Tomas stepped out of Viktor's office and barely made it three meters down the corridor when a calm voice stopped him.
"Wait a moment, Tomas."
Michael Russo stood near the window, relaxed, hands loosely clasped, his smile polite but sharp—like someone used to turning numbers into power. Tomas turned, already knowing what this would be about.
"As you know," Michael continued smoothly, "I handle the finances. You mentioned earlier that you want your payments transferred to a specific account. Normally, we only move money through banks we control—for obvious reasons." His eyes studied Tomas carefully. "But your situation is… different."
Tomas nodded once. No defensiveness. No explanations. He took out a small piece of paper and handed it over.
"This is the account," he said. "I want only clean money sent there. No laundering, no indirect flows. I don't need large sums—only what you believe my work is worth."
Michael laughed softly, genuinely amused. "Understood. The money I send you will be clean. And don't worry—we reward good work generously."
"Thank you," Tomas replied, already turning away.
At the entrance hall, Isabel was waiting. She straightened when she saw him, a practiced smile forming easily.
"So," she said lightly, "looks like we'll be working together. Maybe we should get to know each other a little better?"
Tomas stopped but did not fully face her. His voice was calm, distant—not rude, but closed.
"That won't be necessary. I'll do the job I'm given. If you need to discuss work, I'll be staying in this house. Right now, I have other matters to take care of."
Isabel met his eyes then—and whatever she saw there made her smile fade slightly. Not hostility. Not arrogance. Just emptiness.
"I understand," she said quietly. "Another time, then."
Tomas nodded once. "Good evening."
Outside, he got into his car and drove off without hesitation.
The streets leading home were familiar but distant, like scenery from a life already finished. Traffic lights changed. Cars passed. People crossed streets unaware that he was already separating himself from them. He parked, sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel, then went inside.
The apartment greeted him with silence.
He moved efficiently. A backpack on the floor. A few clothes—nothing unnecessary. At the bookshelf, his hand paused only briefly before taking Laura's USB drive containing NovaCure documents and photographs. He placed it carefully inside the bag.
Then he erased himself.
Photographs. Notes. Books with annotations. Anything that proved someone lived here. He filled empty boxes, carried them out, dumped them into the container. When he returned, the apartment felt colder—emptier than before.
He locked the door behind him without looking back.
Before going to Viktor's house, Tomas made one last stop.
Obsidian.
The bar was quieter than usual. Lukas recognized Tomas immediately—and froze. Tomas looked different. Leaner. Harder. His posture controlled, his eyes stripped of warmth. A man who no longer belonged to places like this.
"Tomai!" Lukas called. "How are you?"
Kristina emerged from the back when she heard his name. She stopped mid-step when she saw his face.
"Tomai… you—"
Tomas walked to the bar and placed a bank card on the counter.
"Give this to Laura," he said evenly. "Money will be transferred to this account. Tell her it's her insurance and salary. She can use it however she wants. Don't mention me."
Kristina stared at him. "Don't you care how Laura is doing?"
"No," Tomas replied coldly. "She'll be fine."
He turned and walked out.
Lukas lowered his gaze. "He's changed," he said quietly. "I'm afraid he's heading down a dark path."
Kristina hesitated. "Maybe it's better if Laura never knows about him…"
Tomas drove toward Viktor's estate as night settled fully over the city.
Everything here is finished, he thought. Let them live in peace. My road from now on must be dark—so others can stay in the light.
The mansion appeared behind its high stone walls, lights glowing, guards moving methodically through the grounds. Tomas entered through the massive doors, backpack over his shoulder.
A house manager greeted him and led him upstairs to the third floor. The corridor was wide, quiet. A door on the right.
"This will be your room," the man said, handing over the keys. "Good evening."
The room was simple. A bed. A small desk. A wardrobe. One narrow window overlooking the inner courtyard.
Tomas placed the backpack on the floor and sat on the bed. The silence pressed in—not uncomfortable, just final.
"I should try to sleep," he thought.
Whether sleep would come was another matter entirely.
Morning came early.
Tomas opened his eyes and for a brief second didn't recognize the ceiling. A new room. A new place. The realization settled quickly.
Time to get up. Training starts now. I have three months before I get a weapon.
He rose, dressed in loose, practical clothes, and left the room. Outside in the courtyard, the air was cool and still. Guards nodded as he passed.
"Going for a run," Tomas said.
They stepped aside and opened the gate.
He began running through the cold streets of the industrial district. The buildings were familiar—warehouses, factories, loading yards.
I worked here once, he thought. Back then everything felt meaningless.
Now it's the same—except I have one goal.
The thirteenth point on the list.
The last one.
As he ran, he memorized every street, every side alley, every possible route. If he ever needed to disappear from this place, he would know how.
After more than an hour, he returned to the mansion.
At the steps, Mateo was waiting.
"I see you've already warmed up," Mateo said. "Come with me."
Tomas nodded and followed him to a separate building behind the mansion. Inside was a wide training space filled with equipment—clean, quiet, serious.
"Let's see what you can do," Mateo said. "Put on gloves and headgear. We'll spar."
"Gloves are enough," Tomas replied. "What are the rules?"
Mateo smiled. "In this line of work, there are no rules. You have one objective—defeat your opponent."
"Good," Tomas said. "That suits me better."
He studied Mateo carefully. Solid build. Strong. Not too big—fast, experienced.
Weak points…
Right arm movement—slightly heavy, unstable. Possible nerve damage.
They stepped into an open area.
"You can start when you're ready," Mateo said calmly.
Tomas moved.
In an instant, he closed the distance. Mateo raised an eyebrow. "Fast."
Tomas aimed a strike toward the left temple. Mateo blocked easily. Tomas followed with a kick toward the nerve in the left thigh—but Mateo pulled the leg back in time.
Exactly what Tomas wanted.
Mateo's focus shifted to defending the left side.
Tomas pivoted sharply, repositioning to Mateo's right, and struck toward the neck.
Mateo reacted just in time. His expression hardened. With practiced precision, he caught Tomas's arm, stepped in, and threw him cleanly over his shoulder.
Tomas hit the floor.
He was back on his feet instantly and attacked again—targeting dangerous points, striking with intent. But Mateo anticipated every move. His defense was complete.
"Enough," Mateo said.
He drove a controlled strike into Tomas's solar plexus, seized his arms, and threw him again.
Tomas lay on the floor, breathing hard.
I'm too weak.
Mateo stepped closer and offered his hand, pulling Tomas up.
"You surprised me," he said. "Are you really a doctor? Because the way you move—your precision, your targeting—you look more like a professional hitter. You lack experience and some physical conditioning, but the talent is there."
Tomas stood upright, jaw tight. "I'm still far too weak."
Mateo shook his head. "Don't get frustrated. I was one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in the army—and an instructor. From what I've seen, you have exceptional potential."
He paused.
"Go shower and rest. I'll prepare a training plan for you."
Tomas nodded. "Thank you."
He left the training hall, muscles aching, mind already calculating what needed to change.
This was only the beginning.