TV Presenter
Good afternoon, dear fellow citizens. George Williams here again.
Today is a significant date. Exactly 350 years ago, in 1991, the Cold War ended on Earth. The peace treaty brought an end to every armed conflict on the planet, united humanity under the banner of the Galactic Federation, and opened a new era—the Space Age.
Back then, for the first time in history, a joint parade took place in the center of New York—among nations that only yesterday stood against one another. The United States, Russia, Germany, Japan, China, France—they all marched as one.
It was a bright spring day. The air was filled with millions of confetti pieces, and smiles shone on people's faces. Many flew in from far away to witness the moment humanity became united. In the heart of New York, along the avenue, the first unified parade in Earth's history moved forward: mighty T-80s and Abrams rolled side by side; columns of soldiers from Russia, the United States, Germany, France, China, and Japan marched shoulder to shoulder.
On a balcony above the square stood the representatives of the great powers: George Bronstein, Russian President Alexander Grigoriev, the heads of intelligence agencies, the Head of the Galactic Federation, and dozens of delegates from other countries.
But let us also remember the other key events that led us to this day.
The first long-range spacecraft launch. The beginning of lunar colonization.
2040. The first expedition to Mars.
2050. The complete exploration of the Solar System.
2080. Our long-range ships crossed its borders for the first time.
2090. First contact with the alien civilization of Ileonora.
2260. Average human life expectancy reaches 180 years. The successful use of terraforming brings life back to Mars.
2280. The Galactic Federation expands to twenty systems.
But there were difficult years as well.
In 2295, war began with the Ulumin civilization—a conflict that lasted ten years and claimed millions of lives. Only in 2305 was the traveler and explorer Alice Seleznyova able to stop the war: she united representatives of both sides and signed a peace treaty that ended the bloody confrontation.
And today—the year is 2341.
The Galactic Federation is stronger than ever: great, united, and most importantly, safe.
On behalf of our entire television network, we wish you a wonderful weekend.
Planet Bismir
Over the distant horizon, the sunset smoldered slowly—thick, bright orange, like molten metal. Its light fell softly on the glass panels of a small bar-restaurant decorated in the style of 1960s America. A neon sign crackled quietly, reflecting in chrome details, and it seemed as though time moved differently here than in the rest of the galaxy.
The bar belonged to a man with dark gray skin—clearly a devoted fan of old U.S. Earth culture. Posters of classic films hung on the walls, vinyl records lined the shelves, and a retro jukebox hummed cozily in the corner.
At the counter sat a man in a dark blue coat. Shadow hid his face. He ate in silence and drank his beer as if trying to fill a void he couldn't explain—even to himself.
Nearby, clearing dishes, a young brunette waitress named Lyra paused in her neat pink uniform, perfectly matched to the place's aesthetic.
"Would you like anything else?" she asked gently.
The man didn't even look up.
"No. Leave me alone."
The cold harshness of his voice made Lyra instinctively step back. The visitor rose abruptly, tossed a few coins onto the counter, and walked out without another word.
"What a rude man," Lyra muttered, frowning.
The bartender wiped a glass and shook his head.
"Let him be." His voice was calm, almost sad. "He has his own demons, Lyra. It's not for us to judge."
"Even if he acts like that?" She lifted her chin indignantly. "People should respect others. Doesn't matter what they have inside—pain or happiness."
The bartender gave a sad smile, but said nothing.
The sun finally sank behind the edge of the plateau.
That same man walked slowly along a lonely road surrounded by desert. He pulled a small metal flask of rum from his coat, took a sip, and kept going.
Rumor had it a residential district was supposed to be built here, but the funds were never allocated.
Now there was only silence and wind.
He stopped. As if in a trance, he lifted his head.
The night sky over Bismir looked like a vast scattering of diamonds. He stared at the stars for a long time, motionless—like someone searching them for answers… or forgotten memories.
Night
Night settled in fully. It was time to close the bar.
The bartender turned off the exterior lights, locked the doors, and approached Lyra. Worry was written all over his face.
"Listen, Lyra…" he began, lowering his voice. "I think this time you should take a gun with you."
She blinked in surprise.
"Attacks… you mean that news?"
"Yes." He sighed, opened a drawer, and pulled out an old blaster—ten years old, but still reliable. "It's become dangerous at night. I don't want anything to happen to you."
Lyra hesitated for a second, then took the weapon. The cold metal in her hands made her shiver.
"I hope I won't have to use it," she said quietly.
The bartender rested a hand on her shoulder.
"If anything happens, you know where to run. And remember—everything will be all right."
Lyra smiled, a little stiffly, waved goodbye, and stepped out into the evening air.
The door clicked shut behind her.
It was fully dark now.
Lyra walked down a street drowned in the bright glow of grav-vehicles and shop windows. The flow of people returning from work was noisy around her—some laughing, some arguing into their communicators. The air was fresh, the sky clear, and she decided not to rush home.
How I wish I could go somewhere, she thought. She felt a dull boredom at the fact that she was already twenty-seven and had never once flown to another planet. To leave this world. To see other places…
Her thoughts still returned to that rough stranger.
What happened to him? Why was there so much pain in his voice?
But there was no time to dwell on it.
She felt it—first by instinct, then on her skin—that she was being followed.
Four men in long coats kept their distance, but their steps were synchronized. Too confident to be coincidence.
Lyra quickened her pace and turned into an alley.
They turned after her.
She sped up again, turned once more.
They didn't fall behind.
Her heart pounded faster. Cold sweat slid down her back.
She darted into the last narrow passage—and froze.
A wall. Solid. A dead end.
"Well, well…" came a heavy voice behind her, almost predatory.
She turned.
The first of the pursuers—a giant nearly two meters tall—smiled as if he'd been waiting for this moment.
"Trying to get away from us?" He stepped closer. "Won't work, sweetheart."
Lyra yanked the blaster from her bag with a trembling hand.
But before she could even aim, the man snatched her wrist. A brutal jerk—sharp pain flared through her arm. The blaster slipped from her fingers and struck the tiles with a dull clack.
A punch to the stomach knocked the air out of her lungs.
The world swayed.
She fell face down, gasping, pain throbbing in her gut and arm.
"No, no, no, sweetheart…" The man crouched beside her. His shadow covered her; his voice turned thick and vile. "Not today."
He reached toward her, intending something that sent a primal fear through Lyra—
And then—
A BLASTER SHOT.
Dull and heavy, like a hammer blow.
One of the pursuers—the one closest to the alley exit—collapsed without even managing a scream.
The others spun around and froze.
In the doorway stood the same man in the dark blue coat.
A silhouette Lyra recognized instantly.
The weapon in his hand still smoked.
His face was calm, almost indifferent—like someone who had seen this more than once.
"What the—?!" the second thug shouted, but didn't finish.
A shot.
He flew backward into a metal trash barrel and slid lifelessly to the ground.
The third drew his blaster, but the man in the coat was faster.
Much faster. Three shots—short, precise. The thug doubled over, rasped, and fell.
The last one, blinded by rage and fear, charged in firing wildly.
But his hand shook. His mind was panicking. He was a street brute—not a soldier.
One shot to the head ended his rush.
His body dropped beside Lyra.
For a moment there was complete silence.
Lyra, trembling, groped the ground, trying to find her blaster. But as her fingers touched it, the man was already standing over her.
He looked down at her—calm, confident.
His gun still smoked, but his hand didn't tremble.
"Are you okay?" he asked in his low, heavy voice.
Lyra didn't answer. She only stared up at him with wide eyes, still empty with shock.
He raised his voice, snapping a word like a lash across her consciousness.
"Waitress! Look at me. Are you okay?"
Lyra blinked. Her breathing was ragged, but it was coming back.
The man crouched and examined her quickly. His movements were confident—almost professional.
"Leg… arm… face," he said curtly. "You need treatment. I have a ship nearby. I can help."
Lyra tried to object, but her voice broke into a whisper. She only shook her head—not quite "no," not quite "I don't know."
He exhaled softly, then lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing.
Above them, the sky shimmered with the light of two moons and a silver scatter of stars.
He carried her through that cold, silent glow—steady, certain—like a man who had saved someone before… and knew he was doing it again.
They walked in silence.
Ten minutes—maybe more. For Lyra, time became fog between pain and shock. The streets emptied as they left the noisy center for the outskirts, where streetlights were rare and wind wandered between abandoned warehouses.
They crossed an old rusted fence, and ahead lay a ship lot—deserted and quiet, lit only by moonlight and the occasional emergency lamp.
Mystery Man stopped, carefully set her down, and touched the bracelet on his wrist. Thin lines flashed across it—and one of the ships ahead hissed, its ramp activating.
Lyra saw his ship for the first time.
Dark, angular, with sharp lines as if carved with a knife. Fast. Abrupt. The ship of a man used to vanishing before anyone noticed.
He lifted her again and carried her inside.
Lyra expected a mess—the usual chaos of someone living between flights. Instead, the interior was surprisingly clean: tools in their places, panels wiped down, air smelling of metal and medicine.
He brought her to a small medical bay and laid her gently on a cot.
Lyra clenched her teeth. Pain in her stomach and leg still pulsed in dull waves.
Person sat beside her and examined her injuries.
Her leg had taken the worst of the fall, but there was no fracture. He raised her left leg carefully, his fingers sure and practiced, but she still flinched at the touch.
He applied ointment—cold and sharp. Lyra exhaled through her teeth.
Man placed his palm just above the wound—not a tender gesture, but a steadying one.
"Hold on," he said in a calm, deep voice. "It'll ease up now."
While he worked, Lyra gathered the courage to ask, "What's your name?"
For a second he met her eyes—calm, but as if burned out from within.
"Feyzin."
"Nice to meet you…" she whispered, lowering her gaze to her leg as he bandaged it. "I'm Lyra."
"Beautiful name," he said coolly—more statement than compliment.
He took her hand.
"This will hurt. Just a second. Hold on."
With a sharp, precise motion, he set the joint back into place. Lyra cried out, but held herself together, gripping the edge of the cot with her free hand. Then he applied healing gel and wrapped it.
His skin was rough and calloused—the hands of a man who had spent too many years working with metal, weapons… and perhaps blood.
Last, he treated her face. Wherever his fingers touched her skin, Lyra felt something strange: anxiety and trust at the same time. No one but her parents had ever touched her like that.
When he finished, he stood and began putting away medical instruments, not wasting a single movement.
"All right, Lyra," he said firmly without turning around. "You can't go home. At least, not today. These pirates have grown. They have a lot of people in the city. We put down four of them—so they'll be looking for you."
Lyra went still.
"I… I didn't think it was that serious…"
"It is," he confirmed. "So for now, you stay here."
"But my friends… my boss…"
"Warn them," he cut in, closing the medical cabinet. "Tell them you're safe. And tell them not to look for you today."
Lyra nodded, even though everything inside her trembled.
"Okay… and… thank you. For saving me."
For the first time, he held her gaze longer than a second.
"No need, Lyra. Any good person would save a beauty like you."
Warmth burned her cheeks. She turned away, embarrassed.
He pulled out a thin blanket and a soft pillow.
"Lie down. I'll be in the next cabin. If you need anything, call."
He left and closed the door.
Lyra took a deep breath.
Her legs were unsteady, but she managed to get up, spread the blanket, and contact her boss. She told him everything.
Her boss's voice was stern, but gentle.
"Knowing you, Lyra, I'll say one thing: don't do anything foolish. He saved your life. Trust him."
"Okay, boss…"
She ended the call.
The pain in her body eased. Fear gave way to exhaustion.
And for the first time all day, Lyra felt safe.
She pulled the blanket over herself, hugged the pillow, and closed her eyes.
Sleep came quickly—like someone had finally switched the world off.
Morning
Lyra woke slowly, as if returning from a very distant dream. She still felt weak, but the most amazing thing was that the pain had almost vanished.
She sat up carefully, looking around the small cabin. Warm ceiling lights softly illuminated a simple room: a cot, a single wardrobe, two workbenches, and a few shelves. Everything was neat and functional—surprising for someone who, at first glance, seemed like a gruff loner.
On top of one cabinet she noticed a stack of old round discs.
Movies.
Dates: 1977, 1980, 1983, 1991.
So ancient… she thought, amazed anyone still kept things like that.
But one disc stood out—no title, only a handwritten inscription:
NEVER FORGET.
Curiosity won. She found a small projector and carefully inserted the disc.
The projector hummed… and a vivid, sunny image appeared on the wall.
A little girl—fair-haired, cheerful, no taller than a meter and a half—ran around the room, jumping, shouting something to her parents, laughing. A backpack on her shoulders—a schoolgirl. Life. Light. Happiness.
Lyra smiled. Such sincerity. Such energy…
Then the video abruptly changed.
Flicker.
Sirens.
Medics carrying the girl's body out on a stretcher.
The father covered his face with his hands. The mother dropped to her knees, choking on sobs.
Neighbors standing at a distance, stunned.
Lyra's mouth went dry. Words vanished. Only questions remained.
Who is she? What happened? Who could…? Why? For what?
"She was a good girl," a low voice said behind her.
Lyra turned sharply. Feyzin stood in the doorway—calm, but with a dull light of pain in his eyes.
"Who is that?" she asked quietly.
"Christy," he replied, staring at the screen. "She was a good girl."
"How did she… die?"
He looked away, as if he couldn't look at either Lyra or the image.
"Bad people killed her."
"And did they find the criminals?" Lyra stepped closer. Fear and compassion tangled in her voice.
Feyzin shook his head.
"No. They never did."
The cabin fell completely silent.
He turned off the projector.
Bad News
"You'd better call your boss again," Feyzin said, still watching her. "Just in case."
"Yes… we should focus on today," Lyra whispered, pulling out her communicator.
She dialed slowly, lifted it to her ear—and froze.
A minute of silence.
No ringing. No answer. Only the dead quiet of the line.
"Oh God… come on… answer…" she muttered anxiously, squeezing the communicator tighter and tighter.
Feyzin watched her calmly, but in his eyes was something that said he'd already understood. Understood too well.
"I… I…" Lyra's voice shook. "He's not answering…"
Feyzin exhaled slowly.
"Most likely… he's already dead," he said softly, but firmly. "I'm very sorry."
Lyra's eyes widened. It felt as if the ground had dropped away beneath her.
"Then… my home…" she breathed—and in the next second she bolted.
But Feyzin caught her before she could take three steps. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back to him.
"Calm down, Lyra!" His voice came out almost like a growl—no malice, only force. "Don't run there. Most likely they're already waiting for you. In your own home."
Lyra froze, breathing hard, horror and tears in her eyes.
Feyzin loosened his grip, but didn't let go.
For a moment he thought—fast, tense—like he was assembling a plan that a normal person would throw away instantly.
But he wasn't a "normal person."
"Lyra," he said at last. "They already have your boss. They'll check the house too. They'll come here as well—it's only a matter of time."
He looked into her eyes, and a determination flashed there that could send a chill down anyone's spine.
"So we need to make sure they don't find what they're looking for."
And make sure there's no one left for them to keep searching for.
He fell silent for a few seconds, then frowned, clearly making a decision he didn't like himself.
"All right, Lyra," he said in a firm, almost commanding voice. "Here's what we do now. We gear up, we arm ourselves… and we go to work. Can you shoot?"
"Yes," she answered confidently. "I've been to a range a couple of times. I can shoot a blaster. It's just… I've never killed anyone."
Feyzin studied her intently, as if judging whether she would break.
"Then remember the most important thing," he said quietly, hard. "Remember the man who hurt you. Remember his face. The whole gang is the same. Aim—and shoot."
"Because you can't be afraid. Do you understand?"
"Either you… or them."
Lyra took a deep breath, trying to steady the trembling.
"I'll try, Feyzin," she said, gathering what courage she had left. Fear was still inside her, but determination was already pushing it out.
"Good." He nodded and turned to the wardrobe. "There's no time for training. I have one crazy idea… but it might work. Get ready. You're coming with me."
Lyra didn't argue. She packed quickly. Ten minutes later they stood at the exit, fully equipped.
The Trip
Outside, the weather was clear—warm air, dry gusts of wind, a faint smell of metal from the docking structures. A normal summer day on Bismir. And yet it felt… uneasy.
They crossed the ship lot and stopped by an old speeder.
Feyzin picked the lock in silence—precise, fast movements refined by years of practice. The machine came to life with a low hum.
As they drove past the bar-restaurant, Lyra noticed something that cut straight into her chest.
The bar was closed.
On a weekday.
In the morning.
That never happened.
She exhaled slowly. Her eyes grew wet. Everything became clear without a word.
Lyra leaned against Feyzin's shoulder—she didn't even realize she'd done it. She just… needed something stable.
Feyzin glanced at her briefly and placed his hand on her shoulder—restrained, but supportive.
"I understand, Lyra," he said calmly. "But now we move forward."
"What they did won't go unanswered."
He turned the steering yoke; the speeder accelerated.
"We'll give them something they'll never forget."
They stopped about three kilometers from an abandoned factory. The speeder shut down quietly, and the outskirts hung around them in thick silence—rare lamps, the buzz of insects, an occasional wind brushing the sand.
Without a word, Feyzin took out his communicator. His gaze sharpened—cold, focused. He dialed a number he clearly knew by heart.
Lyra watched, not understanding what he was about to do.
The communicator clicked, and an irritated voice came through.
"Hello? Who is this?"
Feyzin changed instantly. His voice became unexpectedly bright, almost cheerful—so much so that Lyra barely recognized him.
"Hi. I just killed a group of civilians and I want to settle the score with you," he drawled lazily.
A pause. Then, on the other end—a startled curse.
"Damn… who are you—?!"
Feyzin chuckled.
"Yeah, yeah. That's us. We had a great time. And you know… I'm not alone. I've got new friends. Big ones. Very big."
The person on the other end sounded like he couldn't breathe.
"You're lying!"
"Believe it or don't," Feyzin said lightly. "Honestly, I don't care. But good luck… trying to catch me."
He ended the call immediately, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a brief interruption.
Lyra stood beside him, blinking in disbelief. For a moment she'd seen a completely different man—confident, daring, as if brought back to life.
"Who was that?" she asked carefully.
Feyzin put the communicator away, looked toward the factory, and spoke in a calm, firm voice.
"Our 'reinforcements.' And… possibly one of the stupidest plans I've ever come up with."
He turned to Lyra, tilting his head slightly.
"Let's hope it works. And that they fall for my little game."
A short, predatory smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth—and he became, once again, the silent, dangerous man she'd seen that night.
They moved through the western ruins of the abandoned factory, stepping over rusted beams and concrete blocks. The smell of old oil and burnt metal hung in the air. And then—a familiar sound, unmistakable.
Low. Vibrating. Growing.
Lyra turned first.
"Is that…?"
Feyzin nodded.
"The Federation."
Above the shattered walls, silhouettes of drop-ships appeared. Five "Griffins" came in from the north in a wedge—fast, precise, moving with the efficiency of a professional army. The ground trembled underfoot.
A minute later they landed, kicking up clouds of dust, and soon Lyra heard the first shots. Then—screams, running footsteps, bursts of automatic fire.
"It's begun," Feyzin said quietly. "They'll distract most of the gang. We go for the center."
They went deeper down a corridor until they emerged into a vast metal-smelting workshop. Rails still ran across the floor—once used by ore carts. In one corner stood old furnaces under a thick layer of dust.
Feyzin swept the room with his eyes.
"Perfect," he said, as if checking something off an invisible list. Then he pulled several explosive charges from his bag. "Watch closely, Lyra."
He activated the timers—one after another, each one clicking softly.
"I start the countdown. You plant them. There… there… and there." He pointed to four key points: a load-bearing beam, an old furnace, the central power distributor, and a support pillar. "The hits should fold the entire building inward. No chance."
Lyra nodded. She already understood why the planting was on her.
He's the shooter. He's needed in a firefight. And I…
She wasn't the same Lyra from the restaurant anymore. Fear still lived in her chest, but it was mixed with determination.
Feyzin seemed to sense it.
"I'll cover you," he said calmly. "I won't let anyone get close."
His voice sounded so certain that, for the first time, Lyra believed that beside him even fear could be kept under control.
"Okay," she said, taking the first charge.
She stepped toward the first point, and behind her she already heard Feyzin take his blaster off safety and settle into position.
Shots thundered in the distance. The factory hummed with the vibration of battle. And here, in the heart of the structure, the quiet but decisive part of their plan began.
Minutes dragged, slow and tense. The workshop remained empty—only distant battle sounds trembling in the air, as if the factory itself were listening to the approaching chaos.
Feyzin and Lyra placed most of the charges. One remained—the last.
They moved into an adjacent corridor, narrow and smelling of rust and molten metal. Lyra was securing the explosives when the sound they both feared arrived:
The thunder of many running feet.
Shouts.
And a moment later—bandits burst into the passage, saw two strangers, and opened fire without hesitation.
"Cover!" Feyzin barked. He grabbed Lyra's hand and yanked her behind a massive metal container.
Laser fire sliced the air, leaving glowing scars on the walls.
"Lyra! Remember—don't be afraid and shoot!" he ordered, leaning out and suppressing the attackers with a tight series of accurate shots.
Lyra breathed hard. Her heart hammered up in her throat. But something broke through—no longer panic, but resolve.
She exhaled, raised her blaster, leaned out just enough to see the target…
…and pulled the trigger.
Two flashes. Two clean hits.
The bandit she struck in the neck and collarbone staggered backward and collapsed against a pillar.
Lyra snapped back into cover, shaking.
It was her first time.
Feyzin noticed—but there was no judgment in his voice, no pity.
"Good. Don't relax," he said harshly, but almost warmly. "We need to break through that door. We have three minutes, Lyra. Three. We run—or we die with this factory."
A second later he was out again, firing at the advancing men.
The situation was becoming critical, when new shots cracked from the far end of the corridor—short, professional.
"The Federation," Feyzin whispered.
Indeed, soldiers in Galactic Federation armor stormed in, driving back what remained of the gang with precise volleys.
"Move!" Feyzin shot the last bandit blocking their path. "The door's clear now!"
"NOW!" he shouted, and they sprinted for the side exit.
They ran—and everything was going perfectly—until something small and metallic flew out of a side tunnel.
A cylinder struck the floor and rolled toward their feet.
A grenade.
Lyra saw it first. Panic locked her breath.
"Damn—!" She jerked away on instinct, but it was too late.
An EXPLOSION.
Thunder tore through the corridor. A flash swallowed everything. The blast wave caught Lyra and threw her sideways—she hit the wall, and the world went dark.
"LYRA!" Feyzin cried.
He rushed to her—but there was no time for emotion. The factory was beginning to collapse. Metal screamed. Somewhere deep inside, their own charges detonated—chain explosions tearing through the complex.
At that very moment, Federation soldiers burst into the hall. Seeing Feyzin—a dark-blue figure carrying a girl—they opened fire.
"Wonderful," he hissed through his teeth.
Clutching Lyra to his chest, he lunged for the side exit. Laser shots tore into the walls behind him; sparks rained down.
He burst into the corridor, leapt over debris, and carried her toward the outer door, feeling the ground shake beneath his feet.
Behind him—everything: explosions, collapses, gunfire. The factory was coming apart.
Feyzin broke outside at the last possible moment—a pillar of fire swelled behind him, ripping the metal roof apart.
Without stopping, he set Lyra into the speeder, launched forward, and the machine tore down the dusty road, carrying them away under the roar of destruction behind them.
He looked at her arm, hanging limp.
"Hold on, Lyra," he whispered. "Hold on."
The local hospital?
A death sentence for both of them. Federals. Cameras. Protocols.
So he drove the speeder toward the only place he could save her.
The port.
Feyzin entered the territory and scanned again—posts, patrols, Federation observers. Nothing.
He exhaled in relief, scooped Lyra into his arms, and ran for his ship.
The airlock door swung open.
A minute later—they were in the air.
Two minutes later—into the stratosphere.
Three minutes later—the planet fell behind, shrinking into a glowing dot.
Feyzin glanced at Lyra on the cot.
"I won't let you die," he said quietly, as if making a vow to himself.
And the ship jumped into hyperspace.
A Few Days Later
Lyra opened her eyes slowly. The light stung a little. The first thing she noticed was the strange lightness of the air—the smell of sterility, the subtle aroma of filtered air, the soft hum of medical devices.
A hospital.
White walls. A neatly made bed. A vase of delicate blue flowers on the bedside table. In the corner, a holoprojector played a nature program: waterfalls on distant planets, flocks of alien birds.
Lyra tried to sit up.
Pain flared in her back—sharp, like an inner fire.
How… how did I survive that explosion?
Thoughts tumbled through her mind like tangled thread.
The door opened softly and a nurse entered—a young woman in a white coat, warm blue eyes, light braids.
"Miss—you're awake!" she said, genuinely surprised. "How are you feeling?"
Lyra let out a quiet breath.
"My back hurts… but overall I think I'm okay."
"I'm glad to hear that." The nurse smiled with relief. "You have a visitor. Just… please stay calm."
Lyra raised an eyebrow.
"A visitor? Who…?" A spark of hope flickered inside her: Feyzin?
But the hope collapsed when the nurse opened the door and ushered the visitor in.
A stranger stepped into the room—a fit man in his thirties in a perfect Galactic Federation captain's uniform. Light stubble on his chin. A direct, attentive gaze.
"Hello, Miss Lyra," he said with a respectful nod. "Captain Alfred Wilson, the ship Nebiri. Galactic Federation."
Lyra swallowed nervously.
"Hello… What questions do you have?"
The captain sat in a chair beside the bed, keeping his tone official but polite.
"First—how are you feeling? Well enough to answer?"
"As I told the nurse—my back hurts, but I can manage."
"Excellent." He exhaled and pulled a small, flat photograph from an inner pocket. "Then let's get straight to the point."
"Miss… do you know this man's whereabouts?"
He turned the photo toward her—and Lyra saw the face.
The face she now knew far too well.
Only younger. More alive. With a look that hadn't yet gone empty.
Lyra frowned.
"No… I don't know where he is right now."
"Young," she whispered, peering closer. "So that was a long time ago. So…"
And then it hit her.
"This… is about Christy?"
The captain's hand twitched. He looked up.
"How do you know that name?"
"He told me," Lyra said. "He said she was killed. And the killers were never found."
Real surprise crossed Alfred's face. He pulled his chair closer, his voice shifting—less formal, more cautious, almost gentle.
"Miss Lyra…"
"You've already seen her killer."
Lyra blinked, not understanding at first.
"What… what do you mean?"
Alfred looked her straight in the eyes.
A second of silence.
Then, in a steady, heavy voice:
"This man. Your rescuer. Feyzin."
"He isn't just wanted."
"He is the one who killed Christy."
"And not only her."
"He is implicated in at least three murders of young people."
"And he has been hunted for over ten years."
Lyra went pale. The captain's words hit as hard as the factory explosion—her ears rang, the world swam.
Christy… Saved… Killer… The fragments wouldn't form a picture.
"No," she breathed. In that one word was everything: horror, despair, and refusal to believe. "It can't be…"
The captain didn't take his eyes off her, tracking every movement, every twitch. He stayed silent, giving her time to absorb what she'd heard—and in that silence there was a cold calculation.
Outside the hospital window the sun still shone—bright, calm, utterly indifferent to the fact that, in that small room, someone's world had just collapsed.