[The Kozlov Residence — Siberia]
Morning was quiet in the wooden Kozlov home. Snow fell softly outside the window, while the wood-burning stove crackled warmly in the corner. In the kitchen, Natasha stood beside her mother, Olga, helping her prepare lunch.
But her mind was miles away.
"Natasha," Olga called out, holding a plate toward her.
No response.
"Natasha!"
Still nothing.
"Natasha!" Olga raised her voice, sharp with concern.
"Ah!" Natasha jumped, snapping back to reality. "Yes, Mother?"
Olga looked at her with visible worry. "You've been drifting since dawn. What is weighing on your mind?"
Natasha took the plate, her eyes downcast. "I... I'm thinking about that man."
"The one we saved?"
Natasha nodded silently. She remembered his pale face when she found him in the snow—and then, that impossible power. His flight into the heavens. The vortex he summoned on the live broadcast.
"Who... who was he truly?" she whispered. "Is he really... a fugitive from human experiments, like the news said?"
Olga placed a hand tenderly on her daughter's shoulder. "Child, do not worry," she said in a soothing tone. "What happened has happened. We must move past this. Do you understand?"
Natasha forced a weak smile. "I know, Mother."
The family gathered around the large wooden table. Ivan at the head, with Olga and Natasha on either side. Steam rose from the food before them—hot beetroot soup, fresh black bread, and roasted meat. They held hands and closed their eyes.
Ivan began the prayer in a low, steady voice: "Lord, we thank you for this food—"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Violent, thunderous strikes erupted against the front door. Powerful. Urgent. Terrifying.
Everyone stopped. The words froze in Ivan's throat. They looked at one another with wide, frightened eyes.
"Who... who knocks with such force?" Natasha whispered, her voice trembling.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The pounding continued, louder this time. Ivan stood up slowly, his face pale but resolute. He opened a side drawer and pulled out an old service pistol—one he kept only for emergencies. He looked at his wife with a grim expression.
"Olga," he said in a low, commanding tone. "Take Natasha. Get into the cellar. Lock yourselves in. Do not come out, no matter what you hear."
"But Ivan—" Olga began, her voice thick with dread.
"Now!" he cut her off sharply.
Olga moved quickly, grabbing Natasha's hand and pulling her toward the back. "Dad! No! Dad!" Natasha cried out, trying to break free. But Olga was stronger, clutching her tightly.
"Let your father handle this," she whispered, a desperate lie to comfort them both. "It won't be dangerous."
She knew it was a lie. They had no relatives nearby. Neighbors never ventured this far. They were isolated. Anyone pounding on their door like that was no friend.
Olga and Natasha entered the cellar—a small, cold, dark underground room. They locked the door from the inside and sat in the shadows, clutching each other, their hearts hammering against their ribs.
Upstairs, Ivan stood before the front door, pistol in hand. He took one deep breath and opened it slowly.
He found ten armed men in black Russian military gear—helmets, tactical armor, and assault rifles.
"Who are you?! What do you want?!" Ivan shouted.
They didn't answer. Immediately, without a question or a warning, they stormed the house. They seized him, dragging him down.
"Wait! What are you doing?! I've done nothing!" He tried to resist, raising the pistol.
BANG! BANG!
Gunshots rang out in the once-peaceful home.
[The Laboratory — Secret-7 Facility]
Dr. Volkov hadn't slept since Heracles arrived. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling from exhaustion and excessive caffeine. But he couldn't stop. Especially not after examining the blood samples.
The cells were three times the size of normal human cells. They were glowing—literally—with a faint golden hue under the microscope. And they were moving in an organized, coordinated fashion, as if they possessed a collective consciousness of their own.
"If we could fuse this with the drug..."
The thought exploded in his mind.
[Office of Alex, Assistant to Colonel Petrovich — The Next Day]
Alex sat before his computer. A disciplined, stern man in his early forties, he worked with clinical focus. There was a knock at the door.
"Enter."
A woman in her forties entered—thick glasses, blonde hair pulled back tightly. It was Dr. Lana Petrova, a specialist in linguistics from Moscow University.
"Sir, I have carefully reviewed the recording Dr. Volkov sent me."
"And? What did you find?" Alex asked with clear anticipation.
She sat down and turned her laptop toward him. "The language... it's Ancient Greek."
"Are you certain?"
"One hundred percent," she nodded confidently. "It's a dialect that hasn't been used in 3,000 years."
Alex fell silent, a look of profound bewilderment crossing his face. "Three thousand years?" he whispered.
"Yes." She pointed to the text on the screen, where the ancient characters were displayed:
Εἰμὶ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ Διός. Καὶ συμφέρει ὑμῖν μὴ ποιεῖν με ἐχθρόν.
"Can you... can you translate what he's saying?"
"Of course. He says: 'I am the son of Zeus. It is in your best interest not to make an enemy of me.'"
"Zeus," Alex repeated, his voice filled with confusion. "The king of the Greek gods? So... he believes he is from those myths?"
"Or..." She paused, hesitating for a moment.
"Speak. Don't hold back."
She took a deep breath. "Or perhaps... experiments were conducted on him. A false memory implantation. By someone with incredible advancements in neuro-manipulation."
Alex stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise. "That... that is scientifically impossible."
"I know it sounds insane. But think—the superhuman strength, the ancient language... everything points to something non-human. Or at least, not human in the way we understand it."
Alex's phone rang suddenly, cutting the discussion short. He picked up. "Yes?"
"Sir, Colonel Petrovich wants to see you. Immediately. It's urgent."
"On my way." He hung up and looked at Lana. "I will relay these results to the Colonel. But those conclusions you just voiced... they are outside your jurisdiction."
He left the room without another word.
[The Kozlov Residence — Siberia]
In the cellar, Natasha heard the shots.
"Dad!" she screamed in a muffled, stifled voice, her eyes filling with tears. Olga covered her mouth firmly.
"Shh! You must stay silent!" she whispered in a panic.
But then... they heard heavy footsteps above them. The sound of men searching. Opening doors. Smashing furniture.
Then... BAM!
The cellar door was kicked open violently. A harsh light flooded the darkness. Olga and Natasha looked up with terrified eyes. They saw black shadows—soldiers descending the stairs.
"No!" Natasha screamed.
They were seized brutally and dragged upstairs. In the living room, Ivan lay bound on the floor, his face battered and bruised.
"My daughter! My wife!" he cried out when he saw them.
One of the soldiers struck him with the butt of a rifle. He slumped over, losing consciousness.
"Ivan!" Olga wailed.
[Office of Colonel Petrovich]
Alex entered the luxurious office to find the Colonel standing by the large window, speaking into a phone in a sharp, angry tone.
"No. You cannot have access to him. This is final." He listened to the other end for a moment. "I don't care what the Americans say!" he roared. "He is on our soil. He was captured in Russia. He is ours!"
He slammed the phone down. He turned and saw Alex at the door.
"Alex. Come in. Close the door."
Alex complied. "The results?" the Colonel asked directly.
"Sir, we identified the language. It's Ancient Greek."
"And what does this man say?"
"He claims to be the son of Zeus, the king of the gods in Greek mythology."
The Colonel let out a short, mocking laugh. "So, he's a madman."
"Or... perhaps not."
The Colonel raised an eyebrow, looking at him sharply.
"Sir, the impossible strength, a 3,000-year-old language... what if he comes from an advanced civilization we know nothing about? Or—"
"No," the Colonel cut him off firmly. "I don't want sci-fi theories here, Alex. I want facts. Do you hear me?!"
"Yes, sir," Alex lowered his head.
The Colonel sighed, sitting at his desk. "Moreover... the American government is pushing hard. They claim the man is an American and the son of a Senator."
"Impossible!" Alex blurted out in shock.
"They have proof. They've presented it to the officials here."
"How long can we refuse them?" Alex asked worriedly.
"Not long." The Colonel shook his head. "The American President himself called ours directly. The pressure is mounting."
A heavy silence filled the office. "What do you suggest, sir?"
The Colonel pondered for a moment, staring at his desk. "We negotiate," he said finally. "I've tried to hold out, but we can't keep him here forever. We must get something out of them in exchange."
[Shortly After — A Series of High-Level Calls]
The calls were long, exhausting, and filled with veiled threats and precise bargaining. But in the end... they reached a resolution.
Russia would hand over "Alexander"—or the man they claimed was Alexander.
In exchange: A partial lifting of several economic sanctions.
An unfair deal, but the only one possible given the relentless American persistence.
To be continued...