He realized it too late.
The first blow came from behind.
Sharp.
Precise.
Not random.
The air was knocked out of his lungs. His body didn't even react—only jerked forward, losing balance.
Another strike.
And another.
Too coordinated.
Too clean.
Not an accident.
Alan dropped to one knee, teeth clenched.
Blood filled his mouth—hot, metallic.
Mercenaries.
Of course.
Not the heads of the Directorate.
They never dirty their own hands.
He didn't even turn around at first.
There was no need.
It was obvious.
Too convenient.
Too timely.
Too… perfect.
"So this is how it is…" he exhaled hoarsely.
No answer.
Only footsteps.
Careful.
They knew exactly who they were dealing with.
And still came.
Foolish.
…or desperate.
A blade pierced under his ribs.
Deep.
Pain flared—blinding, sharp.
Alan's body jerked, but strength was already slipping away.
His knees hit the ground.
His hands trembled.
He could feel it—
control fading.
Something inside him cracking.
Holding.
Containing.
No.
Not now.
Not like this.
This wasn't why he—
The fire answered first.
Deep inside.
Quiet.
Hungry.
It had always been there.
Waiting.
He hated it.
Feared it.
Pushed it away.
Because he knew—
once he let it out…
there would be no going back.
Another blow.
And another.
His body gave out.
He collapsed forward, catching himself with one hand.
Blood ran down his fingers.
Warm.
Alive.
…his.
"Stop…" he breathed weakly.
But they didn't stop.
They weren't going to.
They had truly decided to erase him.
Like a mistake.
Like a threat.
Like—
a demon.
Something inside him broke.
Silently.
It just… gave way.
Alan closed his eyes.
And let go.
The fire burst out.
Violent.
Painful.
As if it was tearing him apart from the inside.
A scream tore from his throat—not from fear.
From pain.
Flames surged outward.
The air twisted.
Someone screamed.
Someone tried to run—
too late.
The fire didn't listen.
It devoured.
Spread.
Destroyed.
Alan stood in the center.
Shaking.
Covered in blood.
Unable to stop it at once.
The flames moved through him.
Through his hands.
Through his body.
As if he himself—
had become them.
When it was over,
only silence remained.
And the smell of ash.
He was breathing hard.
Barely able to stand.
Looking at what was left.
And feeling nothing.
No relief.
Only emptiness.
And something worse.
"…I didn't want this," he said hoarsely into the void.
His voice broke.
"I…"
His hands clenched as he stared at them—
at the blood,
at the dying embers still flickering on his skin.
"I wanted…"
The words hurt more than the wounds.
"…to save people."
His breath hitched.
"Does this mean…"
he swallowed hard,
"…I have to kill?"
No answer.
Only silence.
And ash.
Alan closed his eyes.
For the first time—
he was afraid of himself.
Not because he had killed again.
But because—
he knew
there was someone
who should never see him like this.
Someone whose взгляд—
even imagined—
made his chest tighten.
…and someone else—
who would look at him
and not turn away.
Who would step closer.
Who would not let him go.
"Kla—"
The name died in his throat.
No.
He clenched his hands.
He had to choose.
He already knew that.
But his heart—
refused.