Conrad smirked as he loomed over Alex, his thick fingers wrapped tightly around the boy's neck. Alex's face was a blotchy mix of red and purple, his lips parting in futile attempts to draw in air. There was a savage satisfaction coursing through Conrad as he watched the life slowly drain out of the brat beneath him. The kid had been nothing but trouble since yassen had fished him out of the water by sarov orderes but now, finally, Conrad was going to fix everything.

Sarov had made a mistake—one Conrad had never been able to understand. Bringing a spy into their circle, letting him roam freely, preparing him a feast, sharing secrets... It was madness. Sarov was a general he knew the dangers of spies but still he had chose to ignore it, he wasn't in his right mind. He'd gone soft, distracted by some delusion that this kid, this *boy*, was someone special. Conrad sneered at the thought.

He knew why Sarov had brought the brat in. He'd seen the way Sarov looked at Alex, like he was seeing a ghost. The resemblance to Vladimir was unmistakable—the hair, the eyes, the way he carried himself. But Conrad couldn't allow sentimentality to jeopardize the mission. Sarov's weakness had already caused too much trouble, and Conrad was done with it. He knew that after he killed the boy Sarov would return to his senses.

Maybe while he was at it he should get rid of Gregorovich all together, he and the boy had some kind of relation that Conrad couldn't understand. It was impossible for an assassin like Gregorovich to protect the boy like that if they had never met.

Beneath him, Alex's struggles began to weaken, his flailing arms falling limp by his sides. Conrad's sneer deepened, his grip tightening. "Almost there," he muttered to himself. It wasn't just satisfaction driving him—it was anger. Anger at Sarov for being blinded by his past so much that he was compromising all of his plan.

Conrad's grip faltered, his hands loosening from Alex's neck as a sudden, brutal force struck him square in the chest. Pain exploded like wildfire, searing through his body and robbing him of every ounce of strength. His knees buckled, and before he could even process what had happened, he crumpled forward, collapsing onto Alex like a lifeless puppet with its strings severed.He knew the sensation, he had felt it before but never in such a vital place, he had been shot.

Conrad could feel the warmth spreading through his chest, sticky and wet, the undeniable sign of blood. He tried to move, to push himself up, but his muscles betrayed him.

He knew this feeling. He'd been shot before—battle scars from years of service—but never like this. This time, the wound was deep, vital, a death sentence written in fire that spread through his veins like poison. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle as the realization struck him like a hammer.

Conrad hit the icy ground hard, tossed aside like refuse. Pain flared briefly in his chest, though it was quickly overtaken by the cold numbness spreading through his limbs. His breath came in ragged gasps as his head lolled to the side, his vision narrowing. For a moment, his thoughts scrambled, frantic and disjointed, until his gaze locked on the figure standing above him.

Sarov.

The general's posture was rigid, his shoulders squared as he gripped the gun with both hands. Smoke still curled lazily from the barrel, dissipating into the frigid air. Conrad's eyes widened in disbelief. Of all the people he thought might turn against him—Yassen, the brat, even a stray sniper from the shadows—he had never expected him. The man he had given everything for, the man whose dream he had sacrificed his life to build. The general, holding the weapon of his death.

A deep, wrenching sense of betrayal coursed through him, sharper and colder than the bullet tearing through his chest. His mouth opened, but the words wouldn't come, his lips trembling as he struggled to speak. It didn't matter. The truth was clear in Sarov's eyes—there was no regret, no hesitation. The general had made his choice, and it wasn't him.

Why? The thought screamed through Conrad's mind, a desperate, furious howl. He had followed Sarov without question, leaving everything behind—his home, his life, his soul. He had been loyal to the end, protecting the man like a hawk, eliminating threats before they even had the chance to form. All to bring Sarov's vision of Russia to life, to restore the honor the world had stripped away.

And for what? Conrad's fingers twitched against the frost-covered ground, his strength waning. For a boy.

The brat lay a few feet away, crumpled but alive, coughing as Yassen hauled him upright. The sight of Alex Rider stirred a fiery hatred in Conrad's fading heart. It was all for him—this reckless, defiant boy who had fought tooth and nail to destroy everything they had worked for. The boy who despised Sarov, who rejected him at every turn, and who had turned Yassen, Sarov's most trusted assassin, into a hesitant traitor.

Conrad's breath rattled in his throat, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. He wanted to shout, to curse Sarov for his weakness, for his inability to see that Alex was their ruin. Instead, all he could do was glare at Sarov, his eyes burning with accusation and a flicker of desperation.

Sarov held his gaze for a moment, the lines of his face unreadable but stern. "This was your choice," Sarov murmured, his voice barely audible over the howling wind. "You forced my hand."

The finality in Sarov's tone shattered the last fragments of Conrad's will.

Conrad lay on the frozen ground, his lifeblood seeping into the ice beneath him. The world blurred and dimmed, but the bitter taste of betrayal burned sharper than the cold. He was alone. There was no one to mourn him, no one to curse his name. All his loyalty, all his sacrifices, had amounted to nothing. Sarov had discarded him like an old tool, and now the general was throwing everything away—for him.

Alex Rider. The brat who had unraveled everything.

Conrad's face twisted in pain and fury as his thoughts spiraled. He would not let it end like this. Not with his body left to rot in this forgotten wasteland, not with everyone walking away as if he had never existed.

His hand twitched, brushing against the cold metal of the gun strapped to his side. It was a small, familiar weight, one that reignited a spark of purpose in his fading consciousness. His fingers curled around the grip as he willed strength back into his broken body.

If I go, I'll make them remember me.

With every ounce of willpower he had left, Conrad dragged the gun from its holster. The effort sent waves of pain rippling through him, but he didn't stop. His vision narrowed to the bomb lying abandoned a few meters away, the cold metal surface reflecting the dim, gray light. He knew it wouldn't trigger the submarine's nuclear payload—that required precision, not brute force. But a blast from the explosive device would cause enough damage. Enough to disrupt everything.

As his trembling hand steadied the gun, his gaze flicked up, locking onto Yassen Gregorovich. The assassin stood a short distance away, his posture tense, his focus still on Alex. Then their eyes met.

Conrad's lips curled into a faint, triumphant smile. He saw the moment Yassen realized what he was about to do. The assassin's expression shifted, his usual mask of indifference cracking into panic. Yassen lunged forward, shouting something that Conrad couldn't hear over the roaring wind in his ears.

Too late.

Conrad's finger tightened on the trigger. His vision tunneled, his heartbeat slowing as if time itself paused. He felt the gun buck in his hand, the recoil almost too much for his fading strength. Then came the explosion—a deafening roar that consumed his senses, blinding light searing through the grayness.

The burning heat hit him like a wave, consuming everything. Conrad closed his eyes as he felt the pain of fire and shrapnel tear through him—brief, but enough. Enough to remind him he still existed, even in his final moment.

And then, nothing.

He died with a smile on his face, knowing he had taken something with him. Even if they walked away, they would not forget him. His name would echo in their memories, a final, bitter reminder that Conrad never went quietly.

Alex's body felt like it was on fire. The sharp tang of smoke invaded his nose, his throat burning as he struggled to breathe. Every nerve screamed in pain—his back, his head, his legs—but it was the crushing weight on his chest that was suffocating him. He clawed at the ground, his fingers scraping against the icy surface, desperate for air.

Through the haze of agony, he forced his eyes open. The world around him was a distorted blur, smoke curling through the air like sinister fingers. Tears stung his eyes, but he could barely see through them. His lungs burned as he coughed violently, trying to expel the acrid fumes choking him.

Everything was silent—eerily so. No shouting, no screams, only the deafening ringing in his ears that drowned out everything else. Panic clawed at his chest as he tried to focus, his mind racing to piece together what had happened.

Slowly, his gaze shifted upward, towards the crushing weight pinning him to the ground. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized the figure sprawled across him.

It was Yassen.

The assassin's body lay heavily on his, shielding him from the worst of the blast. Alex's breath hitched as he realized what must have happened—Yassen had pushed him down, covering him with his own body to protect him.

"yas...Yassen..." Alex croaked, his voice barely audible. He coughed again, fresh pain rippling through his chest. He tried to shift, but Yassen's weight pressed him firmly against the cold, hard ground.

Alex frowned, his chest heaving as he coughed again, his lungs protesting against the smoke still thick in the air. The man lying on him didn't move—not even a twitch. Panic started to creep in, icy and sharp, as Alex struggled to shift beneath Yassen's weight.

"Yassen," he called, his voice hoarse but urgent. Still, no response.

Summoning what strength he could muster, Alex braced himself and carefully pushed Yassen off. His muscles screamed in protest, his hands trembling as he rolled the man onto his back. The effort left him gasping, his body sagging forward as he knelt beside him.

The cold, the snow—it was all gone. The ground beneath him radiated heat, the aftermath of the explosion leaving the dock a smoldering ruin. Through the thick haze of smoke, Alex caught a glimpse of Sarov's body lying still on the ground, a stark figure against the scorched earth.

His attention snapped back to Yassen.

"Yassen," Alex called again, louder this time, his voice cracking. He leaned over, shaking the man's chest lightly, desperation creeping into his tone.

The assassin's face was pale, streaked with soot and blood. His eyes remained closed

"Yassen!" Alex called again, panic fully taking hold now. He shook him harder, his fingers gripping the front of Yassen's jacket. "Come on, wake up! "

This couldn't be, Alex knew that Yassen wasn't dead, he was sure of it. The man had survive worse, he had been shot in the chest hand had walked it off, this was just like that Yassen just wanted for Alex to think he was dead, but Alex wasn't going to let himself be tricked.

"Yassen, wake up!" Alex shouted, his voice cracking, the desperation raw and clawing at his throat.

Yassen lay still, his face ghostly pale beneath the streaks of soot and blood. Alex stared at him, willing him to stir, to blink, to do anything. But there was no movement—not even the faintest twitch of a muscle.

Alex hesitated, his breath hitching as he reached out with trembling fingers. His hands hovered uncertainly over Yassen's neck, dreading what he might—or might not—find. Finally, he pressed two fingers against the spot he knew he should feel a pulse.

Nothing.

His heart lurched, his stomach twisting painfully. Alex shook his head as if to dislodge the truth creeping into his mind. He adjusted his fingers, moving them slightly, pressing harder, searching desperately for any sign of life.

"Come on," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Come on, Yassen, don't do this to me."

But it was in vain. The silence was deafening, the absence of a pulse shattering.

"No, no, no," Alex muttered, shaking his head more forcefully, tears welling up in his eyes. He refused to accept it. His fingers fumbled clumsily, trying to reposition themselves, certain he must have gotten it wrong. But deep down, he knew.

His hands dropped away, shaking uncontrollably. His eyes teared up and this time it wasn't from the smoke, His vision blurred as tears spilled over, cutting clean tracks through the soot smeared on his cheeks.

"Please," Alex choked out, his voice barely audible. "You can't... you can't just leave me."

But Yassen didn't wake. Didn't move. The reality of it crashed over Alex like the weight of the rubble around them, leaving him hollow and gasping for air. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against Yassen's shoulder as the sobs wracked his body.

The world blurred into chaos as Alex clung to Yassen's lifeless body, unwilling to let go. The sound of engines roared, cutting through the suffocating silence like a jagged blade. Vehicles spilled onto the scene, tires screeching against the scorched, ruined ground.

Shouts rang out, sharp and urgent, their echoes bouncing off what remained of the dock. Heavy footsteps thudded closer, a cacophony of boots on broken concrete. But Alex didn't care. The noise was distant, irrelevant, drowned out by the storm inside him as he clutched at Yassen, his fingers digging into the assassin's jacket.

Hands grabbed at him suddenly, rough and forceful, yanking him back. He screamed—a raw, anguished sound—not from the physical pain but from the unbearable loss, from the panic seizing his chest.

"Leave me alone!" Alex cried, his words catching in his throat as he fought against the strangers pulling him away. His vision was blurred with tears, but he could see Yassen still lying there, unmoving, as they dragged him back.

He heard voices shouting in Russian, fast and sharp, but the words were meaningless to him, swallowed by the roaring in his ears. He thrashed against his captors, desperate to break free, but his body betrayed him, too weak and battered to resist.

They forced him to the ground, laying him flat on the scorched earth. His sobs shook him, his chest heaving as exhaustion began to creep in, clouding his thoughts.

"No," Alex whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please... don't..."

The hands holding him down didn't relent, but he barely felt them anymore. His vision darkened at the edges, his energy draining with each ragged breath. Above the haze of voices and chaos, one truth remained, anchoring him to the moment: Yassen was gone.

As his body gave in to exhaustion and his sobs quieted, Alex's mind clung to the image of Yassen—still, pale, and so unlike the man who had always seemed indestructible. The world around him faded into a dull hum, and then, mercifully, there was nothing.