Gene didn't knock. She didn't need to. The Lennox estate, designed to absorb sound, is silent like a vault that protects secrets meant to remain hidden.
Even the wind outside seemed to hush before brushing against the towering, impeccably manicured hedges and dark stone walls, as if acknowledging the power held within.
The house itself was vast and watchful, its numerous windows like unblinking eyes staring into the soul of anyone foolish enough to seek answers within its shadowed chambers. Its architecture was a somber testament to a bygone era, grand and imposing, yet tinged with the melancholic air of decay.
She entered through the side servant's entrance, an old habit, a relic from when sneaking into dangerous places was just part of her job. Years ago, she had been a ghost in the machine, a wrench thrown into the gears of corrupt power.
Gene moved like a shadow through the cracks of a crumbling estate, her movements precise and calculated. Each step was deliberate and quiet, as she navigated her surroundings, neither as staff, nor as a guest, nor as a friend.
It was a skill honed over years of clandestine operations, a dance between unseen observer and active participant.
She walked the dim corridors with silent precision, the soles of her worn boots barely whispering against the marble floor.
She bypassed portraits of stern ancestors, their painted eyes following her every move, their powdered wigs and stiff postures mocking the life she'd chosen.
She ignored rooms gilded in wealth and dust; rooms filled with forgotten treasures and the ghosts of extravagant parties long past. Everything in the mansion smelled of memory, wood polish used for generations, aged leather bound tightly around forgotten volumes, something faintly floral, a lingering trace of lavender and roses.
But memory was dangerous here, a labyrinth of regrets and betrayals. She made her way past the grand hall, ignoring the low murmur of distant voices, Lennox business, no doubt, deals made in the darkness, fortunes built on the backs of others, heading toward the one place she was sure no one else would be bothering.
The greenhouse, which had once been Mara Lennox's sanctuary, stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the house.
It was humid and overgrown now, the glass panes grimy, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, but still oddly reverent, as if nature herself held her breath within its fragile walls.
It remained untouched, never stripped for parts or repurposed. It had simply waited. For her, perhaps? Or perhaps for the touch of a hand that could coax life back into its neglected corners.
Igor was inside, crouched near a bed of violets, his broad back a silhouette against the dappled light filtering through the glass. His expression was unreadable, hidden in the shadows.
He wasn't the Lennox's' attack dog or bodyguard, despite what the outside world may have assumed, despite his imposing physique and the rumors that clung to him like shadows. No, Igor had always been something else: someone shoved into a role too brutal for the quiet way he moved, the thoughtful way he handled things when no one was watching.
His broad hands, calloused and scarred, hovered over the delicate blossoms, as if they could bruise under his touch, as if he was afraid to break something so fragile and innocent.
Gene stood just inside the doorway and watched him, her presence unnoticed at first. The light cast long shadows across her face, obscuring her expression.
He looked… fragile. Not physically, his build was still intimidating, powerful, a testament to years of training and forced obedience, but mentally, emotionally.
The air around him was tense, like something tightly wound was beginning to fray, the gears of his controlled existence grinding against each other. She sensed the turmoil within him, the ghosts of the past clawing at his mind.
"Don't stop on my account," she said, softly but clearly, her voice cutting through the humid silence like a knife.
Igor turned slowly, his movement smooth enough to suggest he wasn't startled, yet hesitant enough to hint at uncertainty. He resembled a predator surprised in its lair, like a wolf interrupted in its den.
His crimson eyes took a moment to locate her in the dim light. Recognition gradually crossed his face, flickering like a dying ember. "You shouldn't be here." His voice was low and gravelly, a sound rarely used.
She stepped inside, shrugging off his concern. "Neither should you. You're glitching." The air hung heavy with implication, with unspoken understanding.
He blinked. Confused, but not combative. His hands held
"You've been… off," she said, her tone low but steady, laced with a concern she rarely allowed herself to show. "Wandering, blanking out. Forgetting what day it is. Cracks are showing, Igor. Cracks in the facade they designed."
His gaze dropped to the floor, to the worn flagstones beneath his feet, shame crawling across his features like a stain spreading across a pristine cloth. He knew she saw it; he couldn't hide from her. "I'm fine." The words were a mumbled denial.
"No, you're not." She approached him carefully, as one might approach a wounded animal, her movements slow and deliberate, ensuring him that she posed no threat. "You're remembering things. Maybe not, only in flashes, but they're slipping through. I've seen it before. I know the signs."
He didn't deny it. He didn't speak at all, his jaw clenched, his body rigid with suppressed emotion. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle rustling of leaves and the hum of the estate.
Gene knelt beside him, her voice barely more than a breath. "I saw the video. I know what they made you do. I know what they made Tak do. You didn't want to fight, Igor. I saw it in your eyes."
The name struck like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. It elicited a noticeable flinch, a jolt that coursed through his body. The memory of that day was a nightmare, a constant torment that haunted his waking hours.
"They set you against each other like animals," she continued, not harshly but truthfully, her words a painful balm on a festering wound. "You were both under control, puppets dancing on their strings, but there was still a part of you left in there. I saw it. The way you hesitated. The flicker of recognition in your eyes before… before it was too late."
Igor's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. "Shut up. I didn't want to kill him," he murmured, the words tasting like glass shards in his mouth, a confession he could no longer bear to hold inside. "But I did. I killed him."
"I know." All she could express was a simple acknowledgment of the burden he carried.
A long silence stretched between them, dense with shared guilt, a testament to the nightmare they had both witnessed, the lives they had both damaged. Finally, Gene stood, her knees cracking slightly.
"I was supposed to observe, confirm, and handle it," she said, her gaze fixed on the delicate flowers, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "Dispose or recondition. Jack's orders, signed off by Harry. You were a problem to be solved, a loose end to be tied."
Igor said nothing, his silence a heavy burden. But she saw the tremor in his shoulders, the barely perceptible flinch that betrayed the depth of his pain.
"I wanted to believe I could remain neutral," Gene continued, her voice tightening, the words tinged with the bitterness of self-reproach. "But I can't. Not after Maisie. Not after witnessing what this place has done to, you, what they've turned you into."
He looked at her, his expression unreadable, a mask of stoicism that hid the shattered pieces of his soul. He had been a weapon for so long, a tool in their arsenal, that he had forgotten what it meant to be human.
She locked onto his gaze, her eyes fierce and unyielding, radiating a resolve that burned like an unquenchable fire. "I'm going to help you, Igor. Because you're not the weapon they tried to mold. You're not beyond saving. And because… I think I owe someone that much. To you, and to everyone."
A beat passed, stretching into an eternity. He did not respond; the silence felt like a deafening roar. Yet, he did not push away or reject the outstretched hand, the offer of salvation between them.