Morning came quietly.
Tomas opened his eyes before the light reached the windows. For a few seconds he lay still, letting awareness settle into his body. The soreness from yesterday's training was deep and persistent—muscles stiff, joints heavy—but it was a familiar sensation now.
Get up. Continue.
He dressed in loose training clothes and left his room. As he descended the stairs, he passed two guards coming off night duty. They straightened slightly when they saw him.
"Good morning, Doctor Tomas," one of them said with a friendly smile.
Tomas had already grown used to it—the title, the respect, the easy familiarity. He nodded back.
"Good morning."
As he moved through the house and out toward the grounds, others greeted him the same way. Polite nods. Quiet thanks. Casual smiles.
Yesterday's work mattered, he thought.
They trust me now.
Outside, the air was cool and clean. Tomas began running again, following no fixed route, choosing streets and paths that forced his body to adapt. His pace was steady at first, then broken by sudden bursts of speed. He focused on breathing, posture, rhythm—everything Mateo had emphasized.
After some time, he slowed near a small city street and noticed a newspaper kiosk. He stopped, still breathing hard, and picked up a paper. As he skimmed the headlines, one article caught his eye immediately.
NovaCure Announces New Pharmaceutical Release — Market Launch Imminent.
His hand tightened around the paper.
He knew those drugs.
He knew what they did.
Addiction disguised as treatment. Dependence sold as relief.
If they go public now… people will suffer. Many of them.
I don't have as much time as I thought.
He paid the vendor, folded the newspaper, and started running again, his thoughts accelerating faster than his legs.
I need to get stronger—faster.
And I need to slow them down.
Another problem surfaced, one he had already been circling for days.
Cameras.
Facial recognition.
Valentin.
Valentin knew his face.
If I move openly, I'll be seen. Tracked. Identified.
I need something that erases me.
The morning air was still sharp when Tomas slowed his run. His breath came steady now, controlled, body already adapting to the punishment he forced on it day after day. As he passed through a quieter street, something caught his eye.
A small antique shop.
Its windows were dusty, almost forgotten by the city, yet behind the glass hung dozens of masks—faces frozen in laughter, grief, mockery. Too expressive. Too alive. They reflected sunlight, drawing attention.
Tomas stopped.
NovaCure is watching, he thought. Cameras. Records. Faces remembered.
Valentin remembered his.
He stepped closer to the window, studying his own reflection layered over the masks. The man staring back looked human—but that was the problem.
I need to disappear without leaving.
The bell above the door rang softly as Tomas entered. The shop smelled of old wood, metal, and dust—time compressed into air. The lighting was dim, uneven, shadows collecting in corners like something waiting.
From behind the counter rose an old man, small, bent by years, eyes sharp despite his smile.
"Good morning," the man said. "Looking for something special?"
"A mask," Tomas replied.
The words were flat. Final.
The old man studied him for a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to read what kind of man needed a mask without celebration.
"I have many," he said, spreading them across the counter.
Tomas examined them one by one.
They were wrong.
Too bright. Too theatrical. Too visible. Masks meant to be seen—to announce identity, not erase it.
"These won't work," Tomas said quietly. "I need something… quieter."
The old man hesitated. His smile faded just slightly.
"There is one," he said at last. "No one ever wants it."
He disappeared into the back room. Tomas listened to the soft scrape of wood, the cough of dust disturbed after years of neglect. When the man returned, he carried a small box, old and gray, its surface layered with thick dust.
He placed it on the counter and brushed it clean.
Inside lay the mask.
It was matte black—not polished, not reflective. Light didn't bounce from it. It vanished into it. The surface was smooth but imperfect, marked by faint fracture lines like healed wounds—visible only if the light struck at just the right angle.
The eye openings were narrow, deeply recessed. Darkness pooled inside them, swallowing expression, intent, even movement.
There was no mouth.
No place for breath to show.
No shape for emotion.
Tomas felt it immediately.
Not excitement.
Recognition.
"May I?" he asked.
The old man nodded, suddenly serious.
Tomas lifted the mask and put it on.
The shop lights barely touched him now. As he stepped into the darker corner of the room, his reflection fractured—then disappeared entirely. His outline broke apart. His face didn't hide.
It ceased to exist.
He turned slightly, lowered his head—and there was nothing where a man should have been.
Not concealed.
Absent.
The old man stared.
"It looks like someone who stepped away from the world," he murmured. "And never came back."
Tomas removed the mask slowly. His real face emerged—just as cold, just as empty.
"I'll take it."
The old man shook his head gently. "I hope you won't need it long," he said. "I hope one day you choose a brighter one."
Tomas placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter anyway.
Hope was not part of the plan.
He left without another word.
Back in his room, Tomas placed the box carefully on the table. The mask waited inside, silent, patient.
Not a disguise.
A decision.
He looked at it once more before turning toward the training hall.
The training hall was empty when Tomas entered.
It always was at this hour.
Dim lights hung high above the rubber floor, casting long, uneven shadows that stretched and distorted as he moved. The air smelled faintly of iron, sweat, and old discipline. This place didn't encourage conversation. It demanded honesty.
Tomas set the mask box down near the wall but didn't open it yet.
First, the body.
Mateo's first rule echoed in his head: The body must obey before the mind gives commands.
Tomas began with movement—slow, controlled stretches, rolling his shoulders, loosening hips and knees. Every muscle protested. Yesterday's run still burned in his calves; his arms felt heavy from repeated knife drills. Pain wasn't a signal to stop. It was confirmation.
He started running laps around the hall, barefoot now, forcing his feet to learn the texture of the floor. Soft steps. Controlled breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. No rhythm loud enough to be noticed.
After ten minutes, he shifted into sprints.
Short bursts. Full power. Stop. Control breathing. Again.
His lungs screamed. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto the floor, darkening it in small spots. He didn't wipe it away. He didn't slow.
When his legs finally began to tremble, Tomas dropped to the ground and started strength work—push-ups, slow and deep, each one precise. He counted without numbers, marking each repetition by breath instead of time. Pull-ups followed, his fingers tightening around the bar until the skin burned.
Between sets, he didn't rest.
He moved.
Knife drills came next.
He picked up the training blade and stepped into the center of the hall. No mirrors. No guidance. Only memory.
Mateo's voice surfaced again: Speed is a consequence, not a goal.
Tomas moved slowly at first—mapping invisible targets, tracing arteries, imagining resistance. His blade cut the air in tight arcs: throat, collarbone, liver. Each strike ended cleanly, never lingering.
He advanced. He retreated. He turned.
Again.
Again.
Fifty strikes became a hundred.
The blade felt lighter now. Familiar. Not a tool—an extension.
He shifted into shadow movement.
Lights were dimmed further. Tomas moved along the edges of the room, pressing himself close to walls, minimizing his outline. He practiced crossing the hall without sound—rolling his feet, letting his weight flow rather than land.
A loose strap on his shoe brushed the floor.
He stopped.
Reset.
Start again.
He learned where his body betrayed him—where tension created noise, where breath became visible. He corrected it. Slowly. Ruthlessly.
Next came chaining.
He placed three training dummies across the hall. Distance measured. Angles calculated.
Approach.
Strike.
Move.
Strike.
Disappear.
The first run took twenty seconds.
Too slow.
The second was faster. Cleaner.
By the fifth, he was barely breathing when it ended.
Finally, Tomas sat on the floor, back against the wall. His shirt clung to him, soaked. His hands shook—not from fear, but from exhaustion layered over resolve.
This was only the beginning.
As he left the hall, legs heavy, body near collapse, one truth settled deep and immovable inside him:
This training wasn't turning him into something else.
It was revealing what had been waiting underneath all along.
When he finally returned to his room, climbing the stairs felt like lifting concrete. He collapsed onto the bed fully clothed.
Sleep didn't come.
NovaCure.
The drugs.
The countdown.
He reached for his phone and called Ben.
"Yeah?" Ben answered over the sound of metal striking metal. "Who's calling?"
"It's Tomas," he said. "How's the blade coming?"
A pause. "Not bad. Still reinforcing the edge."
"I need you to speed it up," Tomas said. "I want it ready in a month."
Ben laughed sharply. "A month? Are you insane?"
"I'll pay whatever you want."
"That's not the point," Ben snapped. "If you want it to survive serious use, it takes time."
"If you need help," Tomas said calmly, "I can come."
Silence followed. Only the sound of hammering remained.
Finally, Ben exhaled. "I'll call you in two weeks."
"Thank you."
The call ended.
Tomas didn't move again. Exhaustion finally won.
He fell asleep fully dressed, his body heavy, his mind still racing—caught between time running out and the shadow he was becoming.