Snow crunched beneath Alek's boots as he walked alongside Anya, the sharp wind tugging at his coat. From a distance, it might've looked like a casual stroll, but the tension beneath their conversation told another story. They had spent the past few days gathering intel, setting the bait, and tracking Ivankov's every move. The trap was almost ready—just one final piece was left before they could strike.
But Alek's mind was somewhere else.
A secure buzz in his earpiece had come through earlier. A voice, cold and official, gave him the temporary leave he had requested. It was brief, authorized, and coded. He had memorized the contents in seconds. He knew what it meant—he could finally see her. Clara.
As Anya walked slightly ahead, her scarf whipping in the wind, Alek's gaze softened. She was sharp, efficient, and incredibly good at what she did. But unlike Damian, Alek never saw her as more than a comrade. His heart was already spoken for.
A memory flickered.
London. Rain clinging to glass windows. Clara in her pale-blue nurse uniform, fussing over his bruised knuckles as she scolded him for getting into another "fight on duty." He had smiled, said it came with the job. A beat cop, that's what she believed he was. And he had let her believe it.
Back in the present, Anya nudged his arm.
"You're spacing out," she muttered.
"Just thinking," he replied, voice low. "We're nearly done here. After that, I have to leave for a while."
She arched a brow. "Orders?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Something personal too."
As they reached the edge of the village, Alek stopped for a second and looked over his shoulder—instinct. Always check. Always watch.
He thought he saw a shadow move near the barracks.
Damian, perhaps? Watching them again?
He said nothing.
Inside, Alek was a storm. Years of training had turned him into a ghost on the field. Efficient, merciless when necessary. But Clara grounded him. She didn't know about the lives he had taken, or the secrets he carried. She only knew the version of him that brought flowers to her clinic on quiet mornings and read poetry aloud when she couldn't sleep.
That was the man he wanted to be.
And now, with a chance to see her, even for a short while, Alek felt something he hadn't felt in months—peace.
He turned to Anya.
"Handle things while I'm gone," he said. "You're the only one I'd trust to finish this."
She smirked. "I'll take that as a compliment."
As Alek walked away, he slid his phone from his coat pocket. There it was—Clara's last message. "Miss you. Call me if you're not too busy being a hero.
"He smiled faintly and sent a reply:
"On my way, sunshine."