I was the only one who escaped.
And ever since that day... I’ve been running.
Even though Al Chapo is dead, I’m still running for my life.
Freedom never came with his death—only a new kind of fear.
I don’t stay anywhere long.
I choose seats facing exits. I scan reflections in glass, mirrors, anything that lets me see behind me without turning my head.
Every footstep, every passing glance, every car that slows for a second too long—I notice it all.
I sleep light, if I sleep at all.
One sound is enough to pull me awake, pulse racing, mind already mapping escape routes.
Doors are always checked twice. Windows, too.
I memorize streets the moment I step into them—turns, alleys, blind spots. Just in case.
Because I know he’s still out there.
Ruslan Baranov.
The man who took over after Al Chapo’s death.
More dangerous. More patient. And far more personal.
He’s not just hunting me for what happened on that mission—he’s hunting me because of what I took from him.
He swore he’d never stop. That no matter how long it took, no matter where I ran, he would find me.
And when he does... he’ll make sure I pay for everything.
This has been my life for the past five years.
Restless. Constantly moving. Always running.
From city to city. From shadow to shadow.
Like a fugitive who will never know peace—haunted by a past I can’t outrun, and a debt that’s still waiting to be collected.
Two hours ago, I had been sitting in a dingy restaurant on the edge of Bergamo.
If you could even call it that.
The place smelled like old grease and regret—Perfect for disappearing. Perfect for someone like me.
I had chosen the table near the window out of habit.
Always near an exit. Always with a line of sight.
My hands had been shaking when the plate was set down in front of me.
It had been three days since I’d tasted anything solid. Every attempt to steal scraps had failed. I’d gotten good at surviving on almost nothing—but even that had its limits.
Hunger like this isn’t just emptiness. It’s pain.
