«This is your only insurance against hypnosis», Flash said, looking straight into Ethan's eyes.
The dark sunglasses reflected the dim streetlight in the alley, and in that reflection Ethan saw his own face, pale, streaked with blood and dirt, with eyes that were no longer merely tired.
«And the reason you're still going to live.»
He paused briefly, heavily, as though giving the words time to sink in.
«Listen carefully, vampires won't leave you alone. You saw what you're not supposed to see and refused to play by their rules.
You signed your own death warrant, they've already started the countdown.»
Ethan tried to protest, opened his mouth, but the words stuck somewhere in his throat.
«But… I just…»
«Too late, kid», Flash said coldly, without a trace of sympathy. He didn't even raise his voice, simply stated the fact like a doctor delivering a terminal diagnosis.
«You should have taken the money. You're formally fired already. After you refused the deal, they simply wrote you off as unnecessary.
A bartender who knows too much and doesn't know how to keep quiet? That's a liability. And liabilities they eliminate.»
Ethan flinched as though punched in the gut. Air escaped his lungs in a short, painful exhale.
«I… fired?»
The word came out quietly, almost a whisper, yet it carried everything — shock, disbelief, sudden emptiness.
Flash smirked briefly, crookedly, without humor.
«Yes.»
He leaned closer, so close Ethan caught the smell of gunpowder, leather, and strong cologne.
«And now the only one trying to keep you alive is me. So are you with me?»
Ethan hesitated.
Images flooded his mind: Maria's fingers intertwined with his, her blood on the asphalt, her last genuine smile now seared into memory like hot iron.
His heart clenched so hard it became difficult to breathe for a moment.
He looked at Flash's extended hand, broad, scarred, callused from weapons.
He took it.
Flash yanked him to his feet in one sharp motion, as though the boy weighed less than his own boots. Ethan swayed but stayed upright.
«Okay…», he muttered, voice still trembling, but no longer from fear, from something else.
«But I need to go home, grab things, the most necessary things…»
«You can't go home yet», Flash interrupted coldly, not slowing his pace.
«Because they're already waiting for you there.»
He pressed a finger to Ethan's forehead, briefly, almost casually, yet the touch hit Ethan like an electric shock to the chest.
His heart skipped a beat, breath hitched. He froze in the middle of the alley, legs rooted to the wet asphalt.
«First home, first place they'll go», Flash continued without looking at him.
«They know your address better than you do. Know where you keep your keys.
Know which light is on in the window when you come back late.
Even now someone is inside waiting for you.»
«Then… where are we…», Ethan's voice broke off, as though someone had cut the thread.
He didn't even finish the question, just stared at Flash's back, at the black coat billowing like wings in the night.
«Somewhere else», Flash answered, and a short, joyless smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.
«Where no one will find you.»
They moved deeper into the back streets, narrow, twisting, where neon from bars and dives reflected in puddles on the asphalt in trembling red and blue stripes.
Old graffiti covered the walls, faded, peeling, as though the city itself were trying to erase its memories.
The smell of dampness, garbage, and distant smoke hung thick in the air, almost tangible. Somewhere far off a dog barked, lonely, desperate, the sound quickly swallowed by the hum of traffic.
Ethan walked in silence, but inside everything boiled.
Finally he couldn't hold back.
«Who… who the hell are you?» he asked in a trembling voice, trying to make the words sound firm.
Flash didn't slow down.
The coat billowed behind him, heavy boots thudding on stone.
«You don't need to know right now», he answered calmly.
«The important thing is I'm the one who kept you from dying five minutes ago.»
Ethan clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms.
«You broke into my apartment, dragged me from work, made me drink… god-knows-what…», the words tumbled out fast, jumbled.
«And now you say I can't go home! Yes! I want to know!»
Flash stopped.
He turned slowly.
Streetlight fell across his face, sharp shadows under the cheekbones, dark sunglasses.
He pulled an old, worn badge from his inside pocket, the metal dull but the golden eagle seal still gleaming as though untouched by dirt.
«I'm a Pentagon agent», he said calmly, without pride or threat.
«Special division you never hear about in the news. The one that handles what officially doesn't exist.»
He slipped the badge back with one smooth motion.
«Call me Flash Royale, that's my code name. You won't get my real one.»
Ethan recoiled, not from fear but from sudden realization.
«You've been watching me…?»
Flash gave a short nod, the motion almost imperceptible.
«I watch everyone who's lost someone to vampires — people who don't break right away.
You're not an exception», Flash answered without turning.
His voice was even, almost weary, as though he'd said this a hundred times already.
«None of us were exceptions.»
They entered the industrial zone, abandoned, dead part of the city where even the city's pulse didn't reach. Dark warehouse hangars stood in rows like forgotten tombstones.
Rusted gates, broken windows, wires dangling from ceilings like dead veins. The air smelled of dust.
Flash pushed open a side door; it opened without a creak, as though oiled daily. Inside was dark but not completely — several old ceiling lamps barely glowed, casting yellow circles on the concrete floor.
The smell intensified — dust, metal, machine oil, and something sour, laboratory-like.
On tables lay scattered old maps marked with red marker, photographs, diagrams, radios with frayed antennas.
In the corner, crates of weapons — pistols, shotguns, magazines, several flasks of the same gray liquid Ethan had just drunk.
One flask glowed faintly, as though something moved inside.
«This… is a base?» Ethan whispered, voice trembling from exhaustion and shock.
Flash gave a short nod.
«Temporary. Believe me, fate already decided you're part of this now.»
He walked deeper without turning on lights, as though he knew every inch of the place by touch.
From the back of the hangar came a metallic tapping, rhythmic, like someone knocking a wrench on a table.
Then a young, slightly irritated voice:
«Flash, you dragged in another stray?»
From behind a rack of equipment appeared a tall man about thirty-five, lean, with messy dark hair and a white lab coat covered in reagent stains that had long stopped coming out.
In his hand a mug reading «WORLD'S OKAYEST SCIENTIST», steam rising from it.
He looked at Ethan over his glasses, assessing, without much surprise.
«Again», Flash confirmed, not stopping.
From another corner came a heavy crash, as though a box of metal had fallen.
A massive dark-skinned man appeared, nearly two meters tall, thick beard, wearing athletic gear that looked custom-made for a sumo wrestler.
In his hands a crate of ammunition he carried as lightly as a bag of chips.
«Is this him?» he rumbled in a deep bass, nodding toward Ethan.
«I saw him on TV… the one who yelled in court.»
«Yes, that's him», Flash confirmed, still calm.
At that moment a small weasel leaped onto Ethan's shoulder, swift as lightning. Dark-brown fur, white patch on the chest, black shiny eyes.
She sniffed his neck, cheek, ear quickly, businesslike, as though verifying authenticity.
Ethan froze in surprise.
The weasel snorted, nudged his chin with her nose, and squeaked approvingly.
«Don't worry», the huge bearded man said.
His voice was unexpectedly soft.
«If Bullet approves, you're not a complete asshole.»
Ethan raised an eyebrow, the motion awkward, almost comical against the blood and dirt on his face.
The weasel on his shoulder snorted as though agreeing with the joke and nudged his ear, checking the scent.
Flash smirked at the corner of his mouth, without excess emotion.
«Relax, Hitcher. Bruno's joking… partly.»
Flash nodded toward the scientist — the one called Gideon — still standing with his mug, squinting skeptically.
«We need more people», Gideon added, sipping from the mug and grimacing as though the coffee had been brewed from motor oil.
«But first you…»
He looked straight at Ethan, without a smile, without pity, only cold assessment.
«Are you ready?»
Ethan wasn't convinced, but he nodded positively anyway.
Flash placed a hand on his shoulder.
«Welcome to the team, Hitcher», he said softly, almost poetically.
«You're part of us now.»
Ethan stood among three strange men and a small animal. Around him weapons, maps, flasks of gray liquid, the smell of gunpowder and metal.
For the first time in months he didn't feel alone, even if it felt like he'd been invited into a terrorist organization.
Black screen.
Flash sat at a table lit only by a single desk lamp, cold white light falling on scattered documents, folders, a tablet with a dark screen, and an old badge lying beside a revolver.
He tapped a finger on a thick dossier, rhythmically, thoughtfully, as though counting down seconds to an explosion.