always. The long U-shaped table. The silent HPP observers in their corners with their notepads. And, at Ilian's place in the center of the table, the box of tissues. A reminder of his past weakness. Ilian methodically ignored it and sat down.

Richard, as the meeting chair, opened the proceedings. "Thank you all for coming. Dr. Finch, please, can you update us on last week's optimizations?"

Dr. Finch smiled. "Of course. But first, I would like to formally introduce Dr. Thorne, our Chief Security Engineer, who joins us today."

Ilian observed the older man, perhaps in his sixties, in an impeccable suit and severe expression, who only nodded briefly, polishing his glasses. He was the opposite of Finch's enthusiastic energy.

The technical meeting began. Finch, Pike, and Yamamoto discussed the successes of Ilian's optimizations. As usual, Ilian took his notepad, wrote the answer in his precise handwriting, and slid the paper to Richard, who read the answer aloud. The filter worked perfectly.

After nearly an hour, Richard consulted his notes. "Excellent. That brings us to the second item on the agenda. Dr. Thorne, you wanted to discuss Dr. Jansen's concerns regarding the security protocols."

Before Thorne could speak, Ilian slid the note he had prepared to Richard. Richard read it aloud to the room: "Dr. Thorne, thank you for coming. I have a special appreciation for safety engineering. It is work of the utmost importance. I have many observations I would like to share with you."

Finch smiled at the formality. Thorne, however, gave a condescending smile.

"Well, Dr. Jansen," Thorne said, with a professorial tone. "I appreciate your appreciation. Let's see. You claim the protocol currently used has several flaws. Do you understand the diagnostic encryption standards we are using?"

Ilian, feeling he was being taken seriously, grabbed his notepad. He was in an academic debate. He wrote, and Richard read: Encryption is irrelevant. The problem is the diagnostic failure.

Thorne chuckled softly, a dry sound. "Interesting. But how do you define failure? The protocol is validated by international standards."

Ilian perked up. He was being heard. He wrote quickly, his handwriting precise. Richard read the note: A false diagnostic can force the system to ignore the lock. It is a flaw in the premise. The software can be corrupted. We need to be certain the physical lock would engage in this case.

Thorne seemed to ponder, adjusting his glasses. "A bold statement, Dr. Jansen. Are you saying the premise of decades of market standards can fail?"

Ilian, feeling validated that Thorne had understood his logical point, nodded. He grabbed the notepad again, mind now working fast.

The conversation then deepened. Thorne continued with a series of technical questions, but Richard, watching him closely, began to notice something. Thorne's tone wasn't one of curiosity, it was interrogation. Every question seemed like a trap, designed not to understand the solution, but to find a flaw in Ilian's logic.

Meanwhile, Ilian, focused purely on logic, was in his element. The conference room was no longer a threat, it was a seminar. He saw the problem and was determined to fix it. He answered every question, through Richard, with growing, enthusiastic logic.

Dr. Finch, also focused only on the science, intervened with enthusiasm. "Exactly! A redundant power source... we could use the backup bus..."

Richard sensed the danger. The contained anger on Thorne's face, the way his condescending smile tightened every time Ilian, through Richard, gave a brilliant answer, was obvious. Only Richard and, across the room, the HPP analysts seemed to realize this wasn't a debate, it was a trap about to snap shut.

"Gentlemen," Richard said, interrupting abruptly, taking control. "Let's take a five-minute break. Some coffee, perhaps."

Finch and Thorne seemed surprised by the interruption. Hayes just watched. The engineers stood up and moved to the corner of the room where the coffee was.

Richard turned immediately to Ilian.

"Ilian," he said, voice low and urgent. "Listen. It's better we change the subject. Dr. Thorne... he isn't being constructive. I think we've covered enough about the locks for today."

Ilian looked at him, genuinely confused. The morning's exhaustion had vanished, replaced by intellectual adrenaline. "But, Professor, he is asking the correct questions," Ilian whispered, excited. "He sees the failure points. It is an excellent debate. I need to show him how to improve."

Silent panic took hold of Richard. Ilian was walking willingly into the trap. He didn't understand the politics, and didn't see the ego.

"Ilian, please, let's just change the subject."

"I want to make one last note," he said, already grabbing a sheet, mind working fast. "To anticipate his next question. And, Professor, in your briefcase... did you bring my preliminary sketches of the mechanical lock? I want to give them to him. To show I already have the solution."

Richard closed his eyes for a second. He couldn't explain sarcasm and bruised ego in thirty seconds. Defeated, he opened his briefcase and took out the few sheets of paper where Ilian had drawn the first sketches of the lock.

The five-minute break ended. The men returned to their seats. Thorne seemed impatient.

"Dr. Thorne," Richard said, assuming his filter role, though he now felt like a traitor. "Dr. Jansen has prepared a final summary note and some preliminary sketches."

Ilian, proud, pushed the papers toward Richard, who handed them to Thorne. Richard continued: "He will produce the complete new testing protocols for next week, but this already defines the basis of the physical locks."

Thorne took the papers. Looked at the final note, long and detailed, full of Ilian's handwriting. Looked at the technical sketches. And then, the condescending smile finally became an open weapon. That was when he attacked. He held up Ilian's final note, the proof that the young man was engaged and confident. "Is this your argument?" he asked, tone falsely curious. "I can barely read this. 'Physics no'? 'Protocol failure'? "

He looked at Finch, as if sharing a joke. "Where are the articles in your text, Dr. Jansen? The protocol? A lock? It's almost incoherent."

Ilian froze. The blood seemed to drain from his face. The intellectual adrenaline vanished, replaced by a paralyzing cold. The attack wasn't on his logic. It was on his writing.

Thorne leaned back, the smile now clearly victorious. He addressed Richard and Finch, ignoring Ilian as if he were a child. "Theoretical brilliance is one thing. But in our world, for an idea to be accepted, it needs to pass peer review." He looked coldly at Ilian. "And obviously, you've already thought about what Reviewer Number Two will say about this, haven't you?"

Finch let out a short, uncomfortable laugh. Richard just stared at him.

Reviewer Number Two. Ilian went absolutely silent. His brain frantically scanned for the reference. Reviewer Number Two? What did that mean? Was it a security protocol? A codename? A Military clearance level?

There was no data. It was an unknown variable. He didn't know the answer.

While Finch cleared his throat and desperately tried to change the subject, going back to talking about material mathematics, Ilian, in his confusion, picked up his pen. He needed data. Slid the notepad close to Richard and wrote:

Professor, what is 'Reviewer n2'?

Richard saw the note. The innocence of the question, the proof of Thorne's cruelty, hit him hard. His fury was cold as ice. He took the pencil, leaned over Ilian's shoulder as if they were just reviewing an equation, and wrote his answer right below Ilian's question:

It is just a bad joke.

He had been exposed. Thorne had proven, with a subtle joke, that Ilian didn't belong in the club.

Richard saw the exact moment Ilian faltered. Richard's fury grew. His voice, when he spoke, was low, but it cut through the silence of the room.

"Dr. Thorne."

Thorne turned to him, the smile still on his lips.

"We are here," Richard continued, "because you are worried about security. Dr. Jansen just gave you the solution. He speaks Polish, German, and Russian. English is his fourth language." Richard leaned forward. "If your biggest concern is his grammar, and not the security flaw he just identified... then perhaps you are the noise in this room."

Thorne's smile vanished.

"Excellent," Richard said, standing up, ending the meeting. "If there is nothing else, this meeting is over."

The engineers began gathering their papers to leave. Thorne left without looking at Ilian, furious. Ilian started to stand up.

"Dr. Anderson, Ilian. A moment, please." It was Hayes. He approached, the HPP observers behind him. Richard tensed, expecting another attack. Ilian stood still, motionless.

Hayes addressed Ilian, his tone calm and analytical. "Dr. Jansen. Some professional advice, if I may." Ilian watched him, expressionless.

"Pay no mind to Dr. Thorne's display," Hayes said calmly. "It was a demonstration of tactical inefficiency. In my field, we observe that when an individual feels intellectually threatened and lacks a superior logical argument, they resort to direct attack, in this case, grammar and sarcasm."

Hayes looked at Ilian, a faint clinical smile on his face. "His attack was not a sign of your weakness, Dr. Jansen. It was proof of his weakness. You put him in logical check, and he flipped the board like a spoiled child. Your work was efficient. His was not. We are satisfied with your progress."

Ilian heard the logic. Attack = Weakness. It was a variable he understood. He didn't reply.

Richard and Ilian left the room. They made the trip back in the agency car in absolute silence. Ilian processed. Richard's defense protected him. Hayes's analysis rearmed him logically. But Thorne's humiliation, the mockery, the inside joke, was incomprehensible.

They arrived at the guest house. Richard, worried, went inside with Ilian. The house was silent. Ilian didn't go to the work desk. He stood in the middle of the room, frozen. Thorne's poison had worked in a way physical threats could not.

After a long silence, Ilian asked the question. "Professor, what Dr. Thorne said. About my writing. What was so wrong? Did you... did you comprehend what I wrote?"

Richard's expression softened, realizing the genuine insecurity. "Ilian, I understood perfectly. Your solution was correct and brilliant. Thorne was just being petty."

"But... the form. What was the error?"

Richard sighed, reluctant to validate the criticism but now understanding that Ilian needed the data. "Ilian, your spoken English is practically perfect. Your accent is minimal." Richard paused. "But Thorne... he was attacking your writing. You omit articles. 'The', 'A', 'An'. And sometimes you confuse prepositions. In writing, it becomes... very direct. Almost like a telegram."

Ilian processed the information. The data. The error. Articles. Connectors. He had always seen them as noise. Unnecessary redundancy. The logic of the premise was correct. Why did these connectors matter?

"Professor," he said, voice low, analytical. "I am not unaware of articles. I omit them. Omission of articles and connectors is a technique to reduce reading time and sentence noise. It is the most efficient way to record data. The logic was there."

"The logic was perfect," Richard agreed gently. "But for people like Thorne, form is a weapon. He used it against you."

"It is inefficient," Ilian murmured.

"It is human," Richard replied gently. "People use these connectors to soften language. Without them, your logic, which is brilliant, sounds harsh. Aggressive. He is forcing you to accept cultural redundancy."

"I did not know," he said, accepting the conclusion, "that cultural redundancy was a mandatory protocol."

Ilian absorbed the information. He now had the "data" about his grammatical error. He stayed quiet, processing, but there was another variable that didn't make sense.

"Professor," he said, voice still low. "The other thing. 'Reviewer Number Two'. You said it was a joke. But I didn't... I didn't understand the joke. What is the logic?"

Richard looked at Ilian, realizing he was literally asking for a technical explanation of sarcasm. "It is a cultural joke. It has no logic," Richard explained. "In the academic world, when you submit an article to a journal, it is sent to reviewers."

Ilian listened intently, as if in a lecture.

"And the joke," Richard continued, "is that Reviewer No. 1 is usually helpful. But Reviewer No. 2 is always the executioner. He is the jealous colleague who destroys your work because of a misplaced comma or because you didn't cite his paper. It is a symbol for destructive criticism." Richard sighed. "When Thorne called you 'Reviewer Number Two,' he wasn't attacking your logic. He was insulting you. He was calling you an arrogant critic."

The young man stood there, quiet, processing. Felt frustrated with himself for having a blind spot. Thorne had humiliated him for a technical error he didn't know he was making.

An error, he thought, could be corrected.

A cold, determined resolve settled in. He had survived Kessler. Survived Orlov. Survived the desert. Surely he could survive English grammar.

He raised his gaze slightly, his voice now steady. "Understood. I will improve. Thank you for explaining."

Richard, seeing that Ilian's mental fortress was intact, and that he was treating the humiliation as an engineering problem to be solved, felt immense pride. He decided the day had demanded enough.

"Ilian, listen. Don't let Thorne's noise win. Today's meeting was a victory. It was incredibly productive." Richard smiled. "You did a great job. Now, rest. Tomorrow is Friday. I'll see you in the afternoon."

Ilian, absorbing Richard's unexpected praise, felt the resolve solidify.

"Good night, Professor."

When Richard left, Ilian sat at his work desk. The error had been identified. The data, received. The humiliation would be processed and converted into action. He felt calm.

He took a blank page. At the top, he wrote a new title: "Communication Protocols: Articular Connectors and Cultural Redundancy." He was ready to study.

Chapter 87: The Popcorn Protocol

Saturday morning arrived, bringing a stillness Ilian hadn't felt in a long time. He woke up early, but without haste. His first thought was of the flower: the amaryllis on the coffee table. Now, the edges of the petals showed a slight sign of decay. The red was no longer as vibrant as before.

Instead of sadness for the fading beauty, he felt gratitude. The flower had fulfilled its purpose. It had given him the moment of peace and contemplation.

He went through his routine. Got dressed: dark trousers, a clean T-shirt, and the jacket Richard had given him as a gift. As he put on the thick fabric, he felt the weight and security of the material. It was a physical reminder of his new safety, his value, his acceptance by the Anderson family.

The previous day, Friday, had been spent in focused work. After physical therapy, Richard and Ilian spent the afternoon immersed in Project Argus. Richard was electrified, he had set up everything in the university lab for the ice experiment. Ilian, in turn, agreed to go personally to the lab next week, but only as an observer.

Richard took advantage of the opening and invited Ilian to go to the park with the duck pond. Helena and Elara wanted to enjoy the autumn sun, they would all go to the park together. Richard, his filter, had offered him a safety protocol: "They walk around the lake. We find a bench, away from the noise, and just enjoy watching." A safe social interaction. And Ilian, for the first time, accepted to go with all of them.

He took his cane. Opened the guest house door. The Saturday morning air was fresh, the sun shining. In an act of autonomy, instead of waiting, he began the slow crossing of the lawn. He didn't go to the kitchen door. He walked to the front of the main house, stopping on the gravel near where Richard parked. He waited. The wait itself was a new act. It wasn't the tense wait for a meeting or a punishment. It was a social wait.

The front door of the main house opened. Richard, Helena, and Elara came out, talking. They stopped when they saw him already there, ready, waiting for them in the sun.

Helena's face lit up. "Ilian! Dear, you're already here!" she said, in pure joy.

"Good morning, Ilian," Richard said, calm pride in his voice. "Ready to go?" Ilian just nodded, a little overwhelmed by the warmth of the reception.

"Let's go," Richard said, guiding the group to the car.

Richard and Helena took their usual places in the front. Elara went around the car, opened the back door, and got in. Ilian stopped for an instant, processing the logistics. His seat. The back door on the driver's side. Next to her. A confined space. The proximity was a new variable. He hesitated, but there was no alternative. He opened the door, got in slowly while everyone waited.

The car began to move. Ilian was hyper-aware of everything. The morning sunlight coming through his window. The sound of Helena's voice talking softly with Richard in the front. He wasn't cargo being transported to a meeting. He wasn't an asset being moved to a cell. He was in the back seat, next to Elara. He was going to the park. On a Saturday. With them.

He looked at Richard, at Helena's profile. Felt the gentle motion of the car. A sensation he couldn't name, a lightness in his chest so new and so overwhelming it was almost painful, rose in his throat. It wasn't joy. It was ecstasy. He was, for the first time in his life, on a family outing.

The trip seemed to last seconds for Ilian. He was so immersed in the feeling of normalcy, in the muffled sound of Richard and Helena's conversation in front, in Elara's quiet presence beside him, that he barely noticed when the car slowed down.

Richard entered the park, the same park as before. Passed through the main entrance and drove along a winding path, stopping at the exact secluded spot of his previous visit, with the car facing the stunning view of the lake.

"We're here," he announced, turning off the engine. The silence that settled was filled by the distant sound of voices and the wind in the trees. The park was quiet, as Richard expected, but not empty. There were a few families walking.

Helena turned in her seat, smiling. "What a beautiful day!" she said. "We're going to walk around the lake, Ilian. We'll be back in about an hour."

"Enjoy!" Richard said.

The air was crisp, smelling of pine and dry leaves. They waved and started walking happily, their voices mingling with the morning air. Richard walked slowly with Ilian to the same wooden bench as before, the one overlooking the lake. Ilian sat down, his mind light.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching Helena and Elara walk away. The autumn sun warmed Ilian's face. He looked at the ducks swimming lazily. The scene was so peaceful, so absurdly normal, that it seemed unreal.

"Professor..."

Richard, who was also watching the lake, turned. "Yes, Ilian?"

Ilian kept his gaze fixed on the water. His voice came out low, almost a whisper, charged with a wonder that left him breathless. "I think... I am dreaming. I cannot believe this is... real."

Richard looked at him, heart heavy with emotion. Saw the absolute sincerity on the young man's face. Reached out and placed his hand briefly on Ilian's shoulder, a firm, anchoring touch. Ilian didn't recoil. "This is real," Richard said, smiling gently. "It is your new normal. It is just an ordinary Saturday."

Ilian absorbed the words. His new normal.

They leaned back on the bench, in comfortable silence, just watching. In the distance, they saw Helena and Elara stop at a small kiosk near the main trail. Elara waved to them, and Richard waved back.

Ilian watched, fascinated, as they rented two bicycles. He saw Elara laugh out loud, almost lose her balance getting on, before they pedaled off together down another trail, the sound of her laughter echoing briefly before they disappeared behind a grove of trees. The ease of movement, the carefree joy... It was all new, all different.

Richard stood up. "Good. They'll be a while. Wait here." He walked away toward a small snack kiosk, leaving Ilian alone on the bench.

He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the place. He was safe. The smell of dry leaves and the warm, toasty scent of popcorn filled the air. He opened his eyes and looked at the lake, thinking about everything. Kessler. Orlov. The desert. They were like distant echoes, memories of someone else. They didn't matter. What mattered was this.

I could stay here, he thought, the idea so overwhelming it almost made him hold his breath. I could live like this for the rest of my life. Finally understood what people meant by "home." It wasn't a place. It was a feeling. This feeling of lightness in his chest. Of belonging.

The agency could watch him. The cage could have perimeters. But he didn't feel like a prisoner. He felt safe. He was happy. It was so much more than he had ever imagined possible. A normal life. Doing normal things. On a normal Saturday.

He was ecstatic.

Richard returned, balancing two paper bags and two bottles of water. Sat down again. "Phase one of the popcorn protocol," he said, laughing and handing Ilian one of the bags. "Unsalted. Exactly as the doctor would prescribe."

Ilian took the bag, thanking him. It was warm. They sat there, in quiet conversation, interspersed with comfortable silence.

The sound of laughter and the soft ring of a bicycle bell made them look up. Helena and Elara were returning, faces flushed from exercise. Richard, taking his phone from his pocket, stood up to take a picture of them, acting like a proud father. Elara laughed and braked the bike near the bench.

"My turn, Dad!" she said, laughing. Took her own phone from her pocket. Looked at the bench, where Richard was next to Ilian. The young man had a faint smile on his face. The "pearl" was showing.

Richard placed his arm casually along the back of the bench, behind Ilian's shoulders. A gesture of inclusion, not containment.

"It's for the family album," Elara said, smiling.

The sentence hit him with unexpected force. Family album. The words echoed in his mind. He processed the implication. A camera wasn't a surveillance tool, it was a memory tool. And he... he was being included in that memory. He wasn't an asset being monitored. He was part of a moment they wanted to keep.

He didn't hide. Remained quiet, looking at Elara, heart beating fast, not with fear, but with a gratitude so deep it was almost overwhelming. I am in their family album.

"Perfect," she said, still smiling, having no idea of the whirlwind of emotions Ilian was in.

After a while, with the bikes returned, they all walked together back to the car. The drive back home was light. Ilian was quiet, processing. He had been photographed. With the family. And nothing bad had happened.

Richard parked on the gravel driveway. Ilian began his slow exit process. "Ilian, thank you for coming with us," he said.

"Thank you for everything," he replied.

"We expect you for dinner," Richard continued, getting out of the car.

"That's right! And Ilian, dear, if you want to come earlier... around six... you can help me make the salad. If you want, of course," Helena offered, smiling.

Ilian stopped. An invitation to dinner was one thing. An invitation to help in their kitchen... was a level of domestic integration that frightened and fascinated him. He looked at Helena's kind face and nodded slowly. "Yes, Mrs. Anderson. I will try."

He exited the car and made the slow walk across the lawn to the guest house. Once inside, he closed the door, embracing the quiet. But as he stood in the middle of the room, he found the silence was full of echoes. Elara's laughter. 'It's for the family album.' Richard's voice and Helena's invitation. 'You can help me make the salad.'

Processed the information. It was an invitation to participate. To be useful in a way that didn't involve math or physics, but something simple. Something normal.

Chapter 88: The Salad Protocol

Ilian spent Saturday afternoon in the quiet of the guest house. The exhaustion from the park outing had hit him, but it was a good, satisfied tiredness. He didn't work. Just sat on the sofa and read a book.

He watched the clock.

Shortly before six, he stood up. The preparation ritual was no longer about performance. It was about participation. He showered. Combed his hair. Put on clean clothes and returned to the living room. He felt a pang of anxiety, but it was different. It wasn't the panic of a meeting, it was the nervousness of a new experience. Helping make the salad. It was a protocol he didn't know.

At six sharp, he crossed the lawn. The air was cold. The main house glowed with warmth. He ascended the ramp and knocked softly on the kitchen door.

Helena opened it, her face lighting up instantly. The smell of the kitchen enveloped him, something baking. "Ilian! Dear, right on time! Come in, come in."

He entered the kitchen. It was different from a normal dinner. Richard and Elara weren't there. The kitchen was Helena's territory.

"I am so happy you came to help," she said, with warm, practical energy. "Richard will be a while coming down, and Elara is finishing an assignment. It's just the two of us."

The phrase echoed. Just the two of us. It was a partnership.

"Wash your hands over there at the sink, please," she said, pointing. "We can start with the vegetables."

Ilian approached the sink, feeling like an intruder in her workspace. Turned on the tap. The sensation of hot water and liquid soap on his hands was a domestic ritual. Dried his hands on the dish towel she held out to him.

"Right," she said, excited. Led him to the wooden counter, where a cutting board and various fresh vegetables waited. "You can start by cutting these vegetables here."

She handed him a knife. Ilian looked at the object. He knew, in theory, what to do, but he had never done it. Cooking, for him, was the beep of a microwave or the functional act of frying an egg.

He took the knife in his right hand. Placed his left hand on the vegetable to steady it. And stopped. His left hand couldn't curve adequately to grip. The fingers didn't obey. The vegetable rolled slightly under his palm. A wave of frustration, of inefficiency, hit him.

Helena, who was watching him with a gentle gaze, noticed the hesitation and the silent struggle of his hand. She didn't make a fuss. "You know, I never asked you," she said, voice casual, coming closer. "What do you know how to cook? Besides the eggs Richard told me you make for breakfast."

Ilian relaxed his grip on the knife, grateful for the distraction. "I know how to make eggs," he said, factual. "And nothing else."

Helena laughed, a warm sound that filled the kitchen. "Nothing else? Oh, dear, we need to change that situation! You need to come to the kitchen more often. It would be my immense pleasure to teach you."

She looked at the situation on the cutting board, his left hand tense over the rolling vegetable. "But first," she said, "let's find a solution for this." She turned, opened a drawer, and took out a large, two-pronged fork. "Try with this."

She handed him the fork. "Use your left hand to spear the vegetable. Just to pin it firmly to the board. That way, it won't go anywhere." Ilian looked at the fork. An adaptation. A logical solution.

He took the fork in his left hand. Pierced the vegetable. It was anchored. With his right hand, he held the knife and made the first cut. The slice was clumsy, too thick.

"That's it," Helena encouraged, already turning back to her own work at the stove. "Perfect. Keep going like that."

Ilian made another cut. And another. The sound of the knife tapping against the wood was rhythmic. He was doing it. He was participating. The smell of fresh vegetables mingled with the smell of the food baking. Helena began to hum a song softly that he didn't recognize.

He was standing in the Andersons' kitchen, on a Saturday night, helping make the salad, listening to Helena hum. The normalcy of it, the domestic peace, was so deep, so overwhelming, that he had to stop for a second, heart beating hard in his chest.

He was happy.

When Richard and Elara joined them, the kitchen table was set. Dinner was quiet. He ate, this time with genuine appetite. The conversation was light, Richard telling a funny story about the university.

Ilian listened, waited for a lull in the conversation. "I have... news." Ilian looked at Helena, then at Elara. He was smiling. A small smile, but real. "The amaryllis. It is already wilting. The top petals."

"Oh, no!" Helena lamented. "What a pity..."

"It is alright, Mrs. Anderson," he said, the smile remaining. He struggled to articulate the complex feeling. "Its purpose was fulfilled. I... I am grateful to have seen it. For the beauty."

A silence fell over the table. Helena looked at Richard. Elara smiled, genuinely touched. This young man, who barely understood the concept of "Thanksgiving," was now, on his own, expressing gratitude for a wilting flower. Richard felt immense pride.

Dinner ended in this atmosphere of pure family happiness. Ilian stood up, the feeling of peace so complete it left him ecstatic. "Thank you for dinner. It was excellent."

Richard stood up too to walk him out. They walked to the kitchen door, now open to the cold night. "Tomorrow, we go to church in the morning," he said. "The guest house will be all yours, you will have peace. But we would like you to come for dinner with us again."

Ilian looked at the professor, at the promise of normalcy, of routine. "Yes, Professor. I will come."

Then, in a spontaneous gesture, Ilian hooked his cane onto his left forearm and extended his right hand to Richard. A genuine, tranquil smile illuminated his face. "Thank you very much for today."

Richard, deeply moved, took the young man's hand. He returned the grip with firmness and warmth, sealing that moment of perfect peace. "Good night, Ilian."

Ilian released his hand, turned, and walked down the ramp, carrying the warmth of that handshake with him.

Chapter 89: The Extraction Point

Sunday morning arrived with a stillness Ilian hadn't felt in a long time. He woke with the sun, not with memories. Sleep had been deep, nightmare-free. He felt physically recovered and mentally light.

He followed his routine. The sun was shining, the air cold and clean. He went to the amaryllis on the coffee table. The flower, now significantly wilted, was a reminder of his victory. With almost reverent care, he picked up the heavy pot. Carried it to his work desk and placed it in a corner. Even dying, it was still part of his space, a reminder of his achievement.

Preparing for his walk, he stepped out into the cold air, crossing the lawn to enter the trail. The walk had become an established routine, a ritual. He moved with a steady rhythm, the pain in his leg reduced to background noise. Upon reaching his perimeter, the clearing with the fallen log, he stopped and sat for a moment in the sun, absorbing the forest's silence. He was simply at peace.

After a while, he returned to the guest house feeling calm, his body warmed by the exertion.

It was time to work. He opened the Project Argus schematics, spreading them across the table. Picked up his pencil. He was calm, focused. The world was silent.

That was why the sound was so violent. It wasn't a loud sound. It was a wrong sound. The sound of heavy tires crushing the gravel outside. Several vehicles.

Ilian's hand stopped mid-equation. The pencil froze. The air in his lungs seemed to turn to ice.

He heard the engines turning off. Not one at a time, but almost in sync. A professional sound. Seconds of absolute silence. Then, the sound of car doors slamming. Three, maybe four, closing with dull, final thuds. His heart began to beat fast. He heard footsteps. Not Richard's calm steps. They were heavy, quick steps. They stopped on the porch.

Ilian sat perfectly still. His eyes fixed on the front door. He waited for the knock. But there was no knock. The doorknob turned. The door opened.

Agent Miller stood in the doorway. His face was a mask of cold satisfaction. He wasn't alone. Behind him, blocking the morning sunlight, were two more men, dressed in dark, functional suits.

Miller entered the room, expensive shoes silent on the rug. Looked at Ilian, sitting at the desk. Looked at the Project Argus papers. His eyes swept over the wilted flower in the pot. A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

"Stand up, Jansen." The voice was low, monotone, devoid of any emotion. "You're coming with me."

Ilian, with a deliberate movement, set the pencil down on the unfinished equation, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the paper. His right hand found the handle of his cane. Using the desk and the cane for support, he began the slow, painful process of standing up. His body was rigid. He raised his eyes and looked at Miller. His eyes were empty. The mental fortress had raised its walls. There was no panic. Only silence.

Without a word, he began to walk slowly toward the door, passing between the two agents who stepped aside to let him through. The bright Sunday sun hit him, but he didn't feel the warmth. He walked to the nearest car and got in.

The door was closed. He didn't look back at the house where he had known peace. He just closed his eyes. The battle for his mind was just beginning. Silence was the only weapon he had left.

Chapter 90: The Empty Place

The Andersons' kitchen was warm, bathed in soft yellow light. The smell of food filled the air. Richard, Helena, and Elara were relaxed, finishing a light conversation at the kitchen table. The atmosphere was tranquil, domestic. Richard was at peace, reflecting on the weekend's progress. The trip to the park, Ilian accepting being photographed with the family, the way he was opening up.

"Seven-fifteen," Helena said, looking at the wall clock. She smiled, already getting up to check the oven. "Ilian is late. That's not like him."

Richard, calm, chuckled softly. "He must have fallen asleep. I'll go check."

"Don't wake him if he's sleeping soundly," Helena said, maternal.

"I'll just check if everything is alright," Richard said.

He grabbed a light jacket from the hook, the night air was cold. Left the warm kitchen for the dark lawn. As he crossed the damp grass, he noticed the guest house was dark.

He knocked lightly on the door and entered. "Ilian? Dinner is ready!"

Silence. A deep silence. "Ilian?"

Nothing. A cold shiver ran up his spine. The calm of the room was what was wrong.

"Ilian?" he called, voice low, controlled, but anxiety vibrating in it.

Silence.

He forced his feet to move. Walked to the bathroom. The door was ajar. He pushed it open.

"Ilian?" Empty. The dry towel, folded. The air was cold.

The knot in his stomach tightened. Walked down the small hallway to the bedroom. Knocked lightly. Silence. Opened the door. The bed was untouched, perfectly made.

His gaze shifted to the bedroom's glass door leading to the patio. Crossing the room to look out, he found only empty garden chairs in the darkness. Backing away, his breath caught in his chest. The physical therapy room. He hurried to the end of the hall and opened the door. The machines were silent, standing like dark silhouettes.

Returning to the living room, Richard stopped in the center. His eyes were drawn back to the work desk, to the perfectly aligned pencil. He stepped closer and saw an incomplete equation. The logical conclusion hit him like a physical blow.

Ilian had been taken. He would never leave an equation incomplete.

The agency had taken him, back in the morning, while Richard was at Church. Richard's gaze returned to the aligned pencil. Ilian's calm. The "passive resistance."

Fury replaced panic. A deep fury. His hand shook, not with fear, but with rage. He called the chief strategist. The man who had called him an "anchor." He dialed Dr. Hayes's number.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Richard was about to hang up when the calm, clinical voice answered. "Dr. Anderson? What a surprise."

"Hayes," Richard's voice was low, controlled, vibrating with a rage he could barely contain. "Where is he?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Hayes's tone wasn't evasive, it was genuinely confused. "What are you talking about, Professor?"

"Ilian," Richard said, the word coming out like an accusation. "The guest house is empty. His work is on the table, interrupted. He has been taken."

Another silence, this time longer, tenser. When Hayes spoke, his professional calm had vanished, replaced by a cold urgency. "That is not possible. It was not authorized by me."

"I don't care who authorized it," Richard snarled. "I want to know where he is?"

"I don't know," Hayes said, and for the first time, Richard detected a hint of genuine irritation in the HPP chief's voice. "I will check immediately. I'll call you back. Hold on a few minutes."

The call ended.

Richard stood in the empty room, adrenaline turning into an agony of waiting. Looked at Ilian's aligned pencil. It was not authorized by me. Was Hayes lying? Was it all part of the game?

He needed another source. His paternal instinct, his panic, made him think the worst. A medical emergency. He quickly dialed Dr. Evans's number. "Robert, this is Richard. Have you seen Ilian? Was there any emergency procedure today?" Evans's voice was confused. "No, Richard. What? I saw him on Friday, he was recovering well. Why?"

"He disappeared."

"I wasn't informed of anything," Evans whispered.

Richard hung up, panic rising. He tried Director Vance's direct line. Voicemail. He was alone. Isolated.

He sat heavily on the sofa, the same spot where Ilian had shown him the notebook hiding place. The wait was torture. With every passing second, he imagined Ilian in a cold room, being pressured.

Looked at the cushion beside him. The "safe."

"I keep my treasures here." "If anything happens to me... you know where to find the project."

Those words, which he had interpreted as a melancholic testament, now sounded like a tactical instruction. The agency had taken him. But what if they came back? What if Miller, in his search for "proof" of sabotage, decided to toss this place?

He couldn't leave Ilian's secrets here, exposed. Protecting Ilian now meant protecting his ideas.

Trembling, Richard thrust his hand deep into the crevice between the cushion and the sofa frame. His fingers found the cold touch of paper. He pulled.

There wasn't just one. There were two black notebooks.

He recognized Projekt Rodzina, the one Ilian had entrusted to him. But the other... He opened it. It was full of the same precise handwriting, but it was in a language he didn't understand. Polish. There were also several drawings. It looked like a personal diary.

A feeling of violation hit him, but it was quickly supplanted by the need to protect. He wouldn't read it. But he wouldn't leave it there either. He held both notebooks, Ilian's soul and mind, against his chest. He would take them to his house. He would keep them safe. It was the only promise he could still keep.

The cell phone vibrated in his hand. It was Hayes. "Speak," Richard answered.

"It was General Thompson," Hayes's voice was icy. It wasn't a clinician's voice anymore, it was the voice of a strategist whose chessboard had been overturned. "Miller has aligned himself with the General. This transfer wasn't approved by the agency, the military bypassed all protocols."

"Where is he?" Richard repeated, fury returning.

"They took him to the Level 5 facility at the military base," Hayes said. "He is in 'security containment'."

"What?!" Richard asked, forgetting to control himself. "Hayes, you can't let this happen! You told me I was the anchor! You told me fear makes him resist! They are going to destroy him!"

"They are destroying my protocol," Hayes retorted, his anger now evident. "Miller and the General acted without HPP approval. They just turned a cooperative asset into a resistant one. This will not stand." Richard could hear the sound of papers being shuffled on the other end. "I'm catching the first flight from Washington to Boston. I'll be there tonight. I will resolve this situation. I'll be in touch."

The call ended. Richard sat on the sofa, phone in hand. Hayes was coming. But he wasn't an ally coming to help. He was a furious puppet master coming to stop another puppet master from breaking his most valuable toy.

Richard looked at Ilian's wilted flower on the table. What are they doing to you?

Chapter 91: The Internal Division

The next day, in the morning, Richard walked through the Agency's marble lobby, the sound of his shoes echoing with a solitary rhythm. His hands were empty. Ilian's notebooks, the proof of his genius and the confession of his soul, were safe, hidden in the depths of his home library. There, in that building, he brought nothing but his own presence and a contained fury burning in his stomach.

A silent assistant guided him to the private elevator. The ascent was fast, a pressure in his ears that seemed to increase the tension in his head. Upon exiting the elevator, he was led to Director Vance's office. Richard entered. The room was vast, with a panoramic view of the city.

Director Vance was behind her desk, a motionless figure of authority. Seated in a side armchair, Dr. Hayes held a cup of coffee, his posture rigid, eyes fixed on Richard with a clinical intensity.

"Sit down, Professor Anderson," Vance said, indicating the empty chair across the desk. Her tone was not one of command, but of a weary gravity.

Richard remained standing for a moment, challenging the power dynamic, before pulling out the chair and sitting on the edge, tense. "I want to know where he is. And when he is coming back."

"He is at a military base," Vance replied bluntly. "He is incommunicado. Level 5 containment protocol."

The confirmation hit Richard with physical force. A base. Cells. Guards. Exactly the nightmare Ilian was trying to wake up from.

"How did this happen?" Richard asked, looking from Vance to Hayes. "You guaranteed me you had control. Hayes, you said the protocol was integration, socialization."

Hayes set the coffee cup on the side table, the sound of porcelain on glass was sharp. "And it was. But the board has changed, Professor. Agent Miller did not act alone. He wouldn't have the authority to mobilize a military extraction without support from above."

"From whom?" Richard demanded.

"From Director Sterling," Vance revealed, the name coming out with a bitter taste. "He is a dissenter of our current strategy. Sterling maintains deep ties with the militarist wing and shares General Thompson's vision."

Richard frowned, trying to understand the politics that were crushing Ilian's life. "What vision?"

"The vision that Ilian Jansen is a saboteur," Hayes explained, voice cold. "They believe the Falke incident wasn't an accident, but an act of war. They think the HPP approach, 'socialization,' is an unacceptable security risk. For Sterling and the General, an asset like Ilian isn't persuaded, he is broken."

"He isn't a saboteur," Richard said, voice trembling with indignation. "He is innocent."

"We know," Vance interrupted. "But Sterling doesn't care. He authorized the transfer of custody to the Army under the justification of 'Immediate National Security.' They argue that our approach was taking too long to produce results on Project Argus."

Richard felt sudden nausea. "He won't make it. His kidneys... the diet, the leg... he needs specific care, controlled medication."

Vance raised a hand, trying to calm him with bureaucratic logic. "The asset's physical integrity is an absolute priority, Professor. The base's medical team received the complete records. They were explicitly instructed about the renal condition and the need for medication. Physical therapy will be maintained. They won't let his body fail."

"The body is irrelevant if the mind isn't there!" Hayes cut in, his voice losing its usual cool for the first time. He turned to Vance. "Director, with all due respect, Sterling can keep his heart beating with machines if he wants, but Ilian Jansen will produce nothing in that environment. He needs peace of mind. And he won't have peace of mind in a military cell."

Hayes looked at Richard, validating his position. "The asset has created a functional dependency on the Professor. Away from him, anxiety will paralyze the cognitive process. Sterling thinks he is gaining a weapon, but he is only acquiring an empty shell."

"Then bring him back!" Richard said. "You are the Agency. You have the power."

"Right now, we are blocked," Vance admitted, frustration evident in her rigid posture. "This Agency's number one priority now is to recover custody of Ilian Jansen. We have a legal and strategic team working on this since yesterday. But it is a jurisdictional war. The General alleges that Ilian's knowledge of the Falke places the case under the Army's purview."

"I attempted contact with the asset," Hayes said, looking at his own hands. "I requested immediate access for an emergency psychological evaluation. It was denied. Closed protocol. They cut the HPP off completely."

The image of Hayes being blocked bureaucratically showed Richard the gravity of the situation. It wasn't an administrative error, it was an internal coup. Richard felt the weight of helplessness. He couldn't go there. Couldn't get him out. But he needed to do something. Needed Ilian to know he hadn't been abandoned.

"I want to speak to him," he said, voice firm, accepting no refusal. "If he is so valuable, if his mind is so important, let me speak to him. On the phone."

Vance and Hayes exchanged a quick glance. Richard realized he wasn't just making an emotional request, he was aligning himself with their strategy.

"That is our immediate tactical objective, Professor," Hayes said. "To re-establish the line of communication. To prove to the General and Sterling that the only way to obtain any cooperation from the asset is through you. If we can prove you are the key, they will have to yield."

"We will get that contact," Vance promised. "But it will take time to break through Sterling's bureaucratic barrier. They will try their way first. They will try force."

"And when they fail, we will be ready to intervene," Hayes added.

The meeting ended without handshakes. Vance promised to keep Richard informed about political movements in Washington.

Richard left the room, walking back down the silent corridor. He felt the weight of the notebooks he had left at home, the only part of Ilian that Miller and the General hadn't managed to capture. He entered the elevator, alone. The door closed, and he understood the terrible reality: Ilian was no longer just a guest or a colleague. He was the center of an invisible bureaucratic war, and Richard was the only soldier fighting not for the asset, but for the man.