Everything was a blur for Alex—just flashes of dim hallways and the constant, burning ache that overtook every other sense. He was dimly aware of Yassen beside him, of his lips moving, saying something, but Alex could only make out the faint hum of sound. The words drifted beyond him, unreachable, as he fought to stay conscious.

At last, they reached his room. Yassen eased him down onto the bed, carefully positioning him on his stomach to spare his ravaged back from the sheets. The mattress felt unforgiving, each fiber pressing into his skin, amplifying the agony instead of offering relief.

Alex watched Yassen leave, his figure disappearing out the door. For a brief moment, he thought the man had abandoned him, leaving him to suffer in silence. But before he could even process the thought, Yassen returned, arms filled with supplies. Bandages, ointments, a basin of water—things Alex vaguely recognized but couldn't bring himself to acknowledge through the haze of pain.

Yassen moved with a quiet efficiency, setting everything down on the small table by the bed. His gaze was steady, almost clinical, as he looked at Alex, but there was a flicker of something else, something softened, in his usually cold eyes. Alex tried to turn his head to see better, but the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through him, forcing his face back into the mattress.

Alex felt the cool edge of a blade as Yassen cut through the remnants of his tattered shirt, every tug of fabric peeling painfully away from the raw skin underneath. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself not to cry out as the cloth finally gave way, leaving his back bare to the air. The sting from the fresh wounds seemed to amplify, each one a throbbing reminder of Sarov's punishment.

Yassen worked silently, dipping a piece of cloth into clean water before bringing it to Alex's back. The first contact made him flinch, but Yassen's touch was surprisingly gentle, far more than Alex had expected. He moved with practiced care, wiping away the blood and grime in slow, measured strokes, as though the act itself required a level of reverence. The cool water was a brief balm against the heat of Alex's pain, and with each pass, a slight sense of relief washed over him, though it did nothing to dull the ache deep in his muscles.

Yassen's silence was heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts, and Alex couldn't help but wonder what was going on behind those impassive eyes as he cleaned the wounds Sarov had so mercilessly left.

Yassen's voice was low, almost soft. "I have to disinfect the wounds," he murmured, but there was no mistaking the tension in his tone. It was the only warning Alex received before a searing jolt of pain shot through his back as Yassen pressed a disinfectant-soaked cotton pad onto his wounds. Alex let out a strangled groan, his body arching off the bed involuntarily, muscles contracting as he fought the urge to scream.

Sensing Alex's reaction, Yassen pulled the cotton away, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Alex's face pressed into the mattress, the pain ebbing just enough to allow him to speak. He drew a shaky breath, nodding as he braced himself against the sheets. "You can do it," he managed, his voice a strained whisper.

Yassen didn't reply but set to work with methodical care, each press of the disinfectant leaving Alex clutching the bed tighter, his knuckles white against the fabric. The pain was relentless, unyielding, but through it, Alex sensed Yassen's steady presence, a quiet determination in his movements. It wasn't mercy, but it was something close—a silent understanding of the agony he was inflicting and the unspoken promise to see it through.

Finally, Yassen set the bloodied cotton aside, his fingers steady as he reached for a small bottle of cream. He opened it carefully, scooping a bit onto his fingertips before gently applying it to Alex's torn skin. This time, instead of the fiery sting, a soothing coolness spread across his back, washing away some of the pain. The sweet relief was almost overwhelming, a quiet balm that eased the relentless ache of the past hours.

Alex let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension slowly releasing from his body as the cool sensation seeped into his wounds. Exhaustion overtook him; he felt his heavy eyelids droop as the room dimmed around him. Finally, he closed his eyes, surrendering to the embrace of sleep, his battered body finding solace at last.

Yassen reached out, almost instinctively, brushing a hand through Alex's hair. The boy didn't stir, not even a flicker of response to the gesture. His breathing remained shallow, and his face was pale, a stark contrast to the dark bruises starting to form along his shoulders.

Yassen's hand lingered for a moment before he pulled it away, caught off guard by his own unexpected sympathy. He had been trained to be ruthless, to do what was necessary without question. But as he looked down at Alex, vulnerable and still in the dim light, he felt a rare pang of something uncomfortably close to regret.

Yassen's eyes lingered on Alex's still form, guilt gnawing at him like a wound left untreated. He had stayed to protect Alex—that had been the plan, the purpose he'd given himself. Yet, tonight, he'd done nothing but stand by, watching the boy endure pain he'd sworn to prevent. His chest felt heavy, the ache of his own failure more potent than any wound he'd ever known.

With a sigh, Yassen picked up the basin, its water now darkened with streaks of blood—a vivid reminder of the suffering he hadn't stopped. The crimson swirled in the murky water as he turned, his footsteps slow and quiet, the weight of regret pressing down on his shoulders. He closed the door behind him softly, the silence of the hallway amplifying the painful truth of his inaction.

Yassen moved quickly, rinsing the bloodied basin and setting it in the kitchen sink. He hadn't planned to take this long—his mind was already back in Alex's room, hoping the boy would stay asleep.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Conrad stepped into the kitchen, his voice a sneer. "Playing nurse, are we?"

Yassen didn't respond, his face betraying nothing. Conrad kept circling, throwing taunts that barely registered. After years in this line of work, Yassen had mastered the art of silence. Conrad's jeers were an invitation to drop his guard, to let something slip. But Yassen knew better. Conrad was like Nile—a man who wanted respect but would always remain second best.

Turning to leave, Yassen made his way to the door, intent on returning to Alex. Suddenly, Conrad's hand clamped down on his arm, forcing him to look at him. His grin was dark, simmering with barely concealed contempt.

"I don't know what your deal with the brat is," Conrad hissed, tightening his grip. "But it's messing with the General's plans."

Yassen wrenched his arm free with a sharp, controlled movement, his expression hardening as he turned to head back to Alex's room. He didn't bother responding; Conrad's words were nothing more than empty echoes to him.

Behind him, Conrad's voice trailed, laced with malice. "He won't survive until the end, Gregorovich."

Yassen paused just briefly, letting Conrad's threat hang in the air unanswered. Then he moved on, his steps purposeful, unyielding. Conrad's words didn't matter.

When Yassen entered the room, the faint light cast a soft glow over Alex's bruised face, his brow furrowed even in sleep. Yassen moved quietly, almost reverently, and settled into a chair beside the bed. He watched Alex breathe, each rise and fall of his chest a small reassurance, but also a painful reminder of everything he'd endured. The silence of the room felt heavy, the quiet punctuated only by Alex's soft breaths.

Yassen leaned forward, his fingers lightly touching his own temple in thought. Protecting Alex had been his intention from the start, yet here he was, watching over the boy after a punishment he'd failed to prevent. Yassen sat there, resolute, guarding Alex as he slept, an unspoken promise hanging in the quiet room.

Yassen remained like that for hours as Alex slept until the door crack open, Yassen's eyes flickered to the door, his posture stiffening as Sarov entered. The general's gaze landed on Alex, his expression unreadable. Yassen stayed seated, his face calm but his grip tightening slightly on the armrest.

"How is he?" Sarov asked, his tone calm, almost casual, as if he hadn't been the one wielding the whip only hours before.

"You went to far," Yassen replied, his voice even but carrying an undertone of reproach. He held Sarov's gaze without flinching, his eyes reflecting only a quiet determination.

Sarov studied Yassen for a moment, then turned his focus back to Alex, who lay unmoving in the bed. "This was necessary, Yassen," he said softly, almost as if explaining to himself. "Discipline creates resilience."

"He'll hate you even more," Yassen replied, his voice low but laced with conviction. There was no anger in his tone, just the plain truth.

Sarov looked at him, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "Hate is temporary. Understanding will come in time. He'll see this was all for his benefit."

Yassen held his stare, unyielding. "Or he'll see it for what it is," he countered, voice calm but edged with a rare defiance. "And hate you for it until the end."

Sarov's gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. After a long silence, he turned and left the room, leaving Yassen alone once more with Alex, the air heavy with unspoken words and the weight of the choices being forced upon them all.

The soft click of the door closing seemed to pull Alex back to consciousness. His eyes fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion and pain, and he shifted slightly, wincing as his back protested even the smallest movement.

Yassen leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied Alex, his hardened gaze softening just slightly in the dim light. Shadows danced across his face, hinting at a depth of emotion he rarely let show. "Try not to move too much," he murmured, his voice low and quiet. Alex let out a shuddering breath and settled back against the bed, wincing as the pain flared fresh across his back.

After a moment of silence, Alex's gaze drifted to Yassen, suspicion tightening his expression. "What are you doing here?" His voice came out rough, tinged with a defiance that barely hid the hurt beneath.

Yassen didn't answer immediately, his silence heavy, his gaze steady as he looked back at Alex with a kind of quiet resolve.

"What?" Alex's voice sharpened, bitterness creeping in. "You want to pretend you care now?

Yassen's expression remained unreadable, his gaze unwavering as he looked at Alex, though there was a flicker of something deeper beneath his eyes. For a moment, he stayed silent, letting the weight of Alex's accusation settle between them.

"I'm here to make sure you're not alone" he finally said, his voice low, almost reluctant, as though he didn't quite believe his own words.

Alex gave a bitter, strained laugh, wincing as it pulled at his sore muscles. "You think standing here now makes up for what happened? For letting him do this?" His voice was thick with anger and pain.

Yassen's face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—guilt, regret, perhaps even shame. "I couldn't stop him, Alex," he said quietly, each word slow, measured, as though he was bracing himself against the truth. A shadow crossed his face, but his gaze never wavered. "But that doesn't mean I want you to suffer."

"Yes, you could," Alex shot back, the anger barely masking the hurt that sharpened his voice. "You could have helped me like I asked. You chose not to."

Yassen's jaw tightened, the muscles in his face taut as he held back whatever emotions battled inside him. "I can't, Alex. Whether you understand it or not, you're safer at his side than anywhere else."

Alex's frustration boiled over, his voice thick with desperation and anger. "Why? Why don't you tell me anything, Yassen? Why won't you just be honest with me?"

Yassen paused, his expression unreadable, before finally answering. "We leave tomorrow, Alex."

Alex's eyes narrowed. "Where?"

"Murmansk."

"Where's that?" Alex's voice dropped to a guarded tone. "Russia?"

Yassen gave a single, slow nod.

"What's he planning?" Alex pressed, his voice a mix of fear and defiance.

Yassen's gaze flickered, but he remained silent for a long moment. "I can't tell you that," he said finally.

"Why not?" Alex demanded, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Because you can't stop it," Yassen replied, his voice carrying a finality as cold and unyielding as the Russian winter.

Alex's jaw clenched. "I can't, or you won't let me?" His eyes bore into Yassen's, searching for any hint of the truth, any crack in the assassin's composed mask.

Yassen's gaze dropped, his stoic mask slipping back into place. "Get some rest, Alex," he said, his voice low and weary, as though carrying the weight of something unspoken.

Alex wanted to scream, to fight, but exhaustion and pain tethered him to the bed. His eyes burned with unshed tears, frustration boiling in his chest as he watched Yassen retreat back into that impenetrable silence.

The next morning, Alex was startled awake by the sound of Yassen's voice, firm and unyielding. "Get dressed. You'll attend lunch with the president."

Alex blinked groggily, disoriented. Before he could ask a single question, Yassen was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Alex sat up, wincing as pain flared across his back, a sharp reminder of the previous day's punishment. Each movement felt like fire beneath his skin.

Dragging himself over to the small mirror in the room, Alex took in his reflection. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his face was pale and drawn, a stark contrast to the usual determination that burned in his expression. Turning his back to the mirror, he strained to get a look at the bandages crisscrossing his back, meticulously wrapped. The fresh, neat bandaging suggested that Yassen had redressed his wounds before waking him. The realization unsettled him. It was strange, the thought of someone like Yassen—a cold, calculating assassin—taking the time to care for him.

Alex's mind raced, the implications of the lunch sinking in. If Yassen was telling the truth, it meant they'd be leaving for Russia—today. Murmansk. The name echoed in his thoughts, a cold dread settling in his stomach.

He approached the simple desk that stood in the corner of his room, its surface worn and scratched from years of use. A single piece of paper lay on it, blank and unassuming. His heart thudded heavily as he picked it up, knowing that every second counted. Grabbing a pen, Alex scrawled a single word in bold, uneven letters: Murmansk. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the word, hoping that if anyone ever came looking, they'd understand.

With a sigh, he flipped the paper over, hiding the message in plain sight. It was a desperate gamble. There was no guarantee anyone would search the room after he was gone, let alone find the clue he had left. But it was something. A breadcrumb, a sliver of hope in the storm of uncertainty that surrounded him.

Alex hurriedly grabbed the clothes laid out for him, trying his best to dress as quickly as possible. Each movement sent sharp pangs through his back, the fabric rubbing painfully against the fresh wounds and bandages. He grit his teeth, fighting back the discomfort, just in time for the door to swing open.

Yassen stood there, his face unreadable. "Let's go," he said, his voice calm but commanding.

Alex followed him out, every step heavy with apprehension. They entered the grand dining room, which was filled with the murmur of conversation and the smell of rich, unfamiliar dishes. The room was full of powerful figures: the Russian president and his entourage, their presence imposing. Sarov stood near the head of the table, his eyes lighting up as Alex walked in.

"Alex, my son," Sarov said, his voice filled with a disturbingly paternal warmth. He rose to greet him, stepping forward and placing his large hands on Alex's shoulders. The weight of his grip pressed down on the still-healing cuts and bruises, sending a fresh wave of agony through Alex's body. He struggled to keep his face neutral, biting back a wince.

"I'm so happy that you're here," Sarov continued, his tone almost affectionate. "Are you feeling better?"

Alex swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet the man's gaze. The concern in Sarov's voice felt twisted, like a knife cutting deeper, and Alex could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him.

Alex forced a sarcastic smile. "Never better," he replied, his voice steady despite the tension simmering beneath the surface. Sarov mirrored the gesture before turning his attention to the table. "Young Alex here will join us. For that, I ask you to speak in English." With a deliberate motion, he guided Alex to sit beside him, while Yassen took the seat on the other side.

The table was adorned with an assortment of appetizers—plump olives glistening under the soft lighting, a variety of cheeses arranged artfully on a wooden board, and an array of savory snacks that looked both inviting and intricate. But Alex's stomach twisted at the thought of touching any of it.

Sarov cleared his throat, his voice ringing with a formal air. "I'm so glad you're all here. And for that, I want to propose a toast." He nodded to Conrad, who approached with a silver tray, its contents gleaming: small glasses filled to the brim with clear liquid—vodka, if Alex had to guess. The glasses were passed around, but when the tray came to him, it skipped Alex. None reached Sarov or Yassen either, and Alex frowned, catching onto the peculiarity.

"Now, Alex won't be drinking any alcohol," Sarov announced smoothly, as if that explained everything. "He's too young for that, of course." Though Alex wasn't exactly young when it came to drinking spirits—having indulged on numerous occasions—he chose not to voice his own reasons. He didn't want to drink anyways.

Yassen and Sarov exchanged a glance, a silent understanding. "Yassen and I don't drink, of course," Sarov added, his words clipped, carrying an undertone that hinted at more than just abstinence.

Alex was the only one who seemed to notice the ominous coincidence as the president raised his glass. "Na zdarovie!" he called out, his voice booming across the room before he downed the drink, followed by everyone else.

Alex's gaze flickered toward Sarov, catching a pleased smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He leaned closer, a chill running down his spine. "What did you do?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. Sarov merely looked at him, eyes gleaming with a disturbing sense of satisfaction. "You'll see, Alex. It all begins now."

As if on cue, one of the guests doubled over, clutching his stomach with a groan before collapsing sideways, his glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor. Gasps echoed around the room as another guest slumped forward, followed by another. Panic gripped the guests, but before anyone could fully react, each began falling, one by one, until within moments, the entire room was silent.

Alex's horrified gaze darted over the bodies sprawled across the floor, a sickening wave of realization washing over him. "Don't worry, Alex," Sarov said, his voice calm, almost reassuring. "They're not dead."

But before Alex could process those words, Sarov reached out, gripping his chair and pulling it forcefully closer. "Now," he said, a sinister smile spreading across his face, "it's your turn."

Before Alex could react, a sudden, sharp pain shot through his leg. He looked down in alarm to see a needle pressed into his thigh, Sarov's hand still on the syringe. The world around him began to blur as his mind raced, desperately trying to stay alert.

As the drug coursed through his veins, Alex slumped back into the chair, feeling his body betray him as his limbs grew weak and unresponsive. His vision blurred, and the room around him seemed to warp, the edges of reality fading into shadow. He felt Sarov's hand press against his chest, steadying him in the chair, preventing him from slipping forward. The touch felt both stabilizing and ominous, holding him captive in his own body.

Shapes and movements swirled around him—people shifting, voices murmuring—but it was as though he were sinking underwater, sounds becoming muffled and distant. He fought to keep his eyes open, his mind scrambling to make sense of his surroundings, but the drug was relentless, a heavy fog pulling him deeper with every breath. His last fleeting thought was a desperate urge to resist, to stay alert, but his strength faded, and he could only sit there, helpless, as his world dissolved into darkness.