Morning light crept through the apartment windows in thin, pale lines, cutting across the walls like cautious fingers testing the dark. Tomas opened his eyes at once.
There was nothing waiting for him.
No heaviness pressing on his chest. No sadness dragging him back into sleep. No hesitation. Just awareness — sharp, immediate, fully awake. His body rose from the couch before thought had time to interfere, moving with a quiet certainty that felt unfamiliar and disturbingly natural.
He got up because his body knew what to do.
Because in his mind there was now only one direction.
Everything else had fallen away.
He made coffee and prepared a small breakfast. He ate not because he wanted to, but because it was efficient. Fuel. The bitterness of the coffee barely registered, sliding past his senses without resistance.
Today I meet Viktor, he thought calmly.
He pictured the man without emotion — a businessman, owner of factories, warehouses, entire stretches of the industrial zone. Power like that was never isolated. It came with networks, favors, silence. Connections.
Connections I'll need.
When he finished eating, Tomas pulled on his running shoes.
The city was still waking when Tomas began to run.
Shutters rattled open. Early buses hissed at empty stops. A few figures moved through the streets with the dull expressions of people starting another ordinary day. Tomas passed them without seeing them.
His breathing was steady, controlled. His legs moved with mechanical precision, feet striking the pavement in clean, efficient rhythm. Each step burned away the last remnants of sleep, sharpening his awareness further.
He did not run to clear his head.
He ran to harden it.
As sweat formed along his spine, his thoughts narrowed. Strength. Speed. Endurance. Control. He cataloged them as requirements, not aspirations. His body was no longer something he inhabited — it was a tool.
And tools had to be sharpened.
He increased his pace, ignoring the burn in his calves and lungs. Pain was irrelevant. Pain was feedback.
After some time, he slowed.
Ahead of him stood the building he had noticed the day before — the old warehouse at the edge of the river road. Its walls were stained and cracked, windows reinforced with wire mesh. From inside came the dull, rhythmic thuds of impact.
The fight gym.
Tomas wiped sweat from his forehead and watched for a moment.
I'll go in, he decided.
Not someday.
Now.
The moment he stepped inside, the smell struck him — sweat, metal, old concrete soaked with years of impact. The air was thick and warm, vibrating faintly with movement.
There weren't many people. A handful of men worked heavy bags, fists slamming into leather with dull, punishing sounds. In the ring, two fighters sparred. One was clearly stronger, more experienced, driving the other backward with relentless pressure.
Beside the ring stood an older man.
Shorter than the others. Lean. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes missed nothing. He watched hands, feet, balance, timing — not power.
When Tomas entered, several heads turned.
For a few seconds, the room assessed him.
Then they returned to their training.
Tomas walked toward the older man.
"Who do I talk to if I want to train here?" he asked.
The man turned slowly, studying Tomas from head to toe. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Long limbs. There was potential there — unused, undisciplined, but real.
But it was the eyes that held him.
Cold. Empty. Not confused. Not angry.
Vacant.
The man felt a tightening in his chest.
The most dangerous kind of man, he thought, is the one with nothing left to lose.
"You can train," he said aloud. "Fifty dollars for a month."
Tomas handed over the money without comment.
No negotiation.
No questions.
He started with the jump rope.
I need speed. Agility. Close-range control.
The rope slapped against the floor in a steady rhythm. His movements were economical, precise. No wasted motion. He adapted quickly, correcting his own mistakes without instruction.
After a while, he moved to the heavy bag.
He began striking.
A few men glanced over and smirked.
"Sleepwalker," one muttered.
"Weak hits," another whispered. "Weird form."
But the older man did not smile.
His gaze sharpened.
Tomas wasn't hitting for power.
He was targeting.
Neck. Temple. Solar plexus. Kidneys. Jaw. Eyes.
Each strike was placed with intention, testing angles, distances. The bag was not a bag in his mind.
It was a body.
He's not here to play, the old man realized.
He's here to learn how to kill.
From the ring, the stronger fighter called out, grinning.
"Hey, newbie! Want to spar?"
Tomas checked his watch.
"Another time," he said flatly. "I have a meeting."
And he walked out.
Behind him, the older man muttered to the fighter:
"You're lucky. He's dangerous."
The fighter laughed.
"Then he's lucky he ran."
After a shower and clean clothes, Tomas left to meet Viktor.
The massive stone gates rose before him exactly as he remembered. Two men stood guard at the entrance.
"I'm here to see Viktor," Tomas said.
"Name?"
"Tomas."
They exchanged a glance — and opened the gates immediately.
Inside, a tall man approached.
"Follow me," he said. "I'll take you to Viktor's office."
The office was large, heavy with dark wood and silence. Viktor sat behind a wide desk, hands folded.
With a small gesture, he dismissed everyone else.
When they were alone, Viktor leaned back and studied Tomas carefully.
"You look different," he said. "Colder. Something changed since I last saw you. Everything all right?"
Tomas didn't waste words.
"You said you know someone I need."
Viktor smiled faintly.
"Straight to business. Good."
He leaned back further. "I know one of the best blacksmiths alive. But he doesn't take orders. Difficult man. Still — he owes me a favor."
"And I owe you one," Viktor added. "So it works."
Tomas inclined his head.
"Thank you."
Viktor understood then.
This wasn't curiosity.
This was necessity.
"His name is Ben Holt," Viktor said. "I'll take you to him."
They rode in silence, Viktor's driver at the wheel.
After some time, Viktor spoke.
"I mentioned a job before. You're a good doctor. I need medical help for my men from time to time. The work can be… dangerous. I'll pay very well."
Tomas considered it.
Information about NovaCure. Money. Access.
"I won't always be available," Tomas said. "If I'm free, I'll come. If not, I won't."
Viktor nodded after a moment.
"Agreed. Paid per job. And I'll give you a car — so you can reach us quickly when needed."
They arrived half an hour later.
A squat building stood before them, chimneys belching black smoke. The sound of hammering metal rang through the air. Heat and the smell of coal pressed in as they approached.
Inside was unexpected.
Modern equipment stood beside massive old forges and anvils. It looked less like a workshop and more like a laboratory fused with another century.
A man stood nearby.
Broad. Bearded. Around fifty. Thick arms. Scarred hands. Power still radiated from him despite his age.
Viktor grinned.
"Ben! How's my old friend?"
Ben didn't look at him.
"Since when are we friends?" he replied, turning back to his work.
Viktor chuckled.
"Come on. I brought you a client."
Ben finally turned his gaze to Tomas.
Cold eyes.
Empty face.
Tomas lowered his head slightly.
"Good day. I need your services."
Ben scoffed.
"Viktor knows I don't take orders."
"He owes me one favor," Viktor said calmly. "And I'm calling it in."
Ben frowned.
"You're using it on him?"
"Yes. He saved my life, he is doctor."
Ben studied Tomas again.
"He doesn't look like a doctor."
Tomas met his gaze.
"I used to be a surgeon," he said coldly.
"And I want you to make something for me."