Inside an aging gray brick building in Moscow's old district, a cramped apartnt lay buried in dimness and decay.
The peeling wallpaper had yellowed with age, dust gathered in the corners, and the room's only window overlooked a cluttered alleyway, letting in little more than a dull, lifeless glow.
The apartnt itself was packed with old blueprints, rusted tal parts, and crude tools. The air carried the mixed sll of engine oil, solder, and aging wood, while rough design sketches were scattered across a workbench in the corner.
An elderly man lay asleep on the bed, drifting in and out of consciousness.
anwhile, on a nearby street outside the building, a broad-shouldered man walked forward carrying a bag in one hand. His short hair was coarse, his face weathered and stern, and ssy stubble covered his jaw.
He wore a dark jacket with the rough style of Russian workwear. Underneath was a simple dark shirt with a loose, uneven collar. His worn work pants hung loosely around his legs, and on his feet were heavy old leather work boots with faded surfaces.
Judging from his appearance alone, his financial situation was clearly poor.
The fierce aura around him made him look like a desperate criminal no one dared provoke.
Expressionless, he passed one pedestrian after another before returning to the brick building. He climbed the stairs, reached his apartnt, and casually pushed the door open.
His eyes swept over the old man sleeping on the bed.
He set the bag filled with beer and groceries onto the table, then walked to the bedside. Stretching out a rough hand, he adjusted the cotton blanket covering his father before placing his palm against the old man's forehead.
The fever had gone down.
Only then did he let out a silent breath of relief.
He poured a cup of water for his sleeping father and placed it beside the bed before returning to the workbench against the wall. Looking at the design sketches spread across it, he prepared to continue refining them.
But just as he sat down, the hand holding his pencil suddenly stopped.
His head snapped toward the closed door.
He had heard footsteps. More than one person.
The footsteps stopped right outside the door, and a mont later, slow and unhurried knocking echoed through the room.
The man tightened his grip on the pencil and stood up, the muscles beneath his T-shirt sleeve tensing as he walked over and opened the door.
Two n stood outside.
Both were Russian.
They were strongly built and dressed in ordinary-looking clothes, but whether it was their posture or the air around them, they carried the unmistakable bearing of soldiers.
"Ivan Vanko?"
The crew-cut Russian in front spoke in a low, concise voice, using Russian.
"What is it?" Ivan asked back without denying it.
"My employer would like to have a talk with you, Mr. Vanko."
The man paid no attention to Ivan's wariness.
"And if I refuse?"
Ivan grinned, revealing large yellow teeth stained by years of smoking and drinking.
"Nothing will happen."
The man showed no anger at the provocation. Instead, he glanced toward the elderly man sleeping in the corner of the room before looking back at Ivan.
"But I believe this won't be a bad thing for you."
"That is, if you care enough about your father."
Ivan's expression instantly turned vicious, like a beast that had just been provoked.
"I can take that as a threat?"
"It's not a threat."
The man's expression remained unchanged as he calmly t Ivan's gaze.
"We disdain using such low thods against you."
"And if we intended to use force, you wouldn't have any room to resist anyway."
His tone was calm, but Ivan could hear the overwhelming confidence behind those words.
Confidence so strong that even he found it surprising.
His mind began racing as he tried to determine where these n had co from.
Intelligence agency? Military? Or so powerful corporation?
After thinking it over repeatedly, Ivan made his choice—or rather, he never truly had the right to refuse in the first place.
The fact that these people had found him ant he had already been targeted. Hiding or running away was impossible.
In that case, perhaps he could make use of this opportunity instead.
"Now?" he asked.
"Now."
Ivan nodded. "Wait here."
He turned around and first placed the dicine he had prepared for his father beside the cup on the bedside table. Then he set the breakfast he had bought from the bag next to it as well.
After that, he quickly wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, explaining that he was going out for a while.
Only then did he walk out the door and close it behind him.
"Let's go."
There was no unnecessary conversation or wasted words. He followed the two n downstairs and got into the back seat of the car they had brought. Soon, the vehicle started moving.
Half an hour later, they arrived at a secluded yet luxurious villa district on the outskirts of Moscow.
The environnt was quiet and refined. As the towering iron gates in front of the estate slowly opened, the car drove inside, continuing for another ten minutes before finally reaching the residence itself.
The villa clearly carried the architectural style of the Soviet era.
Even Ivan could not help but feel the depth and restrained luxury hidden within it.
What surprised him even more was the level of security.
Along the way, he had spotted over a hundred guards. Though they appeared to be dressed casually, every single one of them was ard, and their movents carried the unmistakable discipline of trained soldiers.
Ivan understood imdiately that the person eting him today was no ordinary figure.
Yet after entering the villa, the person he finally saw completely exceeded his expectations.
Not a Russian.
Instead, it was an extrely young Western man.
Tall, composed, and carrying an extraordinary presence.
His clothing was not especially luxurious or extravagant, but every movent and gesture carried a confidence and authority that even the so-called elite heirs of high society rarely possessed.
He was sitting inside a stone pavilion in the back garden.
Fresh flowers lined the surroundings in neat rows, and a carved stone fountain stood nearby, making the atmosphere peaceful and elegant.
Even a rough man like Ivan felt completely out of place here.
His very presence seed to ruin the mood of the garden.
"My na is Matthew." Matthew spoke in fluent English. Although he understood Russian—and in fact knew many languages—he preferred English here.
With his talent for learning, picking up languages was easy for him. A bit of study and so television practice with pronunciation were enough for him to beco nearly fluent.
When he saw Ivan, Matthew showed no disgust toward the rugged, unkempt giant. Instead, he stood up, walked over, and extended his hand in greeting.
Ivan lowered his eyes to the offered hand before reaching out to shake it.
"I didn't expect the person wanting to see to be this young."
Ivan replied in English as well.
He knew the language because of his father.
If not for the accident that had happened to the old man back then, Ivan would never have fallen into such miserable circumstances. He might even have lived among the upper-class elite himself.
"I like being direct, Ivan. I've investigated you and your father. Both of you are geniuses."
Matthew got straight to the point from the very beginning. He was always gentle when dealing with talented people.
Of course, if soone chose to rebel, then his attitude would beco sothing entirely different.
Despite the achievents, power, and wealth he possessed, Matthew had never placed himself high above others with the attitude of soone looking down on the world.
To him, that kind of behavior was simply ridiculous.
There was nothing wrong with displaying authority and dominance when necessary, but acting that way in everyday life was exhausting. At the very least, Matthew disliked it.
"You possess sothing I need," Matthew continued calmly.
"Your knowledge and your intelligence."
"And coincidentally, those are exactly what I'm looking for."
...
Read Advanced Chapters on : patreon/cw/OblivionTL
~ Every 250 PS = Bonus Chapter!
~ Push the Story forward with your [Power Stones]
User Comments
0 comments from readers