“Yes, Spanish and English.”
“Excellent. I wanted to learn Spanish, but my family had other plans.”
She leaned closer, her perfume drifting into the stale cabin air. “If you’re free, I have a hotel room near the airport.” She winked playfully, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
Adrik’s lips curved into a smile, though inside he remained distant. Free? He’d never be free. Not with Viktor’s threats hanging over him, not with the goons who watched him even when he couldn’t see them. Every move felt tracked, every breath borrowed.
He shifted in his seat, the leather squeaking under him. “That’s… generous,” he said, voice low, careful.
The girl laughed softly, brushing her hair back. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Adrik stared out the window, the runway lights blurring into streaks. Convinced? He couldn’t even convince himself he’d make it through the week. The idea of a hotel room, of freedom, of choosing something for himself was almost laughable. His father’s shadow stretched too far, too heavy.
He turned back to her, shrugging. “Sorry, prior commitments.”
She pouted, teasing. “Shame. You look like you could use a little fun.”
Adrik’s chest tightened. Fun was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not when every step away from home felt like running with a target on his back. He let her words hang in the air, unacknowledged.
He signaled for another drink. The flight attendant gave him a look—half pity, half warning—but poured anyway. Hours passed with Valentia sleeping on his arm, but Adrik stared out at the darkness for the entire trip.
The seat belt sign clicked off. Passengers stood, reaching for bags, voices rising in impatient chatter. He nudged her with his elbow. “I hope to see you again, Cameron.”
He brushed his lips against her cheek. “I’ve got to catch another plane.”
Madrid’s air hit him—warm, heavy, smelling faintly of coffee and jet fuel.
At the gate, Adrik dropped into a chair, exhaustion pulling at him. The announcement crackled overhead. Boarding soon. He rubbed his eyes, wishing for sleep, wishing for anything but the hollow ache inside.
When boarding was called, he rose, slow but steady. Another narrow aisle, another seat, another hum of engines. He sank into the window seat again, staring at the tarmac lights.
Berlin waited. He didn’t know what he’d find there—only that it wasn’t home, and it wasn’t safe, but it was away. And for now, away was enough.
The final leg was a slow, steady journey from Berlin to Rostock on a train, landing him in the quiet area of Warnemünde, right by the Baltic Sea.
He had arranged the final location months ago, purchased under another one of his aliases, Adrik Brandt. It was a cozy cottage near the sea, already furnished and stocked with food by the time he arrived. Stepping inside felt like finally dropping a crushing weight, though his shoulders still felt tense.
At night, alone in the quiet house, Adrik read Sergei’s favorite poems in Russian. The words spoke of love, longing, and finding beauty in the smallest things. He clung to those books like lifelines. They were a constant reminder that he hadn’t fullybecome Viktor Marinov—that he still had the power to choose a different path. But the fear remained, a tight knot in his stomach. What if exile didn’t save him? What if he carried his father’s shadow wherever he went?
Boredom and relentless anxiety finally pushed him out of the cottage. He walked along the brick road, forcing himself to breathe the salty air. He needed a place that felt safe, a place where he could just be.
He hadn’t gone far when he spotted a bold rainbow flag fluttering over an unassuming little bar. It felt like a beacon. Adrik walked toward it, deciding this was the only place he would risk his carefully constructed safety.
Chapter Three
Hans
Hans sat at theworn oak bar of Seebrise, the gay pub tucked just off the promenade in Warnemünde. His beer glass was cool against his fingers, condensation sliding down to dampen the coaster beneath.
Each night, the room was filled with the same lively chatter of cruising tourists, the eager discussions of Rostock students, and the familiar laughter of locals who treated Seebrise as their second home. Hans had memorized their laughter, their voices, even the way they leaned against the bar when they ordered another round. He nodded at them, sometimes exchanging a word or two, but never more.
Hans stayed on his stool, watching, drinking, waiting for something that never seemed to happen. Herschel, the bartender, knew his order by heart, sliding the glass toward him without asking, and Hans appreciated the familiarity even if it reminded him how invisible he felt here.
The young guitarist sang German beer songs from the corner, bursts of laughter rising from the regulars clustered around their usual tables, the faint tang of salt drifting in from the Baltic Sea whenever the door swung open. That was why the stranger caught his eye immediately.
The man walked in as if he owned the place. The pub wasn’t fancy—low ceilings, neon lights buzzing faintly, posters peeling at the edges—but suddenly it felt like a stage, and he was the headliner. Dark suit, crisp black shirt, not a wrinkle in sight. He carried himself with a swagger that made people notice without him even trying. Hans thought he looked like a young mob boss, all sharp edges and silent confidence, the kind of man who didn’t need to say anything to command a room.
Hans watched him cross the floor, every step deliberate, as if he knew exactly how much space he swallowed up. The regulars glanced his way, some curious, some wary, but the stranger didn’t break stride. He moved straight to the bar, slid onto the stool right beside Hans, and for a moment the air between them felt charged, like the pub’s rhythm had shifted to a new beat.
