Tomas returned to his room and went straight to the shower. Hot water ran over his shoulders, but his mind refused to rest. Training. Mateo's instructions. Tomorrow's work as a doctor. Every detail replayed itself with methodical precision, like a checklist forming in his head.
Afterward, he dried off, dressed simply, and lay down on the bed.
Tomorrow, he would wake early.
Tomorrow, he would begin Step One—strengthening the body.
Before dawn, the house was still asleep.
The sky outside Tomas's window remained dark, the air heavy with night. He opened his eyes without an alarm, his body already alert. For a moment, he lay still, listening—no footsteps, no voices, only the distant hum of the building settling.
Time to begin.
He rose quietly, dressed in simple training clothes, and stepped outside. The ground was cold beneath his shoes, slightly damp from the night air. He inhaled deeply, slow and deliberate, steadying his breath.
Step one, Mateo had said. Build the foundation.
Tomas started running.
Not fast at first—controlled. He moved through the outer paths of the estate, choosing uneven ground where stones shifted underfoot and roots broke the rhythm of each stride. His pace was steady, breath measured through his nose, shoulders relaxed. Every few minutes, he accelerated suddenly—short, explosive sprints—then slowed again to a walk.
Thirty seconds full speed.
One minute recovery.
Again.
His lungs burned, but he ignored it. Pain was information, nothing more. He adjusted his stride, corrected posture, conserved energy. Sweat formed quickly, soaking into his clothes, running down his spine.
By the fifth sprint, his legs trembled slightly.
Good, he thought. This is where the work starts.
After the run, he stopped near a patch of dirt and stone and dropped into strength training. Push-ups first—slow, controlled, chest barely grazing the ground. No counting out loud. He counted internally, keeping his breathing steady.
Fifty.
Short pause.
Fifty more.
Pull-ups followed, his grip tightening around the bar until his forearms screamed. He didn't release until the set was finished. Squats came next, deep and deliberate, muscles burning with each repetition.
When his body could give no more, he didn't stop.
He sat down.
The world around him faded as he closed his eyes.
Step one wasn't only physical.
He straightened his back, rested his hands on his knees, and focused on his breathing. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The cold morning air filled his lungs, then left slowly. His heartbeat began to settle, though his muscles still trembled.
Images came uninvited at first—faces, memories, flashes of the past. Laura. Blood. Hospitals. Screams.
He didn't push them away.
He let them pass.
Instead, he replaced them with intention.
NovaCure.
Valentin.
Routes. Buildings. Patterns.
He visualized movement—entering unseen, exiting cleanly. No rage. No hesitation. Only sequence. Every imagined action was slow, precise, inevitable.
Emotion dulls accuracy, Mateo's voice echoed in his mind.
Tomas emptied himself of it.
After twenty minutes, he opened his eyes. The sky had begun to lighten slightly, a thin gray line forming on the horizon.
His body was exhausted—but obedient.
That mattered.
He stood, wiped the sweat from his face, and walked back inside without hurry. The first step was complete. Not mastered—but begun.
As he headed for the shower, one thought settled firmly in his mind:
This isn't training to become stronger.
This is training to become reliable.
And reliability, Tomas knew, was far more dangerous than strength.
After shower he take clean clothes and thinking its time to work.
He headed to the second floor and encountered the house caretaker in the corridor.
"Good morning, Mr. Tomas," the man said politely. "Your office is ready. All the medical supplies you requested are inside." He handed Tomas a set of keys.
"Thank you," Tomas replied.
The office door was large and heavy. He unlocked it and stepped inside. The room was spacious, filled with pale light from two wide windows. Near them stood a solid desk—one chair behind it, two across the front. To the left, a tall cabinet and several empty shelves waited to be filled. Boxes of medical supplies were stacked neatly against the wall.
Tomas began organizing the equipment with practiced efficiency.
A knock interrupted him.
"Come in," he said.
Isabel stepped inside, smiling. "Hello, Tomas. How is settling into your new office?"
"Not bad," he replied calmly. "Are you here for a medical check?"
She smiled wider. "Well, you are our doctor now."
He nodded, gestured to the chair. "Sit. Tell me what's bothering you."
Isabel sat down and studied his face—calm, distant, focused.
"My work is very demanding," she said. "Stressful. I often get headaches. Sometimes they're so bad I can't fall asleep."
"I understand," Tomas said. "That's common. I'll show you something you can do yourself before bed."
He stepped closer and gently placed his hands on her head, his touch precise and controlled. He began to massage specific points along her scalp and temples, slow and steady.
Isabel relaxed almost instantly. Before she realized it, her eyes closed.
She wasn't used to this—she was always alert, always guarded.
"These points improve blood circulation," Tomas said quietly. "They help reduce pain and allow the body to relax."
He withdrew his hands.
Isabel startled slightly, color rising to her cheeks. "I—I… thank you, doctor. I really must go."
She hurried out.
As she walked away, her thoughts raced.
What was that?
Why did it feel so warm?
Why did I let my guard down?
The memory of his hands lingered. She shook her head sharply and forced herself to focus. Soon start coming more people in office.
Tomas worked steadily, methodically, as the hours passed.
Each patient who entered his office received the same calm attention. He listened more than he spoke. His movements were precise, economical—no unnecessary gestures, no wasted time. When someone described pain, he didn't interrupt. He watched their posture, their breathing, the way their hands trembled or clenched.
A man with a deep cut along his forearm sat stiffly in the chair, jaw tight.
"When did it happen?" Tomas asked.
"Yesterday. Mission went bad," the man replied.
Tomas examined the wound carefully, fingers firm but controlled. He cleaned it thoroughly, ignoring the hiss of pain from the patient.
"This should have been treated immediately," Tomas said quietly, not accusing—just stating fact. He stitched the wound with smooth, practiced motions, each stitch even, clean. "You're lucky it didn't get infected."
The man nodded, watching Tomas's hands with a mixture of relief and respect.
Another patient followed—a woman with bruised ribs. Tomas checked her breathing, pressed gently along her side, listening for shallow reactions.
"No fractures," he concluded. "But you'll need rest. And pain management. Ignore it, and it will slow you down."
He handed her instructions, already written neatly, clearly.
A third man complained of dizziness and blurred vision. Tomas checked his pupils, blood pressure, reflexes.
"Dehydration. Exhaustion," Tomas said. "Not weakness. You're pushing past your limits."
One by one, they came.
Gunshot scars reopened. Old knife wounds that never healed properly. Sprained joints from landings gone wrong. Tomas treated all of it without judgment. To him, the body was a system—damaged parts to be repaired, stabilized, reinforced.
Between patients, he cleaned his tools meticulously. Blood wiped away. Gloves changed. Notes written in a precise, compact script. He organized supplies instinctively, already memorizing where everything belonged.
Some of them tried to speak casually, to joke, to ask questions.
"How long you been a doctor?" one asked.
"Long enough," Tomas replied.
Others said nothing at all, but their eyes followed him closely. There was something about his presence—quiet, controlled—that made them sit straighter, speak less. Pain seemed to ease simply because he didn't rush, didn't hesitate.
By mid-afternoon, the line outside his door stretched down the corridor.
The caretaker peeked inside once. "Should I tell them to come back later?"
Tomas glanced at the clock. "No. Send the next one in."
Even as fatigue crept into his muscles, his hands remained steady. His face showed no irritation, no strain. Only focus.
By the time the last patient left, the room smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean linen. The shelves were no longer empty—everything had its place. The chaos of injuries had been reduced to order.
Tomas leaned back in his chair for the first time that day and exhaled slowly.
Doctor, he thought.
This part of me still works.
He stood, stretched his shoulders, and looked out the window briefly. The world outside continued as usual—unaware of the quiet repairs happening behind these walls.
Then he turned off the lamp, locked the cabinet, and prepared to leave.
Work was done.
Training awaited.
Tomas stretched, exhaling slowly.
Fresh air. I need to run.
He changed into loose clothes and stepped outside. Evening had settled in. As he ran, he shifted his focus to Step Two of Mateo's training—speed and silence. Light steps. Controlled breathing. Movement without sound.
Later, back in his room, he sat on the edge of the bed.
Tomorrow, he wouldn't have many medical duties. The entire day could be devoted to training.
Viktor had said a mission would come in a couple of weeks.
Too soon.
Tomas picked up his phone and called Viktor.
"Hello, Tomas," Viktor answered.
"Viktor," Tomas said. "I'd like to ask something. You mentioned a mission in two weeks. Can it be moved to a month instead? I need more time to prepare."
There was a pause. "All right," Viktor said. "I'll try to push it to a month. By the way, I heard you did excellent work today. People were very satisfied."
"I'm just doing my job," Tomas replied.
Viktor chuckled. "Good. Keep it that way. Talk soon."
The call ended.
Tomas lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Preparation mattered.
Control mattered.
And time—time was the only thing he still allowed himself to ask for.