Tomas left the hospital feeling as though something had been left behind there.
Not in his body.
Deeper.
As if something essential had been torn out of him and abandoned on the cold, sterile floor, while he himself had walked out only as an empty shell. When he slid into the driver's seat of his car, he did not feel tired. He did not feel injured. He felt nothing at all.
The emptiness was everywhere — in his chest, in his head, in his hands gripping the steering wheel. It was as if life had deliberately allowed him one brief moment to experience warmth and peace, only to demonstrate, with cruel precision, what it meant to lose everything.
Not gradually.
In a single blow.
It was a gift, he thought.
A gift designed to hurt more.
He drove to a liquor store without conscious decision, guided by habit rather than intention. Inside, under harsh fluorescent lights, he selected two bottles of whiskey. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough to ensure the night would not end too early.
Back at his apartment, he stepped into the darkness and did not turn on the lights. The shadows felt right. Honest. He closed the door behind him and let the silence settle.
He took a glass, sat on the couch, poured the whiskey, and began to drink. Not to forget. Never to forget. But to feel the burn. To provoke some reaction inside himself, any sign that something was still capable of responding.
After a while, he reached for the notebook.
His fingers froze.
Point 10.
Be with Laura and protect her.
He stopped breathing.
The words did not simply register — they struck him. Not suddenly, but slowly, deeply, as if someone were pushing a blade between his ribs with deliberate patience. Tomas tried to inhale, but his chest did not rise. The air remained outside, unreachable.
You promised.
His eyes filled with tears before he fully understood what was happening. His vision blurred, yet the image became sharper — Laura. On the cold pavement. The smell of blood. Her body unmoving. And him — too late.
Always too late.
His body reacted before his mind could. His hands began to shake. His stomach twisted violently, as if he were falling from a great height. He felt something rupture deep inside — not loudly, not with dramatic pain, but with a quiet, irreversible break.
"I should have…" he tried to say, but no sound emerged. "I should have protected you…"
The words lodged in his throat like shards of glass.
He grabbed his head, digging his fingers into his hair as if he could tear the image out of his mind. His breathing became short and erratic. His chest tightened so violently that for a moment he truly believed he might die there, alone on the couch.
Not them.
You.
The thought was clear, merciless, undeniable.
"My fault," he finally whispered.
The words were not an excuse.
They were a verdict.
Tears fell without relief. Each one only confirmed what he feared most: he had known the danger, and still he had failed to protect her.
You allowed this to happen.
His heart pounded too fast, too hard, as if trying to tear itself free. Time ceased to exist. There was only this point. This promise.
And its ruins.
Then the pain transformed into something darker.
Anger.
The pain did not vanish. It condensed, drawn into a single point. The anger did not explode — it formed. Cold. Focused. Without hysteria.
NovaCure.
Valentinas.
The names echoed in his mind not as emotions, but as coordinates. As places. As people with bodies, bones, arteries.
Tomas looked down at his hands. Bloody from striking the floor. He felt the pain now, but it no longer distracted him. It sharpened him.
If I had been stronger… If I had been prepared…
The thought ended on its own.
There were no more "ifs."
Laura had suffered not only because they existed, but because no one had stopped them. Because people like that were allowed to live safely. Because the world permitted their continuation.
And if the world would not act — someone had to.
Tomas sat at the table and looked again at the list. He crossed out point 10 not in rage, but in recognition of fact.
Beneath it, he wrote:
This is my fault. I failed to protect you.
It was not self-punishment.
It was sentencing.
Then he crossed out point 11.
You think you hid everything, he thought.
But I know.
New points appeared at the bottom of the page.
12. Leave Laura. Without me, she will be happier.
Something inside him tore again as he wrote it, but he accepted the pain. If you love her, you step away.
The pen hovered over the empty space below.
His hand no longer trembled.
He wrote slowly, deliberately, understanding every word fully.
13. Kill everyone who is corrupted and responsible for NovaCure's illegal human experiments and for Laura's assault and persecution.
When he finished, he stopped and listened to himself.
There was no relief. There was no satisfaction.
There was clarity.
This was not revenge.
It was a change of role.
Tomas understood: from this moment on, he would no longer try to save anyone.
He would begin to eliminate.
At the bottom of the page, he wrote one final line:
END. This will be my end.
Drops of blood from his torn knuckles fell onto the paper — onto points 10 and 13.
And it felt right.
Not symbolic.
Logical.
He closed the notebook and continued drinking until his body shut down.
---
Morning arrived without emotion.
His head ached, but inside there was nothing. No sorrow. No anger. As if someone had switched off feelings entirely, leaving only function behind. He made coffee, ate a small breakfast.
I am alone, he thought.
As always.
His eyes were cold. Like ice.
In the shower, he undressed and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. He scanned his body slowly, methodically.
Like a surgeon.
Like an enemy.
I am full of weaknesses. If I want to fulfill point 13, I must change.
He needed strength. Control. A weapon.
Firearms were not for him. He was not a soldier.
But I am a doctor, he thought. I know human anatomy.
"Scalpel. Knife," he said quietly.
The plan assembled itself without hesitation, without fear.
Leaving the bathroom, he remembered Viktor — a man who owed him a favor. Tomas found his wallet, a contact card, and made the call.
"Hello."
"Hi. Do you remember Tomas?"
"What Tomas?"
"The one who saved your life."
Silence.
"Tomas… how are you? I was actually thinking of reaching out."
"You said you owed me a favor."
"Yes. What do you need?"
"I need someone who is an exceptional blacksmith. Someone who can make instruments. Knives. Very good ones. And no one can know."
Viktor was quiet. Tomas's voice was cold. Empty. Viktor understood — this was serious.
"I know someone," he finally said. "But you don't discuss this over the phone."
"I'll come."
"Tomorrow. 4 p.m. Same address."
"Understood."
Tomas ended the call.
It was still early. He checked the time.
I need to begin.
He dressed in loose clothes, put on running shoes, and stepped outside.
He began running slowly. Not for sport. Not for rhythm. Simply to move his body, to force something inside to function again. The first steps were heavy. His legs felt foreign. His lungs burned, his heart raced — but he did not stop.
Weak, he thought. Too slow. Too soft.
Each step struck the asphalt like a promise. He ran through empty streets, past cold shop windows reflecting his silhouette. Tomas observed himself in those reflections as if in an operating room — monitoring breathing, muscle tension, fatigue thresholds.
This can be fixed.
His breathing grew uneven. Pain flared in his sides. He did not slow down. Pain became a marker. If it hurt, he was still alive. And if he was alive, he could be reshaped.
His thoughts returned again and again to Laura. Not to her smile. Not to her voice. To the hospital room. The blood. His heart tightened briefly — and then he locked it down.
While running, he began thinking about NovaCure. Not emotionally — structurally. Who protected whom. Who transported what. Where the drugs moved. Where people were hidden. He was no longer guessing.
He was planning.
Everything has a weak point.
Reaching the river, Tomas slowed. The water flowed calmly, indifferently. He stopped, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Sweat dripped, eyes burned — but his thoughts sharpened.
That peace no longer belongs to me.
He started running again — and then he saw it. A gym. An old warehouse with crumbling walls and metal doors, dull thuds echoing from inside. A combat training hall. Tomas slowed, studying the windows, the entrance, the surroundings.
He memorized it.
As if already planning his return.
This is only the beginning, he thought.
I will come back.
When he finally returned home, his body was exhausted — but something new had formed inside him. Not calm.
Control.
At least its shadow.
Darkness had fallen. A shower. Silence. Thoughts sharp and cold. Occasionally, Laura surfaced — how she was feeling, whether she was safe. His heart clenched briefly each time, and he suppressed it.
"Better this way," he told himself. "I am used to being alone."
He lay down on the couch. He was not ready to enter Laura's room yet.
He closed his eyes.