The car pulled over in front of a deserted convenience store on the edge of the highway. Alert stepped out into the pouring rain and returned a few minutes later, tossing a brown paper bag into Cease's lap.
Cease didn't waste a second. He twisted the cap off the vodka bottle, and the pungent sting of alcohol instantly colonized the cramped space. He tilted his head back and took a long swig, feeling the liquid fire sear down his esophagus, burning away the final tremors of a blood-drunk high.
Alert drove on in silence, his gloved hands tightening around the steering wheel. He loathed the smell; to him, it was as repulsive as the stench of cigarettes.
The car turned through the heavy iron gates of an old, secluded villa buried deep within the forest—a massive estate, fortress-like, ringed by high walls and a dense web of security cameras. Inside, the air always carried a damp, oppressive gloom. As they entered the communal living room, Cease shivered at the sudden shift in temperature. Bruno and a few other gunmen were huddled around a wooden table, silhouettes lost in drifting clouds of cigarette smoke. Seeing the pair return, Bruno smirked.
"Back already? You look like you just crawled out of—"
"Anything interesting happen today? Tell me. I'm bored," Alert cut him off.
"Mood swings much? You're more volatile than the stock market."
"And?" Alert's voice snapped, his patience fraying at the interruption.
"Nothing." Cease shrugged. Cease reminded himself that Alert's temperament was truly erratic; the man didn't just need a drink, he needed a psychiatrist.
Cease strode through the hall and headed for the second floor. Reaching his room, his hand settled on the cold metal handle.
Click.
The dry sound of the latch echoed. Alert watched Cease disappear into the room before turning back to resume his hollow chatter with the others.
The interior was surprisingly tidy, a stark contrast to Cease's disheveled appearance. The air was frigid. He reached out to crank up the heater, waiting for the warmth to bleed into the room. Peeling off his clothes—soaked with rain and stained with blood—he tossed them into a corner. He sat on the edge of the bed and drained the rest of the bottle. Staring up at the dark ceiling, he wondered what Alert's true emotions actually looked like. He knew the hollow, twisted nature lurking beneath that surface; he was certain that if he ever had a patient like Alert, he'd lose his mind.
Tossing the empty bottle into a nearby bin, Cease headed straight for the bathroom. The biting cold of the water made him feel "alive" again. The icy torrent washed away the streaks of dried blood clinging to his lean, muscled frame—a map of old and new scars. He leaned his forehead against the ceramic tiles, his ragged breathing finally leveling out. Turning off the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist. In the mirror, he saw his own eyes—bloodshot from booze and a chronic lack of sleep. He caught himself wondering: Who am I without the organization's orders?
He threw himself onto the bed, not bothering with the blankets, and drifted into a heavy sleep. But peace didn't come. A suffocating breathlessness took hold—not the freezing chill of Moscow, but a heat so stifling it felt like drowning. Even without a specific dream, Cease jolted awake, his head throbbing with the aftershocks of a phantom nightmare.
He sat up, his back drenched in sweat. He gasped for air, pressing his palms against his temples to stifle the buzzing in his brain, like a disturbed nest of hornets. Muttering a curse, he stumbled toward the window and flung it open. The frigid air of Rome rushed in. Cease took a deep breath, letting the cold soothe his feverish mind.
"Черт..." — a weary, broken swear filtered through his teeth.
He stood there for a long time, gripping the windowsill until his fingers went numb. Outside, the drizzle began to tap rhythmically against the glass.