Ethan's heavy eyelids fluttered open to the sterile white glow of a hospital room.
A clear plastic tube snaked down to a needle taped securely into his forearm, slowly dripping fluid into his veins.
Where... am I? he thought, his vision blurring as the room swam around him.
Through the fog of his fading consciousness, a soft, familiar voice drifted into his ears—the very same voice he had heard right before everything went dark in the snow.
This voice... Ethan's head rolled to the side, his eyes searching blindly.
"...Doctor, he's waking up," the woman said.
"Ma'am, he lost a critical amount of blood," a doctor replied nearby, checking the monitors. "His vitals are stabilizing, but his body is in severe shock. We need to pull the blinds and let him rest undisturbed."
The woman gave a gentle nod. "I understand. I'll stay right here with him."
The overhead lights clicked off, plunging the room into dim shadows as the heavy privacy curtains were drawn closed. The woman pulled up a chair and sat quietly by Ethan's bedside. Though his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, Ethan remained conscious, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing as darkness pulled him back under.
Deep in International Waters...
The high-pitched whine of jet skis cut through the ocean spray as a group of tourists zipped across the open water. Suddenly, one of them slowed down, pointing out toward the horizon where a massive, ultra-luxurious vessel carved smoothly through the waves.
"Look at that!" one rider shouted over the engine roar. "That's the Epiphany!"
"No way!" another yelled back, shielding his eyes. "That's one of the most exclusive mega-yachts in the world. What's a ship like that doing out here?"
"Probably some billionaire passing through."
High above the deck, standing alone at the bow of the Epiphany, a tall man stared out into the endless blue. He wore a crisp white double-breasted suit under a long, dark trench coat draped loosely over his shoulders, paired with polished black dress shoes and black gloves.
Murphy's face was an unreadable mask of absolute focus.
Footsteps hurried across the polished teak deck behind him. An aide approached, stopping at a respectful distance and bowing his head. "Sir. We just received an urgent flash update."
Murphy didn't turn around. He simply gave a subtle nod for the man to proceed.
"Sir... the private transport carrying Damian went down. Confirmed crash in the Siberian wilderness."
Murphy's eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic shift in his stoic expression. "What is Damian's current status?"
"We have no confirmed intel on survivors yet, sir," the aide reported nervously.
Murphy took a slow, measured breath. "Understood. You are dismissed. Route all regional satellite telemetry through my private terminal immediately."
"Yes, sir!" The aide bowed and retreated down the corridor.
Murphy stood in silence, the sea breeze whipping his dark coat around his legs.
Damian... How does a hardened transport plane just drop out of the sky? Someone tampered with that flight.
His mind raced through the tactical board. Does his family know? No... Selena and the others are laying low, for now.
Before he could process the thought further, the burner phone in his inner breast pocket vibrated against his ribs. He pulled it out, checking the caller ID: Madison's Mom.
Maintaining his cold composure, he opened the encrypted channel.
Madison's Mom: I found a boy. He bears an undeniable resemblance to Ethan... Damian's son.
Murphy: Ensure his identity remains completely dark. Tell no one.
Madison's Mom: Why? Where is Damian?! What was he doing in Russia in the first place?!
Murphy: Follow my instructions, Grace. You will have your answers soon enough.
Madison's Mom: ...Fine. I will do as you say.
Murphy: Where exactly did you find the boy?
Madison's Mom: I found him collapsed on the in the middle of the snow.
Murphy: Keep him safe. Do not reveal your true identity to him under any circumstances, and also keep his existence buried.
Madison's Mom: Understood.
Murphy closed the phone and slid it back inside his coat. He rested his gloved hands against the polished deck railing, his cold gaze scanning the horizon.
Damian... where the hell are you?
Meanwhile, deep inside the Siberian Manor...
Inside a state-of-the-art laboratory embedded within the secluded estate, Dr. Philip was bent over a microscope, meticulously adjusting a series of chemical slides.
The lab doors suddenly burst open. "Sir—!"
"I have told you repeatedly to knock before entering my lab," Philip snapped without looking up from his eyepiece.
"Forgive me, Doctor," the scout stammered, catching his breath. "But our outer perimeter patrol just recovered a survivor in the snowdrifts."
Philip turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. "A survivor? In this blizzard? I expected a frozen carcass, not a living man."
"Our search team brought him directly into the medical wing, sir," the scout confirmed.
Philip straightened his coat and headed up the metal staircase toward the recovery ward. When he pulled back the medical curtain and saw the man lying on the operating table, even the cold-hearted doctor let out a sharp intake of breath.
Damian lay unconscious, his bare torso crisscrossed by horrific, jagged battle scars—claw marks, deep entry wounds, and burn patterns that defied human endurance.
My... Philip thought, his scientific curiosity burning as he ran a scanner over Damian's chest.
Every single one of these scars represents a fatal wound. How in the world is this man still breathing?
Shaking off his disbelief, Philip initiated an emergency blood transfusion, stabilized Damian's critical vitals, and ordered him moved to a secure holding suite.
Stepping out of the recovery wing into the private hallway, Philip ran a hand through his hair.
"How is he, Brother?" a voice called out.
Philip looked up to see his sister standing near the archway, her arms folded tightly across her chest, a look of grim concern on her face.
"He will survive," Philip replied smoothly. "His physiology is extraordinary. He just needs time to regain consciousness."
His sister's eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "You need to be careful, Brother. We are hiding in hostile territory as it is. Word from our intelligence grid says that black-ops unit—DWO—has crossed the border; into Russia."