Years ago, Alek wasn't the ghost-like figure that moved undetected through enemy lines. He was just a sharp-minded boy with a quiet disposition and eyes that noticed everything. Born into a world of whispered codes and closed-door truths, Alek had no real childhood—only training. British intelligence picked him young, noticing a rare duality in him: obedience and unpredictability.
His first mission was supposed to be a clean reconnaissance. It turned into a bloodbath. He was seventeen. When the bodies dropped and the radios went silent, it was Alek who completed the objective—by thinking like the enemy, not like a soldier. That day, something inside him changed. He learned how to wear calm like armor. How to make the kill and still smile. How to lie so convincingly, even his own heartbeat wouldn't betray him.
Yet there was one thread of warmth that never snapped: Clara Hughes.
He met her long before the spy world swallowed him whole. A childhood friend, always too kind, too warm. They reconnected by chance one stormy evening at a hospital—he was recovering from a fractured rib under his alias; she was a nurse who recognized his voice before his face. He told her he worked in law enforcement. A respectable, hard job. Dangerous, but noble. She never questioned it. Perhaps she didn't want to.
That softness in him remained hers. No one else saw it—not even Anya.
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Now, in the cold stretch of Russian wilderness, Alek walked beside Anya, the plan almost set in motion. They had planted the final piece, a modified file containing everything needed to burn Ivankov's world to the ground. But he had received new orders—temporary leave. And he knew what that meant. Clara.
He turned to Anya before they split. "Be careful," he said simply. Not as a comrade, but as someone who understood what came next.
Later, in the quiet of a snowy border town, Alek sat on a near-empty train. He wore civilian clothes, a small bag on his lap, and in his coat pocket, a small photograph of a smiling brunette woman. Clara.
These are good but not after this
The train rocked gently, a low hum filling the silence as trees blurred past the window. Snow clung to the glass, like frostbitten fingers reaching for warmth they'd never have. Alek leaned his head against the cold surface, eyes on the fading landscape. But his mind wasn't in Russia. It hadn't been for hours.
It was with her.
Clara's laugh. The way she scolded him for not texting when he promised he would. The way she believed in the man he pretended to be. She never saw blood on his hands. Never asked about the bruises or the shadows in his eyes. Maybe she did notice. Maybe she just chose to love him anyway.
Alek swallowed the lump in his throat. There were things he couldn't ever say to her. Could never confess. But still, he carried her name like a vow stitched into the lining of his soul.
He slipped the photo from his coat pocket. Her eyes sparkled even on glossy paper. A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his lips—something real, something rare.
Back at the base, the mission waited. Anya waited. And the final move would come soon.
But for now, just this moment. Just Clara.
He closed his eyes.
And let himself feel human.