UnBooks:Alex is becoming Ivan again

Alexander had settled into a domestic life, a far cry from the chaos and adventures of his past. He cared for Sharon, who had successfully adapted to modern times, thriving as a model and actress. He also helped raise her son, a role that oddly brought him peace. It reminded him of his life in the 1970s, back when he lived as Ivan Tůma—an army reservist and a detective in the ČSSR—responsible for a child amidst the rigid confines of socialism. That chapter of his life had been tumultuous, but it left a mark.

Lara, on the other hand, remained a wanderer. She continued her escapades, raiding tombs and plundering treasures from the most treacherous corners of the world. Yet, she couldn't shake the thoughts of Alexander. The love she had for him lingered like a shadow, constant and inescapable. She knew he loved her too, even if he had walked away. Memories of their shared exploits—storming ancient ruins and even otherworldly realms—haunted her.

Alexander, however, had made a commitment to Sharon. He promised to stand by her side and raise her son as his own. For him, it was a chance at stability, a way to atone for the chaos he'd once embraced.

But the modern world had surprises of its own. And Alexander, for all his strength and resolve, had no idea what it would demand of him—or what it might take to truly move forward.

Meanwhile, Lara felt the pull of the past as strongly as ever. No matter where she went or how many tombs she desecrated, the ghost of Alexander lingered in her heart, refusing to fade. She could sense the same torment in him, even from afar.

The question remained: could they ever reconcile their worlds? Or had the modern age, with all its complexities, already buried their love under its weight?

Chapter 1

Alex found himself again.....

Alexander had always been a pragmatist, a man of routine and measured decisions. Even now, as his life revolved around the refined halls of Croft Manor, he found ways to keep himself occupied. Sharon’s burgeoning career as a model and, more recently, an influencer left him with plenty of time to think—and plenty of reasons to grow increasingly irritable.

Her incessant filming was the worst. No moment of his life seemed safe from the ever-watchful lens of her phone camera. Cooking breakfast? Filmed. Fixing the garden fence? Livestreamed. Even his rare moments of reading in peace were accompanied by Sharon’s playful narration about “Alexander’s rustic wisdom,” as if he were some ancient artifact she’d dug up for content.

“Sharon,” he growled one morning after she’d uploaded a video of him tinkering with a lawnmower. “Do you have to share every moment of my life with the internet?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she replied, barely looking up from her phone. “People love your grumpy old-man act. It’s charming.”

He clenched his jaw, suppressing a tirade. Instead, he made a decision: if she insisted on dragging him into her modern world, he would dig deeper into his own past.

Sharon's son adapted very quickly...

That afternoon, Alexander returned to the manor in a car that made Sharon’s jaw drop—not in admiration, but in disbelief. The gleaming VAZ-2103, with its chrome grille and dual headlights, was a relic of a bygone era, a symbol of modest luxury from his youth in Czechoslovakia.

“What… is that?” Sharon spat, her tone dripping with disdain.

“A car,” Alexander said simply, stepping out and running a hand over the pristine paint. “A proper car.”

“Proper? It looks like something from a Soviet museum!” she snapped. “You had to buy this? Do you know how embarrassing it’ll be if someone sees me in that—thing?”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “In my day, this was a car for the privileged. Only the ‘better’ people could afford one.”

Sharon scoffed. “Well, congratulations on your nostalgia trip. Meanwhile, I’ll be driving the Jaguar like a normal person.”

As if to punctuate her words, her son burst into the room, oblivious to the tension. “Mom, Skibidi Toilet’s got a new episode!” he shouted, thrusting a tablet in her direction.

Alexander stared at the boy, his patience stretched to its limit. “What in God’s name is a Skibidi Toilet?”

“It’s a show!” the boy exclaimed, his eyes glued to the screen.

Alexander didn’t respond. Instead, he walked out to the garage, climbed into the driver’s seat of his beloved VAZ, and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, a mechanical symphony that drowned out the chaos inside.

For a brief moment, he felt like himself again—not Alexander, the reluctant participant in Sharon’s modern circus, but Ivan Tůma, a man of simpler needs and quieter joys.

A few days later, Lara returned from another one of her adventures. Her plane had landed that morning, and after a grueling customs process involving an artifact she probably shouldn’t have brought back, she drove to Croft Manor, eager for the comfort of home.

As she approached the driveway, her eyes widened at the sight of an unfamiliar vehicle parked prominently on the cobblestone. The car, unmistakably Soviet in design, gleamed in the afternoon sun. Its chrome grille and four round headlights stood out like relics of a different era.

Her heart skipped a beat. She knew exactly who it belonged to.

Lara parked her Jeep beside it and stepped out, her boots crunching on the gravel. She approached the VAZ slowly, almost reverently, as if it were an ancient artifact waiting to be examined. Running her fingers over the polished hood, she smiled despite herself.

“Alexander,” she whispered. No—Ivan.

Inside the manor, Sharon was in full influencer mode, rehearsing lines for an ad campaign while her son shrieked at another episode of Skibidi Toilet. The chaos was palpable.

Alexander sat in the kitchen, sipping a glass of plum brandy, his expression unreadable.

Lara entered quietly, her presence unnoticed until she spoke. “You’re back.”

He looked up, surprised but not unwelcoming. “Lara.”

She took in his appearance—the faint lines of stress on his face, the resignation in his eyes—and felt a pang of sadness. But then she smiled, her voice soft. “Nice car.”

He chuckled dryly. “A relic from another life.”

“It suits you,” she said, sitting across from him. “More than this place does.”

He met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

“And Sharon?” Lara asked, her tone carefully neutral.

Alexander sighed, glancing toward the chaos in the other room. “She’s… adapting to modern life better than I am.”

Lara raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Her influencer career is booming. And her son—well, let’s just say he’s a fan of things I’ll never understand. Half the time, I feel like a relic myself.”

Lara reached out, her hand brushing his. “You’re not a relic, Ivan. You’re exactly who you’ve always been—a man trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t make sense.”

He smiled faintly, a flicker of warmth breaking through his weariness. “I suppose that’s why you came back, isn’t it?”

“Partly,” she admitted. “But mostly, I wanted to see you. The real you. And judging by that car outside, I think he’s finally back.”

Alexander nodded slowly, his resolve strengthening. “Maybe he is.”

But as Lara’s smile deepened, Alexander felt a pang of uncertainty. Could he truly reconcile the man he was with the life he now led? And what would Sharon say if she realized the real Ivan Tůma was returning to Croft Manor, piece by piece?

The answer, he knew, would come sooner than he liked.

Chapter 2

In the tea room, the air smelled of Earl Grey and nostalgia. Around the table sat Lara, Amelia, Zip, and Alister, each nursing a porcelain cup. A plate of biscuits sat untouched at the center. Alexander entered, and the room lit up with recognition.

"Alex!" Lara exclaimed, standing to greet him. "You look—well, you look like you’ve been through it."

"You could say that," Alexander replied, settling into a chair and pouring himself a cup of tea.

"Come on, what’s bothering you this time?" Zip teased. "Don’t tell me Sharon’s pulled another stunt."

Alexander’s face darkened. "Another? Try dozens. Every day, she finds a new way to test my patience. Just this morning, she filmed me fixing the kitchen sink and posted it online with the caption, ‘Moral lessons from my grumpy husband.’"

Alister chuckled. "She’s got a sense of humor, I’ll give her that."

"Humor? It’s humiliating!" Alexander snapped. "And don’t get me started on her son. That boy spends hours watching—what is it called? Skibidi Toilet?"

"Wait, wait," Zip said, nearly choking on his tea. "You’re telling me the kid watches Skibidi Toilet? The thing with the singing heads coming out of toilets?"

Alexander’s expression was pure exasperation. "Exactly that. What kind of world produces such nonsense? Singing heads climbing out of lavatories, and people call it entertainment!"

Amelia smirked behind her cup. "You sound like a proper grumpy old man, Alex. Next you’ll be yelling at clouds."

Alexander huffed but couldn’t suppress a grin. "At least clouds serve a purpose. What’s the purpose of a toilet head that sings? And why does it have millions of views?"

Zip shrugged. "Maybe you should ask Sharon to film you complaining about it. That’d go viral."

Lara couldn’t help but laugh. "You’ve got to admit, Alex, you’re a little out of step with the times."

"Out of step?" Alexander scoffed. "If being ‘in step’ means tolerating influencer culture and Skibidi nonsense, then yes, I’m proudly out of step. Which reminds me—Sharon mocked me for buying the Žiguli. Said it was a ‘relic of the past.’"

The room went quiet for a moment, save for the soft clink of a teacup as Alister set it down.

"You’ve got to admit, Alex," Alister said carefully, "buying a Soviet-era car might be… an unusual choice."

"Unusual?" Alexander said, leaning forward. "It’s a masterpiece of engineering compared to today’s disposable junk. Back in my youth, a Zhiguli wasn’t just a car—it was a status symbol. Only the better-off folks in Czechoslovakia could afford one."

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "And now you’re driving it to make a point to Sharon?"

"Exactly," Alexander said. "She surrounds herself with modern trinkets, her son watches toilet heads, and I—" He paused, his voice softening. "I just want to remember a time when things made sense."

Lara studied him, her smile fading. "You’re not just talking about the car, are you?"

Alexander sighed, running a hand through his hair. "No, I’m not. Sometimes I think I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have saved Sharon. I shouldn’t have tampered with the past."

The weight of his words hung in the room. Lara’s gaze softened, but she said nothing.

Later that evening, Alexander returned to his villa, the familiar hum of Sharon’s computer greeting him at the door. He walked into the living room to find her deeply engrossed in a game of Overwatch. Her headset was on, her fingers flying over the keyboard, completely oblivious to the pot boiling over on the stove.

"Sharon!" Alexander called, but she didn’t respond.

He hurried to the kitchen and rescued the pot just as its contents began to scorch. With a heavy sigh, he salvaged what he could and set about finishing the meal himself.

"Thanks, babe," Sharon mumbled from the couch, her eyes never leaving the screen.

Alexander said nothing. He plated the food, placed her portion on the coffee table, and sat down with his own. Lighting a cigarette—a habit he’d long since abandoned—he stared out the window, his mind miles away.

In the reflection of the glass, he saw the faint outline of his younger self: Ivan Tůma, a man who once believed he could change the world. Now, he wasn’t even sure he belonged in it.

Chapter 3

Alexander really wants to escape from modern world

Alexander stood at the edge of a quiet lake, its waters shimmering under the pale light of dawn. His fishing rod was poised in one hand, a cigarette lazily balanced in the other. The air was crisp, and for the first time in weeks, there was silence—no Skibidi Toilet, no Overwatch matches blaring from Sharon’s headset, and no snide comments about his choice of vehicles.

Here, on the banks of an off-limits reservoir where "No Trespassing" signs dotted the perimeter, Alexander felt a flicker of his old self. The rebel. The pragmatist. The man who used to find solace in solitude, even when the world was falling apart. Ivan Tůma.

The quiet was broken by the crunch of footsteps behind him.

"I thought I’d find you here," came a familiar voice.

He didn’t turn around. "Lara. Still sneaking up on people, I see."

She stepped up beside him, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket. "And you’re still fishing where you’re not supposed to. Some things never change."

Alexander smirked. "I like to think of it as… reclaiming public space. What brings you here, anyway?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Lara said, glancing at his rod. "But I think I know the answer."

He cast his line again, watching the bobber float aimlessly. "Fishing clears the mind. Helps me remember who I was before all this madness."

Lara studied him for a moment. His face, though older, carried the same intensity she remembered from years ago. The man who had faced death—twice—and come back to her. The man who had been her husband, her partner in adventure.

"You’re still the same, you know," she said softly.

Alexander chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re wrong. That man—Ivan Tůma—he’s just a memory. I’m Alexander now. A washed-up relic in a world I barely recognize."

Lara placed a hand on his shoulder. "You can call yourself whatever you want, but I know who you are. And I’m glad you’re still here, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it."

Back at home, Alexander decided to bring a slice of his old life into Sharon’s world.

"You’re coming fishing with me," he declared one morning.

Sharon looked up from her phone, raising an eyebrow. "Fishing? You mean, like, standing by a lake with worms and pretending it’s fun?"

"Exactly," Alexander replied, ignoring the sarcasm.

"And you expect me to—what—sit there quietly?"

"You can bring your camera if it makes you feel better," he said, already regretting the offer.

Two hours later, Sharon was perched on a camping chair by the same lake, her phone propped up on a tripod. She was livestreaming the entire ordeal, complete with running commentary.

"Alright, guys," she said to the camera, "welcome to Fishing with Grumps! Today, we’re watching my husband try to relive his youth while I attempt not to die of boredom."

Alexander gritted his teeth as he baited a hook. "You could at least pretend to take this seriously."

"Oh, I am," Sharon said, stifling a laugh. "Seriously documenting the most boring thing I’ve ever done."

The chat on her stream exploded with laughing emojis and comments like:

• "OMG, her husband’s face! 😂"
• "Grumps is iconic."
• "Ask him why he’s fishing in a suit!"

Alexander ignored the stream as best he could, focusing on the water. But the moment Sharon started narrating his every move—"And now he’s casting the line, look at that concentration, folks!"—he felt his patience slipping.

By the end of the day, the livestream had gone viral. Clips of Alexander muttering under his breath while expertly reeling in a fish were circulating on every platform. "Grumpy Fisherman" became an overnight meme, and Sharon gained tens of thousands of new followers.

At dinner that evening, Alexander sat in stony silence as Sharon scrolled through her notifications, laughing at the comments.

"You’re a star, Alex," she teased. "The internet loves you."

"I didn’t ask for this," he replied, stabbing at his plate.

"Come on, it’s funny! You’re, like, the perfect grumpy dad."

"I’m not your dad," Alexander said sharply. "And I’m certainly not an internet clown."

Determined to escape the madness, Alexander turned to another relic of his youth: the Polski Fiat 125p. It wasn’t as flashy as a Zhiguli, but it held a special place in his heart. Driving it through the countryside, he felt a sense of peace—until Sharon posted a video of the car with the caption: "When your husband has a midlife crisis but can’t afford a Porsche."

The comments were merciless:

• "Does it come with a free horse-drawn cart?"
• "Grumpy Fisherman’s car is as old as he is!"

Even Zip, who usually stayed out of Alexander’s personal life, couldn’t resist poking fun.

"Hey, man," Zip said during a call, "saw the new ride. Very vintage. You gonna start a museum or something?"

"Say one more word, and I’ll drive it to your place and park it on your lawn," Alexander growled.

"Relax, Grumps," Zip said with a laugh. "Just saying, Sharon’s stream is kind of hilarious."

Alexander hung up without another word.

That night, as Alexander sat in the garage, polishing the hood of his Fiat, he felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. The ridicule, the endless barrage of memes, the feeling of being a man out of time.

For a moment, he considered giving it all up—selling the car, putting the fishing rod away, and resigning himself to Sharon’s modern world. But then he shook his head.

"No," he muttered to himself. "I won’t let them take this from me."

Because deep down, he knew that every car he bought, every fish he caught, and every quiet moment by the lake was a small act of rebellion. A way to hold on to who he really was.

Even if the world didn’t understand.

Chapter 4

Alexander hunched over the Polski Fiat 125p’s carburetor, his focus unwavering. His hands moved with the precision of a man who had once rebuilt an engine with nothing but duct tape, Soviet ingenuity, and sheer willpower. To him, this wasn’t just maintenance; it was a return to simpler, more purposeful days.

Behind him, perched on a stool, Sharon gleefully streamed the scene to her audience. "Okay, guys," she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "Here’s my husband, working on his antique. It’s basically a dinosaur. I swear, this car is older than half of you watching."

The livestream chat exploded with comments:

• "Bro thinks he’s in Fallout working on a junker car 💀."
• "Is that a Lada or an IKEA cabinet??"
• "Sigma male grinding on that carburetor, Yo."
• "Imagine fixing a car you can’t even flex on Insta."

Alexander tightened a screw and turned to Sharon, wiping his hands on a rag. "Do they really need a running commentary for this? It’s not exactly the Apollo moon landing."

Sharon laughed, zooming in on his face. "Oh, lighten up, Alex. The chat loves you. You’re their grumpy retro mechanic daddy."

The chat instantly picked up on that:

• "Retro Daddy Alert 🚨🚨."
• "Sigma, he cooks, she is cooked, Yo."
• "This man radiates ‘built a shed at 12’ energy."
• "Nah, bro’s giving ‘I fought in 3 wars and I still mow my own lawn’ vibes."

Alexander rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. "This is what people spend their time on now? Watching strangers fumble through life on a screen?"

Sharon smirked, reading another comment aloud. "‘He looks like the type of guy who says, ‘They don’t make them like they used to.’’"

"That’s because they don’t," Alexander snapped, tossing the rag onto the workbench. "Back in the day, you could fix your own car. Not like your overpriced Ferraris and Cadillacs, where you need a PhD in computer science to change a tire."

The chat lit up again:

• "He’s spitting facts tho 🔥."
• "Certified Grumpy Old Man Moment."
• "‘Back in my day’ energy is immaculate."
• "Bro’s building nostalgia like it’s Minecraft."

Meanwhile, at Croft Manor, Lara sat curled up in an armchair, idly scrolling through her phone. When Sharon’s livestream popped up on her feed, curiosity got the better of her. She clicked on it, and the screen filled with the image of Alexander, sweat-streaked and focused, as he adjusted the Fiat’s engine.

Lara’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t expected to see him like this—so much like the man she’d fallen in love with, so much like Ivan Tůma, her late husband. But as Sharon’s mocking voice cut through the nostalgia, Lara’s expression soured.

"Guys, he’s been at this for hours. Like, what’s even the point? Just buy a new car," Sharon said, flipping her hair dramatically.

The chat chimed in:

• "She’s right tho, why fix that jalopy? 💀"
• "Lara Croft’s tomb raiding is more modern than this car."
• "Bro’s fighting WWII flashbacks while tuning that engine."

Lara couldn’t resist. She typed into the chat:

"At least he’s doing something useful. Some of you wouldn’t last a day without your parents refilling your WiFi plan."

Her comment appeared on the screen, and Sharon’s jaw dropped. "Oh my God, guys, look! Lara Croft is here! Defending my husband!"

The chat erupted:

• "Nah, not Lara Croft getting salty 💀."
• "She just mad she can’t raid the Fiat for treasure."
• "Tomb raiding didn’t prepare her for the Twitter wars."
• "W opinion, but let’s be real, she’s just simping."

Alexander looked up from the engine, his brow furrowing. "She’s watching this nonsense?"

Sharon grinned. "Yep. Your biggest fan is here to back you up."

Alexander wiped his hands and marched over. "Give me that," he said, snatching the phone from her.

"Hey!" Sharon protested, but Alexander ignored her. He scrolled through the chat, his expression growing darker with each comment. Finally, he raised the phone and addressed the camera.

"Let me make something clear," he began, his voice calm but firm. "This car isn’t just a pile of bolts. It’s a connection to a time when people worked with their hands, took pride in their craftsmanship, and didn’t rely on overpriced gadgets to solve their problems."

The chat exploded again:

• "Speak your truth, Grandpa Alex 🫡."
• "Bro’s got more monologues than a Marvel villain."
• "Not gonna lie, he’s kinda spitting facts."
• "Sigma grindset: Fixing cars and calling out clout chasers."

Alexander sighed, handing the phone back to Sharon. "If you’re going to mock me, at least do it with some creativity."

Sharon smirked, but her eyes softened. "Alright, Alex. Show us how it’s done, then."

He gestured to the carburetor. "Fine. Since you’re so fascinated, why don’t you try adjusting this?"

Sharon blinked. "What? Me? No way."

"You can livestream it," Alexander said with a wry smile. "Your audience will love it."

The chat roared with approval:

• "YES. MAKE HER WORK 💀."
• "Sharon x Carburetor = Collab of the century."
• "Imagine she breaks it tho."

Reluctantly, Sharon stepped forward. Alexander guided her hands as she awkwardly fumbled with the tools. The chat was relentless:

• "Lmao, she’s holding that wrench like it’s a curling iron."
• "Bro teaching her like she’s a toddler."
• "Girl boss moment? More like girl loss."

After several failed attempts, Sharon sighed in frustration. "This is impossible!"

Alexander took over, his movements fluid and confident. "It just takes practice," he said gently.

To Sharon’s surprise, the chat began to turn in her favor:

• "At least she tried. Respect."
• "Okay, Sharon lowkey doing her best."
• "Wholesome grandpa and granddaughter vibes."

Later that evening, Alexander sat on the porch, sipping whiskey as the sun set. Sharon joined him, holding her phone.

"You know," she said, "you’re kind of a hit online. People love your… grumpy vibe."

Alexander snorted. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Sharon grinned, showing him the comments:

• "Petition for Alex to start his own YouTube channel."
• "Retro Daddy Alex > Modern influencers."
• "Fiat King is the internet dad we all need."

Alexander shook his head, taking another sip. "I didn’t ask for this."

"No," Sharon said, smirking. "But you’re stuck with it now."

Alexander sighed, but deep down, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride. If nothing else, he’d proven that even in a world obsessed with screens and likes, there was still room for a man and his trusty Fiat.

Chapter 5

The Lada VAZ-2103 trundled down the uneven country road with all the grace of a Soviet-era relic, its engine growling like a disgruntled bear. Inside, Alexander was laser-focused, his hands gripping the wheel with the precision of a man determined not to let his sanity slip any further. Beside him, Sharon sat cross-legged, phone in hand, expertly livestreaming to her growing fanbase.

“Alright, everyone, welcome back to Boomer Rides Again! Today’s episode: My husband driving a car that probably belongs in a museum,” Sharon quipped, angling the camera to capture Alexander’s sweaty brow.

The chat was immediate and merciless:

• “Man sweating like he’s in a Rocky montage. 💀”
• “Lada = Soviet sauna.”
• “This car runs on tears and PTSD.”

Alexander ignored her, focusing on navigating the winding road while the sun baked the interior of the ancient sedan.

“Alex, honey, are you okay? You look like you’re about to have a heatstroke,” Sharon teased, zooming in for dramatic effect. “Do they not have air conditioning in Russia?”

“No,” Alexander replied dryly. “We had windows. Try it sometime.”

The chat exploded:

• “Window AC is peak boomer tech.”
• “Bro’s using ventilation from the Gulag DLC.”
• “Sigma grindset. Sweat, don’t chill.”

Sharon laughed, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the phone screen as she read comments. “Chat, he’s so serious. It’s like he’s defusing a bomb, not driving a car.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The sweat trickling down his temple betrayed his inner turmoil.

“C’mon, Alex,” Sharon prodded. “You can admit it—this car is a death trap.”

Alexander exhaled through his nose and abruptly pulled the car over onto the gravel shoulder, the sudden halt jolting Sharon forward against her seatbelt.

“Chat, did we just break down?” Sharon asked, feigning concern. “Or is this where the plot twist happens?”

Alexander stepped out of the car, walked around to her side, and opened the door with an air of grim determination. “Out.”

“What?” Sharon blinked, confused.

“You’re driving,” Alexander said, his tone calm but brooking no argument.

The chat erupted in chaos:

• “Oh snap, Boomer’s done!”
• “Plot twist: Sharon’s about to speedrun manual driving.”
• “Sigma move. Teach her the ways of the Lada.”

Still streaming, Sharon clambered out of the car and slid into the driver’s seat. “Alright, chat, wish me luck. If this thing explodes, someone clip it.”

Alexander folded his arms and leaned against the car. “Turn the key.”

Sharon twisted the ignition. The Lada let out a series of agonized wheezes before falling silent. She tried again. Same result.

“It’s broken,” she declared confidently.

“It’s not broken,” Alexander said, unimpressed. “That stick by your left hand is the gear shift. The pedals under your feet are clutch, brake, and accelerator. You’ll need to use all three.”

Sharon stared at him as if he’d just asked her to solve quantum physics. “Three pedals? Why does it have three pedals? What kind of medieval torture device is this?”

The chat lost it:

• “Manual transmission = boomer boss fight.”
• “Three pedals, zero mercy.”
• “Dark Souls: Car Edition.”

Alexander smirked faintly. “Figure it out.”

Sharon made four valiant attempts to start the car, each ending in a pathetic stall that shook the entire vehicle. When she finally managed to coax the engine into life, she let out a triumphant cheer—only to groan moments later.

“Why is the steering so stiff? It’s like arm-wrestling an angry robot!” she complained, gripping the wheel with both hands.

“No power steering,” Alexander said flatly. “Cars in my day were your gym membership.”

“Gym membership?!” Sharon shot back. “I’m gonna need extra reps after this! Seriously, why didn’t people just walk?”

“We did,” Alexander replied. “Then we built cars like this, and the weak didn’t survive.”

The chat was unhinged:

• “Gym membership = obsolete. Just drive a Lada.”
• “Boomer is peak fitness coach: no excuses, just drive.”
• “He’s cooking. She’s cooked. Yo.”

At Croft Manor, Lara watched the chaos unfold on her laptop, struggling to keep her tea from spilling as she laughed. Even Zip, holed up in the tech room, tuned into the stream, his cackles echoing through the halls.

By the time they finally arrived at the modeling gig, Sharon practically fell out of the driver’s seat, her legs trembling. She turned to the camera, breathless. “Alright, chat, we made it. Barely. Someone give me a medal for surviving Soviet cardio.”

Alexander smirked, rolling down the window. “Good luck in there. Try not to trip in your heels.”

Sharon glared playfully, then turned back to her phone. “Chat, say a prayer for me. This man is impossible.”

As Alexander drove off in the Lada, Sharon shook her head and muttered to the camera. “You know, I give him credit. He’s... something else. What did he even do before all this?”

The chat responded with their usual brand of wisdom:

• “Ex-KGB confirmed. Bro built like a tank.”
• “Plot twist: Alex invented the Lada.”
• “Nah, man is John Wick’s dad frfr.”

Chapter 6

Sharon sat comfortably in the passenger seat of her sleek Jaguar XE, her fingers idly scrolling through her phone. Every now and then, she glanced at Alexander, who gripped the wheel with the steady calm of a man who had faced far greater challenges than navigating British traffic. The faint hum of the engine filled the silence between them, broken only by the occasional buzz of notifications from her livestream chat.

"I have to admit," Sharon said, breaking the quiet, "you were kind of a badass today."

Alexander didn’t even look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead as he replied in his usual dry tone, "That’s because you didn’t livestream me while I drove."

Sharon smirked, amused by his unflappable demeanor. "Oh, come on, my chat loves you." She angled her phone slightly to capture his profile, his sharp features bathed in the soft glow of the dashboard. He remained indifferent, as always.

Her chat lit up instantly:

• "Sigma male energy, 100%."
• "This dude drives like he’s delivering secret documents to MI6."
• "Bro cooks, roasts, and drives. Absolute legend."

Sharon, undeterred by Alexander’s lack of reaction, turned the camera back to herself and posed for a quick selfie, the luxury interior of the car as her backdrop. The comments kept pouring in:

• "From Lada to Jaguar—main character arc complete."
• "Sharon in her rich-mom aesthetic era."
• "Alexander doesn’t need the spotlight; he is the spotlight."

The rest of the drive was uneventful, save for Sharon occasionally reading chat messages aloud and chuckling to herself. Alexander, as usual, remained stoic.

When they pulled into the grand circular driveway of the villa, Alexander parked the car with the precision of someone who treated every task as an opportunity to demonstrate mastery. Without a word, he stepped out, adjusted his coat, and muttered, "I’ll check on the boy."

Sharon watched him stride away, then turned back to her livestream audience with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Alright, chat," she whispered into the camera, "today’s the day. We’re going to dig into Alex’s past. What do you think we’ll find? War medals? Love letters? A secret stash of cigars or something crazy?"

Her chat immediately exploded:

• "Boomer NFTs incoming."
• "Bet he’s got a diary that says, ‘Dear Lara, war is hell.’ 😂"
• "Imagine the guy collects antique stamps."

Sharon slipped into Alexander’s study, her phone camera capturing the room in real-time. The space was immaculate, almost obsessively so. A large oak desk sat in the center, its surface completely clear, while bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes on history, philosophy, and military strategy. Everything about the room screamed discipline and precision.

"Wow," Sharon muttered, panning her phone around. "This place looks like a museum."

The chat reacted immediately:

• "The Boomer Smithsonian."
• "This bookshelf could single-handedly raise my IQ."
• "Imagine him dusting this every morning."

Her curiosity piqued, Sharon began exploring. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books before opening a nearby cabinet. Expecting more books or maybe maps, she froze when her eyes landed on something unexpected: a meticulously folded military uniform.

Her hand hesitated before she pulled it out and held it up to the camera. The chat erupted:

• "Bro was a real-life DLC operator?!"
• "Call of Duty Cold War vibes."
• "Major Ivan reporting for duty."

The uniform’s blue beret caught her attention, its insignia bearing the mark of the United Nations. The rank on the shoulder read "Major." Sharon turned it over, examining the patches and details, before setting it aside. Beneath it, she found another uniform. This one was distinctly different: a red beret with the insignia of the Czechoslovak People’s Army. The rank on this one was "Lieutenant."

Her pulse quickened. "Why does he have so many uniforms?" she asked aloud. Her chat answered enthusiastically:

• "Man’s been in more wars than I’ve got killstreaks."
• "Red beret? Bro was a Soviet commando?!"
• "Ivan T. Boomer: a legend in every timeline."

Digging further, Sharon uncovered an old ID card. The paper was yellowed, the ink slightly faded, but the name printed on it made her heart stop: Ivan Tůma. Date of Birth: 14.2.1950. Place of Birth: Praha.

"Who the hell is Ivan Tůma?" she whispered, staring at the card. The chat went wild:

• "Not Alex? Plot twist of the year!"
• "Secret identity unlocked."
• "Ivan? That’s such a Bond villain name."

Setting the ID aside, Sharon’s trembling hands unearthed a stack of old photographs. The first showed a much younger Alexander—or Ivan—standing on a beach beside a smiling woman and two children. They were leaning against a bright yellow Škoda 110 R.

"This can’t be real," Sharon muttered, holding the photo up to the camera.

The chat exploded again:

• "Bro had a boomer-mobile and a family?!"

• "This dude’s life is a Wes Anderson film."

• "The Škoda is the ultimate flex."

Another photograph caught her attention—a candid shot of Ivan in full military uniform, standing among fellow soldiers. One more showed him in Sarajevo, Bosnia, 1995, standing next to an armored vehicle. His face was lined with exhaustion, his expression distant.

Her voice quivered as she muttered, "What the actual hell?"

Chat:

"He’s lived like five lifetimes."

"Was this guy in every major conflict?"

"Ivan Tůma: the real-life Forrest Gump."

Determined to find more, Sharon’s eyes fell on a locked drawer. After some effort, she managed to open it and discovered a hidden compartment. Inside, she found something that took her breath away: a concealed room.

The walls were lined with an arsenal of weapons—pistols, rifles, and even a Pak 40 anti-tank cannon mounted like a trophy. Maps and tactical charts covered the space, some of them marked with annotations and notes in Czech.

"Chat," Sharon whispered, her eyes wide, "am I dreaming?"

The comments were in chaos:

• "This isn’t a study; it’s a Bond villain lair!"

• "Dude casually owns a WWII cannon."

• "Ivan Tůma: Black Ops in real life."

Then she saw it: a wedding photo tucked away on a shelf. Sharon’s breath caught. Alexander stood next to Lara, both of them smiling, their hands clasped. The setting was unmistakably Croft Manor.

"Oh my god," Sharon whispered.

Chat erupted:

• "NO WAY. LARA?!"
• "She defended him on stream because she’s his ex-wife?"
• "This is a Netflix series waiting to happen."

Sharon sifted through more photos—of Alexander and Lara in exotic locations, surrounded by ruins, jungles, and snow-covered peaks. Each image hinted at a shared life of adventure and danger.

For the first time, Sharon felt at a loss for words. She ended the livestream abruptly, her mind racing. Alexander—or Ivan—was far more than the grumpy, enigmatic man she’d been teasing online. She had only just begun to uncover his secrets.

Chapter 7

Alexander climbed the stairs with his usual deliberate pace, the creak of his boots muffled against the polished wooden floor. He had just put Sharon’s son to bed, a task he’d carried out with a surprising gentleness given the rough edge he often exuded. But as he turned down the hall, something caught his sharp, well-trained eye—a faint glow spilling out from the partially open door of his study.

His heart sank. The entrance to his hidden compartment was ajar.

A low growl of frustration escaped his lips as he stepped inside. The faint scent of disturbed dust hung in the air, confirming what he already suspected. He moved with the silent precision of a soldier until his eyes landed on Sharon. She stood frozen in the middle of the secret room, her gaze darting from the arsenal on the walls to the photographs and artifacts she had uncovered.

“Sharon,” he said, his voice low and cold.

She flinched, spinning around to face him, her phone still clutched in one hand. Her usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief.

“I can explain,” she stammered, though she clearly hadn’t thought of an explanation yet.

Alexander’s piercing gaze swept over the room, quickly cataloging what she had seen. His fingers brushed against the rifle in his hands—a well-maintained SA vz. 58P, its cold steel a stark contrast to the warmth he had shown mere moments ago while tucking a child into bed.

Without a word, he stepped past Sharon, placing the rifle back into its rack with methodical care. The soft click of the locking mechanism echoed in the room as he secured the weapon. Then, without sparing her another glance, he walked out.

“Wait,” Sharon called after him, finally finding her voice. She hurried after him, her phone forgotten in her hand.

Alexander didn’t slow down, heading toward the kitchen, where he began pouring himself a glass of water. Sharon caught up to him, her mind racing.

“Why didn’t you say anything about this?” she demanded, gesturing back toward the study.

He raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s none of your business.”

“None of my—” Sharon stopped, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Okay, fine. Maybe I shouldn’t have snooped, but you can’t expect me to pretend I didn’t see all that. The uniforms, the photos, the—”

She waved her hands in the air, struggling to find the right words. “The tank cannon, Alex. A tank cannon. Who are you?”

Alexander sipped his water, his expression unreadable. “Someone who had a life before this.”

“Clearly,” Sharon shot back, crossing her arms. “But do you ever stop to think how interesting that life might be to other people? Like, I don’t know, my audience?”

He frowned. “I’m not interested in your audience.”

Sharon sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, Alex. I get it. You’re all about privacy and being the mysterious loner guy, but you don’t have to keep everything bottled up. You’ve got stories—stories people would actually want to hear. Why not share them?”

“I don’t share my life for clicks,” he said flatly.

“No, but you could,” Sharon countered, her tone softening. “Look, I’m not saying you have to do dance challenges or whatever. Just… think about it. You’re smart, you’ve been through so much, and honestly, you’ve got this whole ‘grumpy ex-soldier with a heart of gold’ thing going on. People would love you.”

Alexander’s brow furrowed. He seemed genuinely puzzled by the idea. “Why would anyone care about the ramblings of an old soldier?”

“Because it’s real,” Sharon said. “People love real. And you’re… well, you’re the realest person I know.”

For a moment, Alexander said nothing. His gaze drifted out the window, where the moonlight illuminated the sprawling garden outside. He seemed to be weighing her words, turning them over in his mind like a chess player planning his next move.

Finally, he sighed. “This is ridiculous.”

Sharon grinned, sensing victory. “Ridiculously brilliant, you mean.”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” he muttered.

“But you didn’t say no.”

Alexander shook his head, exasperated. “If I do this—if—I’m not dancing, lip-syncing, or doing anything ridiculous.”

“Deal,” Sharon said immediately, holding out her hand as if they’d just struck a business agreement.

He hesitated, then shook her hand briefly, his grip firm but careful.

“Great,” Sharon said, already pulling out her phone. “We’ll set up your account tomorrow. Trust me, Alex—this is going to be amazing.”

As she walked away, already brainstorming content ideas, Alexander stood in the kitchen, staring at his reflection in the glass of water. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just opened the door to a new kind of battle—one he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to fight.

Chapter 8

The next morning, Sharon was practically vibrating with excitement as she sipped her coffee at the counter. Across from her, Alexander sat in his usual seat, flipping through a newspaper and enjoying his tea.

“Well, Alex,” she began with a cheeky grin, “congratulations. You’re officially an influencer now.”

He didn’t even glance up. “An influencer? What are you talking about?”

“I made you an Instagram profile,” she announced with mock innocence, waving her phone triumphantly. “You’ve already got 95,000 followers. Overnight.”

Alexander groaned, setting his cup down. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because the world deserves to see your unique… personality,” she teased. “Oh, and guess who followed you? Lara.”

That caught his attention. “Lara? Why?”

Sharon smirked, scrolling to show him the DM. “Not only did she follow you, but she sent you a message. Look.”

Alexander leaned in, squinting at the screen:

Lara: Didn’t expect this from you, Ivan.

After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed his phone and typed a reply:

Alexander: This wasn’t my idea. Sharon insists. Besides, it’s better to laugh with them than let them mock me endlessly.

Sharon peered over his shoulder. “Aww, so humble. You’re like the grumpy hero the internet didn’t know it needed.”

He sighed, standing up and grabbing his keys. “I’m going to the garage. Don’t cause trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?” Sharon followed him, phone in hand, already going live.

The garage smelled of oil and ambition. The centerpiece was Alexander’s pride and joy: a Lada 2103, its lines clean and its soul pure Soviet steel.

Sharon started the livestream with dramatic flair. “Alright, everybody, welcome back! Today, we’re about to witness history. Alex here is turning this classic into a beast. Buckle up!”

Alexander shot her an annoyed glance. “Are you always this loud?”

“Only when it’s for the fans,” she replied with a grin.

The chat came alive:

• 🔥 “Bro’s cooking something spicy.”
• 😂 “Soviet Bob the Builder about to drop a mixtape.”
• 😎 “Sigma grindset: fixing cars and ignoring people.”
• 🚗 “This isn’t a car, it’s a time machine to the USSR.”

Ignoring the running commentary, Alexander got to work. He popped the hood, pulling out the old carburetor with practiced precision.

“Okay, Alex, tell us what’s going on,” Sharon prompted, zooming in on his hands.

“Replacing the carburetor,” he muttered, not looking up.

“Why?”

“More power.”

The chat erupted again:

• ⚡ “MORE POWER = MORE RESPECT.”
• 😂 “Bro’s turning the Cold War into the Horsepower War.”
• 🔥 “This man is cooking harder than Gordon Ramsay.”
• 🚀 “From Lada to Lambo. Let him cook.”

As he installed the shiny new double racing carburetor, Sharon leaned in. “How much more power are we talking?”

Alexander smirked faintly. “From 73 horsepower to 148.”

“Double?” she yelped. “Are you serious?”

The chat loved it:

• 🔥 “Double it and give it to the next Soviet!”
• 💀 “148 HP? This ain’t a car; it’s a missile.”
• 🤣 “Bro woke up Stalin just to flex.”
• 🛠️ “Engineer mode: ACTIVATED.”

Moments later, Alexander climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine roared to life with a deep, guttural growl that shook the garage. Sharon jumped, clutching her phone.

“Holy—Alex!” she shrieked, laughing nervously. “You’re going to blow it up!”

Alexander smirked. “Get in. You’ll see what it can do.”

The drive to Silverstone Circuit was nothing short of chaotic. The Lada screamed down winding roads, its new power evident with every rev. Sharon clutched the door handle, her shrieks filling the car as Alexander navigated with infuriating calm.

“Slow down! You’re going to kill us!”

“This is slow,” he deadpanned, taking a corner at a speed that made Sharon’s heart stop.

Meanwhile, back at Croft Manor, Lara and Zip were watching the stream on a massive screen.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Zip said, tears of laughter streaming down his face.

Lara sipped her tea, a rare smile playing on her lips. “He’s always been like this. Reckless, but brilliant.”

The chat was in full meltdown mode:

• 😂 “Sharon seeing her ancestors rn.”
• 🔥 “Sigma male doesn’t brake for peasants.”
• 💀 “Bro is driving like he’s in a Bond movie.”
• 😎 “GTA Lada DLC just dropped.”

When they arrived at Silverstone, the paddock was full of sleek sports cars and heavily modified imports. The Lada, its paint gleaming in the sun, stood out like a relic among giants.

Sharon kept the livestream rolling as Alexander pulled onto the track for open-day laps. “Alright, everybody, place your bets. How long before Alex gets lapped?”

But as the green flag waved, the Lada surged forward, leaving stunned competitors in its wake. Alexander’s skill as a driver was on full display as he weaved past JDM icons, cutting tight corners with precision.

The chat was unhinged:

• 🔥 “BRO IS COOKING, LET HIM COOK.”
• 🚗 “Lada just ate a Skyline for breakfast. 💀”
• 🤣 “Forget Dom Toretto, this is Soviet Toretto.”
• 💪 “Beta drivers buy cars. Sigma drivers BUILD them.”

Sharon’s voice trembled with excitement. “He’s actually doing it. He’s winning.”

In the comfort of Croft Manor, Lara and Zip couldn’t believe their eyes. “He’s embarrassing them,” Zip said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“He always knew how to make an entrance,” Lara replied, her tone equal parts amused and impressed.

Back at the track, the crowd began to cheer as the Lada overtook car after car. When Alexander finally pulled into the pit, the applause was deafening. Sharon turned the camera on him, her grin wide.

“So, Alex,” she said, “how does it feel to be the internet’s new favorite grandpa?”

Alexander leaned against the Lada, wiping his hands on a rag. “As long as they stop calling me boomer, I don’t care.”

The chat disagreed:

• 🤣 “BOOMER ENERGY? MORE LIKE GIGA CHAD ENERGY.”
• 🔥 “Grumpy Fisherman = Internet Icon.”
• 🚗 “The Cold War ends when Alex says so.”
• 💀 “Bro just turned Silverstone into a Soviet playground.”

Chapter 9

The morning sun streamed through the window as Sharon rolled out of bed, groggy but curious. She shuffled into the kitchen, expecting to see Alexander sipping tea and grumbling about the state of the world. But his seat was empty, and his usual gruff presence was nowhere to be found.

“Alex?” she called, checking the garage. Empty.

She glanced at her phone, scrolling through her notifications. There it was: a blurry Instagram story of Alexander hauling what appeared to be a massive Pak 40 anti-tank cannon behind a rusty military truck.

“What in the actual—” Sharon muttered, quickly going live.

The Livestream Begins

“Alright, everybody,” Sharon announced, flipping the camera to selfie mode, “our favorite grumpy fisherman is missing. And apparently, he’s towing a literal cannon. Let’s find out what’s going on.”

The chat was already in chaos:

• 😂 “Bro’s gone full war criminal.”
• 🛠️ “What’s he cooking this time?”
• 💀 “Sigma grindset: buy a cannon, ask questions later.”
• 🔥 “Alexander’s IRL DLC just dropped.”

Sharon jumped into her car, following the faint tire tracks leading out of town. The path eventually took her to a vast, open military shooting range. There, she spotted the familiar truck parked near a group of people—and a variety of intimidating weapons laid out on tables.

She parked, grabbed her phone, and approached. “Alex, care to explain why you’re towing World War II memorabilia across the countryside?”

Alexander turned from securing the Pak 40. Beside him stood Lara, Zip, Alister, Amelia, and even Winston, who held a thermos of tea.

“I’m testing it,” Alexander said simply.

“Testing what?!”

“The firepower,” he replied as though it were obvious.

The chat exploded:

• 💀 “Bro woke up and chose violence.”
• 😂 “Grumpy Fisherman: Modern Warfare Edition.”
• 🛡️ “He’s literally a one-man army.”
• 🔥 “What’s next? A T-34?”

The Chaos Unfolds

The group gathered at the range’s shooting line. Sharon kept her phone trained on them as Alexander demonstrated the use of the first weapon: a massive .44 Magnum revolver.

“This,” he began, holding the gun with one hand, “is a real weapon. Not for the faint of heart.”

“Pfft, how hard can it be?” Sharon scoffed, stepping forward.

She aimed at the target, fired—and the recoil nearly threw her backwards. Her shot missed entirely.

The chat erupted:

• 🤣 “BRO IS BETA AF.”
• 🔥 “Sharon’s wrist left the chat.”
• 😂 “Recoil 1 - Sharon 0.”

Zip gave it a try, managing to hit the edge of the target but wincing at the recoil. Alister and Amelia fared even worse, the latter letting out a high-pitched yelp with every shot.

• 💀 “Amelia just unlocked Trauma Simulator 2032.”
• 🤣 “Beta squad can’t hang.”
• 🔥 “Recoil is the real boss fight here.”

Finally, Alexander stepped up. He raised the Magnum with one hand, barely flinching as he fired. Each shot landed squarely in the target’s head.

The chat exploded:

• 😎 “Bro didn’t miss. Not once.”
• 🔥 “Grumpy Fisherman = Sigma Sharpshooter.”
• 😂 “Recoil respects the alpha.”
• 🎯 “Skill issue for everyone else.”

Lara stepped forward next, handling the Magnum with both hands. While she wasn’t as precise as Alexander, her shots were steady and consistently hit the target’s center.

• 🔥 “Lara Croft proving she’s still a badass.”
• 😎 “Queen behavior.”
• 🚀 “Sigma couple vibes.”

Next, Alexander set up a series of rifles: a vz. 58, a Mosin-Nagant, a Boys anti-tank rifle, and a Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR).

Each of them took turns shooting. Sharon struggled to handle the vz. 58, missing most of her shots, while Zip barely managed to keep the Mosin steady.

• 😂 “Bro is shaking like a leaf.”
• 💀 “Mosin: 1, Zip: 0.”
• 🔥 “They’re all beta except Alex.”

When it was Lara’s turn, she handled the Mosin with surprising precision, earning scattered applause from the group. Amelia attempted the Boys rifle but gave up almost immediately, muttering, “This is ridiculous.”

Alexander stepped in, firing the Boys rifle with ease. The deafening crack of the shot echoed across the range, and the chat went wild:

• 💀 “That recoil sent my soul to the gulag.”
• 🔥 “Alexander: built different.”
• 🎯 “He hit that target so hard it probably apologized.”

Finally, it was time for the main event: the Pak 40 anti-tank cannon.

The massive cannon loomed over the group as Alexander calmly loaded a shell. “Everyone stand back,” he said, his voice steady.

Sharon aimed her phone at the cannon, her chat going wild in anticipation:

• 🔥 “Bro’s about to end WW2 all over again.”
• 💀 “One shot = instant win.”
• 😂 “What’s the cooldown on this thing?”

With a resounding boom, the cannon fired, sending a plume of smoke into the air. The target—an old, reinforced metal bunker—was obliterated.

The chat erupted into chaos:

• 🎆 “GIGA CHAD CANNON ACTIVATED.”
• 🔥 “Bro just deleted the target from existence.”
• 💀 “That shot was heard in another timeline.”
• 😂 “The recoil probably moved the Earth’s orbit.”

Sharon turned the camera back to Alexander, who was calmly cleaning the barrel. “So, Alex,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “what’s next? A battleship?”

Alexander glanced at her, deadpan. “Don’t give me ideas.”

The chat went wild:

• 😂 “Bro’s planning War Thunder IRL.”
• 🔥 “Grumpy Fisherman = Final Boss.”
• 🚀 “Sigma grindset: conquer land, sea, and air.”

As the day wound down, the group gathered near the truck, exhausted but exhilarated. Sharon ended the livestream with a grin. “Alright, folks, that’s it for today. Tune in next time for more chaos—and maybe a tank.”

The chat flooded with farewells and memes:

• 🤣 “Next episode: Alex vs. NATO.”
• 🔥 “This isn’t content; this is history.”
• 💀 “Grumpy Fisherman for president.”

Chapter 10

When Sharon returned home after the chaotic day at the shooting range, she was ready to collapse on the couch and forget that anti-tank cannons, revolvers with brutal recoil, and her unnervingly skilled roommate Alexander even existed. But instead of peace, she was met with something odd—a low, rumbling laugh coming from Alexander's office.

She froze mid-step. Alexander? Laughing? That was like spotting a unicorn smoking a cigar. She peered into the office, expecting to find him watching some absurd reality show he'd never admit to liking.

Instead, she saw him engrossed in an old recording of Česká soda, a satirical Czech show that poked fun at everything—politics, societal norms, and even subjects most would consider untouchable.

“What are you watching?” she asked, leaning on the doorframe.

“Satire,” he replied without looking up, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Back when people weren’t afraid to say what they really thought. Nothing was off-limits. That doesn’t exist anymore.”

Sharon smirked. “So this is where your... particular charm comes from? What’s got you so fascinated?”

Alexander finally turned away from the screen. There was something in his expression she hadn’t seen in a while: determination. “Freedom. The freedom to tell the truth. No one telling them what they could or couldn’t say. You know what?” He paused, and Sharon held her breath. “Maybe it’s time to bring it back.”

“Bring it back? What does that mean?” Sharon knew from experience that when Alexander spoke like this, trouble was brewing.

“I’m starting a show. Satirical, unapologetic, and truthful. No censorship. No playing it safe. The world needs to hear the truth, even if it makes them uncomfortable. I’m calling it Grumpy News Network.”

A week later, the first episode of Grumpy News Network premiered on YouTube. Alexander sat behind a battered old desk Sharon had scavenged from a flea market. Surrounding him were stacks of newspapers, books, and even an old world map. One single camera captured his unmistakable figure—clad in his favorite fisherman’s sweater, holding a mug that read, “Don’t talk to me until it’s over.”

“Good evening,” he began in a voice so deep it could crack glaciers. “Welcome to Grumpy News Network, the place where we say things as they are. If you’re looking for sugarcoated nonsense, you’re in the wrong place. Tonight, we’ll be talking about politicians, influencers, and why modern art looks like the result of bad digestion.”

Viewers were instantly hooked by his unfiltered critique of the world around them. The scattered papers and occasional profanity only added to the authenticity.

“First topic: politicians. These people are like kids on a playground, except with worse grammar. Everyone promises the moon, but none of them can even find a shovel.”

The next segment, Influencer of the Week, roasted a wellness guru selling “detox crystals.” Alexander held up a rock he’d found in the yard and deadpanned, “Here’s one for free. Same nonsense, but it’ll save you $400.”

For the third segment, History That’ll Offend You, he delivered a brutally honest summary of the Cold War. “Two countries played chicken for decades, but neither had the guts to lose. The result? The whole world lived in fear of someone accidentally pressing the wrong button.”

By morning, the channel had amassed hundreds of thousands of subscribers. The comments were a mix of awe and shock:

• 😂 “This is the energy we’ve been missing!”
• 🔥 “Finally, someone who says what we’re all thinking but too scared to say.”
• 💀 “Bro just ended the Cold War in one sentence.”

Each new episode brought greater popularity. Gen Z and Gen Alpha adored the show, albeit for slightly different reasons.

Gen Z admired Alexander’s bluntness and his disdain for anything fake. One of his most famous lines—“Hustle culture is the biggest scam. Sleep. Go outside. Save some energy for retirement.”—immediately went viral as a TikTok sound.

• 💀 “My new life coach is a 60-year-old man who looks like he could bench press a tank.”
• 🔥 “Touch grass, bro, touch grass 🌱😭.”

Gen Alpha turned his show into meme gold. Alexander’s quotes became the voiceovers for Minecraft videos, where his avatar mocked poorly built castles: “This is a castle? This is more like a Lego block after a lobotomy!”

At some point, Sharon realized that Grumpy News Network had transcended satire. After an episode where Alexander tore into corporate greenwashing, emails from ordinary people flooded in.

“I never dared to say what I think about politics, but you’ve made me realize it’s okay to speak the truth.”

Another read: “Thanks to you, I feel like I’m not alone. I wish there were more people like you in the world.”

Alexander, of course, showed no excitement about his growing fame. When Sharon read him a comment that said, “President of the world? Yes, please,” he merely grunted: “President of the world? That sounds like a nightmare.”

But beneath his gruff exterior was a deeper truth. Grumpy News Network wasn’t just about humor. It was a reminder to the world that speaking the truth and standing by it still mattered—whether it was about politics, influencers, or diamond-encrusted Crocs.

Alexander ended every episode with the same words: “As long as the world stays stupid, I’ll have something to say. And if they ever silence me, then you’ll know: maybe I actually won.”

Chapter 11

A few weeks after Grumpy News Network took the internet by storm, it underwent a transformation. What began as Alexander’s solo crusade against stupidity became a full-blown production when Lara decided to join. With her natural charisma and sharp wit, the dynamic duo decided to rebrand.

They called it The Grumpy Hour.

The name stuck immediately, encapsulating their unique brand of no-holds-barred satire and biting honesty. It wasn’t just Alexander’s grumpy rants anymore—now it was a polished (if nostalgic) show, where Lara balanced his gruff delivery with her charm and occasional sarcasm.

The crew converted an abandoned factory into their studio, painstakingly designing it to look like a newsroom from the 1970s. Avocado-green wallpaper, orange shag carpet, wood-paneled walls, and clunky rotary phones added a retro charm. Even the cameras were vintage-looking, though Zip ensured they were modern inside.

Zip, naturally, became the technical specialist. He rigged the studio with lighting, cameras, and an intricate live-streaming setup. Despite his occasional grumbling about Alexander’s refusal to “modernize,” he secretly loved the aesthetic challenge.

Alister took on the role of assistant director, managing the scripts and ensuring every segment ran smoothly. He also doubled as the crew’s historian, adding little-known facts to spice up each episode.

Winston, ever the gentleman, handled catering. Every morning, he arrived with trays of tea, sandwiches, and scones, which became an essential part of the crew’s pre-show rituals.

Amelia alternated between field segments and co-hosting with Ivan, a perpetually deadpan Russian who Alexander had somehow recruited. The duo specialized in segments like The Worst of Humanity This Week, delivering scathing reviews of the world’s absurdities.

Sharon, meanwhile, took her place behind the camera, capturing every witty jab and exasperated sigh with precision. She was also responsible for their dynamic intros, which combined vintage aesthetics with modern editing techniques.

The intro became a highlight of The Grumpy Hour.

It opened with a spinning globe, reminiscent of old TV news shows, but instead of dignified music, it was accompanied by a jazzy, offbeat tune. The screen faded to Alexander and Lara standing back-to-back, arms crossed, looking like the ultimate power duo.

The tagline scrolled across the bottom:

“The Grumpy Hour: Because the world deserves better insults.”

The intro ended with a cut to Alexander sitting at the desk, grumbling, “Why are you even watching this? Go touch some grass.”

Each episode of The Grumpy Hour was a forty-minute masterpiece of unfiltered satire. They covered everything: politics, pop culture, tech trends, and bizarre news stories from around the globe.

Alexander’s opening monologue, titled Grumpy Takes, remained a staple. Whether railing against bureaucrats or influencers promoting NFTs shaped like bananas, he spared no one.

“Tonight’s target? Billionaires funding vanity projects in space while the rest of us can’t even afford eggs. Honestly, if I hear one more word about Mars colonies, I’m going to lose it. Fix Earth first, you overgrown toddlers.”

The audience loved it.

Lara’s segment, Lara’s Lens, provided a sharp counterbalance. She tackled social issues and called out hypocrisy with a mix of charm and unflinching critique.

“In the news this week: yet another clothing brand promising ‘sustainability’ while dumping chemical dyes into rivers. But don’t worry—they planted one tree, so it’s fine, right?” she quipped, her smile sharp enough to cut steel.

The chemistry between Alexander and Lara was electric. They often bantered mid-show, turning even the most serious topics into moments of humor.

Alexander: “You realize if we keep this up, we’re going to get canceled by every platform eventually.”

Lara: “Good. I’ll frame the hate mail.”

With every episode, The Grumpy Hour gained more traction. Clips of their scathing takedowns went viral on TikTok, Twitter, and Instagram, where Gen Z and Gen Alpha couldn’t get enough.

Gen Z Commentary:

• 🔥 “They’re like the grandparents who survived everything and are DONE with our nonsense.”
• 🤣 “Lara and Alex are the power couple I didn’t know I needed.”
• 💀 “Alexander for president. Lara for queen. I don’t make the rules.”

Gen Alpha Commentary:

• 🎮 “Bro’s got main character energy.”
• 😂 “This feels like if history class didn’t suck.”
• 🛠️ “Can Zip build me a retro PC? Asking for a friend.”

The retro aesthetic became a cultural phenomenon. People started decorating their rooms like The Grumpy Hour set, complete with wood paneling and rotary phones. Merch flew off the shelves—t-shirts with Alexander’s infamous line, “Fix Earth first.”

With their growing popularity, Alexander and Lara pushed the boundaries further. They weren’t just mocking absurdity—they were tackling issues most media tiptoed around.

An episode called Uncomfortable Truths dove into the exploitation behind fast fashion, tech industry corruption, and even governments silencing whistleblowers. Lara delivered the closing line with chilling clarity:

“If the truth makes you squirm, good. It means you needed to hear it.”

The response was overwhelming. Emails poured in, thanking them for their courage. Others sent threats, accusing them of “going too far.” Alexander’s response to the hate was simple: “If you’re mad, we’re doing something right.”

One day, while filming a segment on the rise of corporate greed, Sharon noticed something unusual. Winston, typically composed, was doubled over laughing.

“Winston, are you alright?” Lara asked, concerned.

He waved her off, tears streaming down his face. “Oh, madam, it’s just... the way you two described that CEO... ‘a robot in a human skin suit’—I can’t!”

Moments like these made The Grumpy Hour special. It wasn’t just a show—it was a movement, fueled by a team that genuinely loved what they did.

As the crew wrapped up another successful episode, Sharon turned off the camera and sighed. “Alright, you two. What’s next? Solving world hunger?”

Alexander shrugged. “One step at a time. First, we tear down stupidity. Then we’ll see.”

Lara grinned. “I don’t know about solving world hunger, but I do have a segment idea for next week: Why Dating Apps Are Actually Hell in Disguise.”

Alexander smirked. “Perfect. Let’s burn it all down.”

The team laughed, clinking their mugs of tea and coffee. Outside, the world might have been chaotic, but inside the studio, one thing was clear: The Grumpy Hour wasn’t just a show. It was a revolution.

Chapter 12

The show once known as The Grumpy Hour had evolved into something far greater. After much deliberation (and a fair amount of bickering), Alexander and Lara had renamed it to Truth, Unfiltered, reflecting their sharp, uncompromising tone. With its 70s-inspired studio—complete with mustard-yellow furniture, faux wood paneling, and a vintage rotating globe—it felt like a time capsule from an era where the truth wasn’t sanitized.

The studio was a hive of activity before every broadcast. Zip manned the technical booth, ensuring everything ran smoothly, though his occasional curses suggested otherwise. Alister handled the show’s structure, arranging segments and timing ad breaks with meticulous precision. Amelia occasionally co-hosted with Ivan when they needed a softer touch—or a particularly biting one. Winston, unbothered by the chaos, moved through the set with trays of tea, sandwiches, and his famously perfect scones. Sharon, with her keen eye and sharper tongue, was the resident camerawoman, catching every angle.

And at the heart of it all were Alexander and Lara, the unstoppable duo who’d turned a small satire project into a worldwide sensation.

Tonight, as the opening jazz riff of their intro played, the camera panned over the set. Alexander and Lara sat at the desk, their outfits a deliberate nod to the 70s—him in a tan blazer, her in a striking red jumpsuit.

“Good evening, truth-seekers,” Lara began with a sly grin. “Welcome to another episode of Truth, Unfiltered. Tonight, we’ve got corruption, controversy, and chaos—just the way you like it.”

Alexander picked up seamlessly. “From politicians doing the cha-cha with lobbyists to billionaires playing Monopoly with housing markets, it’s been a banner week for idiocy.”

The audience loved it.

The show moved through its usual segments: biting commentary on current events, a satirical deep dive into ridiculous internet trends, and a scathing roast of a particularly inept CEO who had recently compared workers to “widgets.”

But midway through the show, the tone shifted. Lara leaned forward, addressing the camera directly. “Before we move on, there’s something we need to talk about.”

Alexander nodded. “We’ve received a lot of feedback on a recent episode. Most of it positive, but one email stood out.” He glanced at a piece of paper in front of him. “A viewer accused us of trivializing the Holocaust in one of our jokes. They called it disgusting and disrespectful.”

The studio fell quiet.

Lara’s expression was calm but firm. “We take criticism seriously. But this accusation? We need to address it head-on.”

Alexander’s voice, usually sardonic, was uncharacteristically measured. “Humor is a weapon. It cuts through lies, hypocrisy, and the sanitized versions of history people like to peddle. But let me be clear: we don’t mock suffering. We mock the people and systems that perpetuate it.”

He paused, staring into the camera. “And I know a thing or two about suffering.”

Lara gave him a subtle nod, encouraging him to continue.

“My father,” Alexander began, his voice steady but heavy, “was arrested when I was six years old. He was sent to the uranium mines, where he died shortly after. My mother… she held us together as best she could. Until I was nineteen, when she was hit by a train.”

The air in the studio grew thicker, the weight of his words palpable.

“I grew up alone. I learned the hard way that the world doesn’t care about fairness or grief. It moves on, whether you’re ready or not.” He exhaled sharply. “And in 1984, the StB—Czechoslovakia’s secret police—dragged me into a basement. They beat me so badly I thought I wouldn’t leave alive. All because I dared to question them.”

Lara reached out, placing a steadying hand on his arm.

“I survived,” Alexander continued. “Barely. But I promised myself something then. If I got out, if I lived to see another day, I wouldn’t let fear dictate how I lived. Humor isn’t just a coping mechanism. It’s defiance. It’s a reminder that no matter how much the world tries to break you, you’re still standing.”

The live chat exploded with reactions:

• 💔 “This man has lived through hell and still fights for truth.”
• 🔥 “Humor isn’t disrespect—it’s rebellion.”
• 😭 “Alexander’s story just broke me. Respect x1000.”

Lara picked up where Alexander left off. “The joke wasn’t about the Holocaust. It was about the absurdity of how history is sanitized, how the atrocities are downplayed until they’re practically forgotten. Satire forces us to confront the truth. To remember.”

“And if that makes people uncomfortable,” Alexander added, his voice harder now, “then maybe they should ask themselves why.”

The segment quickly went viral. Clips of Alexander’s speech flooded social media.

Gen Z Commentary:

• 💀 “Bro just dropped a nuke of honesty.”
• 🔥 “This is why we watch. No BS, just truth.”
• 😭 “He’s right. Humor is survival.”

Gen Alpha Commentary:

• 🎮 “Alexander is literally a Final Boss.”
• 🛡️ “Can we protect this man at all costs?”
• 😂 “Laughing at dark stuff doesn’t make you weak. It makes you strong.”

Emails poured in—this time, they weren’t angry. They were messages of support, filled with stories of resilience, grief, and gratitude. One particularly moving email read: “My grandfather survived a concentration camp. He used to say laughter was the only thing they couldn’t take from him. Thank you for keeping that spirit alive.”

The next episode opened with Alexander’s no-nonsense stare into the camera.

“We laugh,” he said, his voice steady, “because we’re alive. We laugh because we refuse to forget. And if that bothers you... tough.”

Lara smirked, leaning into the mic. “Tonight, on Truth, Unfiltered: capitalism, corruption, and why the latest tech CEO needs to be sent to a deserted island.”

The audience cheered.

As the camera panned out, showing the retro set and the crew bustling in the background, Alexander sipped his coffee and gave a rare, small smile.

“Enjoy life,” he said. “You never know how long you’ve got.”

Chapter 13

The evolution of Truth, Unfiltered was nothing short of meteoric. What started as a sharp, biting commentary on modern issues now transformed into a full-fledged talk show with live interviews, fiery debates, and an ever-expanding roster of high-profile guests. Despite their different worlds, Alexander and Lara had unparalleled chemistry as co-hosts, effortlessly blending cutting humor with insightful critique.

The studio had become an icon in itself. Modeled after the retro aesthetic of 70s TV, it featured mustard-yellow armchairs, wood-paneled walls, shag carpets, and a psychedelic mural on one side. Cameras glided on smooth tracks as Sharon directed from behind her station. Zip worked tirelessly to manage the tech, from sound mixing to livestream graphics, while Alister coordinated schedules and scripts. Winston handled catering—often appearing on camera to serve tea mid-show, much to the audience’s delight. Even Amelia pitched in occasionally, especially when the discussions veered toward topics she was passionate about.

The team was a well-oiled machine, but the real magic happened when the cameras rolled.

The show’s guest list for that night promised a wild mix of personalities: Livvy Dunne, the bubbly TikTok sensation and gymnast, and Tony Blair, the former UK Prime Minister whose political legacy remained as divisive as ever.

The episode began with a now-iconic tradition: Alexander's harmonica performance. He played Paint It Black by The Rolling Stones, the mournful notes filling the studio. As he finished, Lara grinned and leaned into the camera.

“Welcome back to Truth, Unfiltered, where we bridge the gap between old-school grit and modern chaos,” she said. “Tonight, we’ve got two guests who represent exactly that divide.”

Alexander cut in, his deadpan delivery drawing laughter. “On one side, a man who led a nation through war. And on the other, a woman who led a TikTok trend through millions of views. Ladies and gentlemen, Tony Blair and Livvy Dunne.”

The studio audience erupted in applause as the guests entered. Tony Blair smiled warmly, shaking hands with Alexander and Lara before taking his seat. Livvy looked radiant in a sleek outfit, though her smile wavered as she noticed the unmistakable gleam of mischief in Alexander’s eyes.

The show began light, with Lara asking Livvy about her gymnastics career and rise on social media. Livvy spoke enthusiastically about her rigorous training schedule, her love for her fans, and her goals to inspire the next generation.

“Very commendable,” Alexander said, nodding. “But I have to ask—how do you feel about Baby Gronk?”

Livvy blinked, visibly thrown. “Who?”

“Baby Gronk,” Alexander repeated, leaning back with a sly smirk. “The child football prodigy. Is he the next big thing, or is the internet just ruining his childhood for clicks?”

The audience erupted in laughter, but Livvy’s smile faltered. “I don’t… I don’t really follow football.”

Lara, sensing the shift, steered the conversation to Tony Blair. “Prime Minister, how would you describe your experience adapting to the digital age?”

Blair chuckled. “Well, I’ve been told by my children that my mere presence online would probably cause a global outage, so I tend to stay away.”

The banter was lighthearted, but the tension between Alexander and Livvy simmered beneath the surface.

As the conversation turned back to social media’s impact on young athletes, Alexander couldn’t resist a jab.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “I respect hard work. But let’s face it—these days, you don’t need to win an Olympic medal. All it takes is a viral dance and a few brand deals.”

Livvy stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” Alexander continued, unflappable, “the system rewards spectacle over substance. And that’s not your fault—it’s ours, for eating it up.”

Livvy’s patience snapped. “I work hard every day for what I have!” she said, her voice rising. “You don’t know what it’s like to be under constant scrutiny, to have millions of people watching your every move!”

Before anyone could react, Livvy reached across the table, grabbing the lapel of Alexander’s blazer. From the inner pocket, she pulled out his prized ČZ ZKR 590 Grand revolver.

The studio fell silent.

“What the hell, Alex?” Lara hissed, half-rising from her chair.

Livvy held the revolver awkwardly, clearly unsure how to handle it. “Why do you even have this?”

“It’s not loaded,” Alexander said calmly, though his expression was one of mild exasperation. “It’s a piece of history, not a weapon.”

Lara moved closer, her voice measured. “Livvy, maybe we put the gun down? This isn’t helping your argument.”

Livvy’s hands trembled as she glared at Alexander. “You think I’m just some stupid influencer. You don’t respect me or what I do.”

Alexander sighed, his tone softening. “You’re not stupid. And I don’t blame you for being angry. But let’s talk about this—without the theatrics.”

For several tense moments, the room held its breath. Then, slowly, Livvy placed the revolver on the table and sank back into her chair.

What followed was one of the most unexpected and heartfelt conversations in the show’s history. Livvy spoke openly about the immense pressure she felt to maintain her image, the fear of making mistakes in such a public space, and the exhaustion of constantly proving her worth.

Alexander, in turn, shared his struggles with speaking truth in a world that often punished honesty. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t know what it’s like to be you. But I do know what it’s like to feel dismissed, to fight against a system that doesn’t care about the individual.”

By the end of the discussion, Livvy was laughing at Alexander’s harmonica rendition of TikTok hits, and Tony Blair quipped that he might start his own TikTok account.

The internet exploded.

😂 “Livvy Dunne pulled a WHOLE GUN on Alexander and STILL got roasted. Iconic.”

😭 “Lowkey cried when Alex talked about being dismissed. That hit different.”

🔥 “Truth, Unfiltered is the only real show on TV rn.”

🎮 “Livvy vs. Alex = best episode ever.”

💀 “Blair just sitting there like, ‘I don’t get paid enough for this.’”

😂 “Alexander playing harmonica after a gunfight is peak main character energy.”

The incident, rather than derailing the show, catapulted its popularity to new heights. Memes flooded social media, fan art depicted Alexander and Lara as retro action heroes, and Truth, Unfiltered broke viewership records.

When asked about the episode during the next broadcast, Alexander simply said, “Well, that escalated quickly. Shall we invite Putin next?”

Lara rolled her eyes. “Let’s start smaller. Like Beyoncé.”

The audience roared with laughter, and Truth, Unfiltered carried on—bold, unfiltered, and utterly unforgettable.

Chapter 14

The runaway success of Truth, Unfiltered solidified it as more than just a talk show—it became a global phenomenon, a cultural earthquake that shook the media landscape. Every week, millions tuned in not just for the unfiltered discussions of politics, culture, and the human condition, but for the pure, raw chaos that seemed to define the show’s very soul. It wasn’t just entertainment; it was catharsis, a place where sacred cows were roasted, hypocrisy was skewered, and truth was served without garnish.

From the outset, Truth, Unfiltered rejected convention. The set, an homage to the 1970s with its garish orange hues, faux wood paneling, and shag carpeting, was a deliberate contrast to the sleek, polished studios of mainstream news. It was a reminder that appearances didn’t matter—substance did. Winston often stumbled into the frame carrying a tray of mismatched teacups, Alexander occasionally interrupted himself to play mournful tunes on his harmonica, and Lara’s laughter could derail a segment for minutes on end. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was an undeniable magic.

The unedited, unscripted format lent the show an authenticity that viewers craved. It felt real in a world where so much felt manufactured. Politicians, celebrities, and everyday people alike found themselves drawn to its magnetism, even if it meant stepping into the lion’s den of Alexander and Lara’s biting wit.

When Taylor Swift appeared as a guest, fans anticipated a thoughtful discussion about music and activism. What they got was a masterclass in how Truth, Unfiltered could veer from sincere to absurd in the blink of an eye.

Taylor began passionately, speaking about the importance of young people voting. “We have the power to shape the future,” she said earnestly.

Alexander, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, replied, “But do we have the power to stop TikTok from making everyone believe in conspiracy theories?”

Taylor laughed nervously but pressed on. “I think it’s crucial to engage with the issues that matter—climate change, social justice—”

“Don’t forget the cats,” Lara interjected with mock seriousness. “That’s your brand, right? Saving democracy, one fluffy feline at a time?”

The audience erupted, but Taylor seemed to falter. Then came the moment no one could have anticipated.

“I tried to rig an election once,” Lara said, her voice utterly deadpan. “Didn’t work, though. Turns out it’s harder than it looks.”

The studio exploded with laughter, but Taylor’s face froze. Her eyes began to water as she stammered, “I just… I just think democracy is really important.”

Alexander stepped in quickly, realizing the joke had landed too hard. “Taylor, it’s a joke. Lara doesn’t rig elections. She’s terrible at paperwork.”

Even Winston, passing by with tea, chimed in. “Indeed. Her cooking is more dangerous than her scheming.”

The attempt to lighten the mood worked partially, but the internet seized on the moment. Memes of Taylor’s tearful reaction flooded social media:

• 🔥 “Taylor Swift crying over Lara’s election joke? Iconic.”
• 💀 “Democracy isn’t dead, but Taylor’s sense of humor is.”
• 🤣 “Winston with the accidental roast. We stan.”
• 💀 “Taylor crying = meme of the year.”
• 🎯 “Lara said ‘rigged election,’ and Taylor folded like a lawn chair.”
• 🤣 “Winston’s cameo saved the day.”

The fallout was nothing compared to the infamous Kim Kardashian episode. From the moment Kim arrived, Alexander’s irreverence was in full force.

“So,” he began, “do you think your career is proof that reality is stranger than fiction, or just that people will watch anything?”

Kim’s practiced smile barely wavered as she replied, “I think my career is about breaking boundaries and redefining what it means to be a businesswoman.”

“Sure,” Lara said, “if by breaking boundaries you mean filming in 4K.”

The audience roared with laughter. Kim, however, maintained her composure—until Alexander asked the question that broke her.

“Do you think that, if it weren’t for that one tape, you’d still be an influencer? Or just a really photogenic lawyer?”

Kim’s eyes narrowed, her voice cold. “You know, Alexander, some people work their whole lives to build something meaningful.”

“And some people get there faster with night-vision cameras,” he replied without missing a beat.

The tension was only broken by Winston, who stumbled into frame holding a teapot. “Oh dear, I seem to have brought the wrong biscuits. Carry on.”

The internet was merciless:

• 💀 “Alexander saying ‘night vision cameras’ ended Kim K’s entire career.”
• 🤣 “Winston walking into frame is the best accidental comedic timing.”
• 🔥 “Kim vs. Alexander: the crossover we didn’t know we needed.”
• 🎮 “Bro said ‘night vision,’ and she short-circuited.”
• 🤣 “Winston is the true MVP of this show.”
• 💀 “Kim K couldn’t handle the heat. Respect for showing up, though.”

Not every guest left in tears. Politicians, surprisingly, proved more resilient. Boris Johnson joked about his hair. “It’s not a style; it’s a defense mechanism.” Jens Stoltenberg laughed about NATO’s bureaucracy, and Joe Biden quipped, “The secret to being president in your 80s? Low expectations.”

Even international viewers adored the show’s irreverence. Clips of Alexander playing harmonica between segments went viral on TikTok, with captions like “Bro’s harmonica solos hit harder than my life choices.” Meanwhile, Winston’s bumbling antics inspired an entire subreddit, #WhereIsWinstonNow, devoted to tracking his unpredictable cameos.

The show’s influence reached The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, leading to an invitation for Alexander and Lara to appear. The announcement sparked a wave of reactions online:

• 🔥 “Fallon better not ruin their vibe.”
• 🤣 “Alexander vs. Fallon: harmonica showdown incoming.”
• 💀 “Imagine Fallon fake-laughing at Alexander’s dark humor.”
• 🎮 “Jimmy Fallon’s about to get roasted on his own show.”
• 🔥 “Lara and Alexander taking over late-night? Yes, please.”
• 🤣 “This is the crossover event of the century.”

Through all the chaos, Alexander summed it up best during one closing segment.

“Life’s too short to take seriously. If you can’t laugh at it—at yourself, at everything—you’re already dead inside. So here’s to laughing while we can.”

And the audience, loyal and growing, kept coming back for more.

Chapter 15

The announcement that Truth, Unfiltered would be making an appearance on Jimmy Fallon’s Valentine’s Day special sent ripples across the internet. For weeks leading up to the show, fans speculated wildly about what chaos Alexander and Lara would bring to the late-night stage, especially now that their dynamic had shifted in a monumental way.

Shortly before their departure to the U.S., news broke that Alexander and Sharon had amicably divorced. Social media was, predictably, ablaze.

• 💔 “RIP to the Grumpy Fisherman and Sharon, but at least it’s mutual.”
• 🔥 “Still better than messy celeb divorces. Respect for keeping it classy.”
• 🤣 “Alexander divorced Sharon and upgraded to Lara. Giga-Chad move.”
• 🎮 “Bro speedran divorce into remarriage. Skill issue?”
• 🔥 “Alexander and Lara = power couple vibes.”
• 💀 “Imagine divorcing peacefully. Couldn’t be my parents.”

Alexander and Lara’s wedding, in sharp contrast to their usual irreverence, was a quiet and private affair. However, word inevitably leaked, and the internet erupted in celebration.

• 🔥 “Alexander and Lara officially married? Ship it forever.”
• 💍 “From tombs to ‘I do.’ Truly iconic.”
• 🤣 “Can Winston officiate the renewal vows next year?”

In the weeks following the wedding, Alexander resumed one of his favorite pastimes: fishing. It was less about the fish and more about the quiet moments to plan his next move. As he cast his line into the waters of a serene lake, his thoughts turned to Fallon.

“Tell me about this Fallon guy,” he asked Zip over a crackly phone connection.

“He’s… safe. You know, light comedy, lots of games. Think of him as the opposite of you,” Zip replied.

Alexander smirked. “Good. He won’t see us coming.”

When the group arrived at U.S. Customs, they were immediately recognized.

“Wait,” one customs officer said, his eyes wide. “Are you Alexander? From Truth, Unfiltered?”

“And Lara,” another chimed in. “I’ve seen every episode!”

Winston, as always, shuffled awkwardly in the background, holding a bag of teacups. “Do you need a selfie?” he asked helpfully.

They were waved through with smiles and photographs, leaving the customs officers buzzing. “Best day on the job ever,” one was overheard saying.

After settling into a swanky New York hotel, the group convened in Alexander and Lara’s suite. Lara lounged on a vintage couch, a notebook in hand. “Alright,” she said, “what’s the plan? Fallon’s show is all about charm and fluff. We’re neither.”

Alexander chuckled. “We play to our strengths. Honest, unfiltered chaos. He invited us—he’ll get what he asked for.”

Winston entered, carrying a tray of champagne. “Might I suggest not terrifying the Americans too much? At least not until the second segment.”

Lara grinned. “Noted.”

Backstage at Fallon’s studio, tension simmered. Margot Robbie and her husband, Tom Ackerley, stood near Scarlett Johansson and Colin Jost. Both couples seemed unusually subdued, casting nervous glances toward the door where Alexander and Lara were expected to appear.

“Are they really that intense?” Margot asked Scarlett.

Scarlett nodded. “I watched their episode with Taylor Swift. Let’s just say… expect the unexpected.”

Colin added, “I mean, they roasted Kim Kardashian to her face. If they can do that, they’re capable of anything.”

Tom laughed nervously. “Maybe we should’ve brought backup.”

Before anyone could respond, the door swung open, and in walked Alexander and Lara, radiating an air of effortless confidence. Winston trailed behind, carrying a teapot as usual.

“Ah,” Alexander said, his voice carrying across the room. “The beautiful people. Always a pleasure to see Hollywood royalty in the flesh.”

Margot offered a polite smile. “And you must be Alexander. Big fan of the show.”

“And the harmonica solos?” Alexander asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Legendary,” Tom replied quickly, though his grin was a little too tight.

Lara sized up Scarlett. “Love your work. Especially in Marriage Story. Very relatable.”

Scarlett let out a laugh that was more nervous than genuine. “Thanks, I think.”

Winston, oblivious to the tension, poured tea into mismatched cups. “Anyone for Earl Grey? It’s quite calming.”

Chapter 16

The Tonight Show kicked off as usual, with Margot Robbie and Tom Ackerley chatting about their latest projects. They bantered effortlessly about their life together and the challenges of working in the film industry.

"Tom," Jimmy grinned, "I heard you lost your temper during one of the shoots?"

Tom laughed, scratching his head. "Yeah, I may have threatened to throw a camera out of the window. But Margot stopped me."

Margot nodded with a smirk. "Of course, because if he did, he’d have to buy a new one. And I wasn’t paying for it."

Scarlett Johansson and Colin Jost followed with their trademark humor, swapping anecdotes about marriage and their wildly different schedules. The audience was in high spirits. But little did they know the chaos that would unfold when Alex Finch and Lara Croft-Finch took the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jimmy announced with theatrical flair, “the couple everyone’s talking about—Alexander Finch and Lara Croft-Finch!”

Lara walked out gracefully, dressed as if she had just come from a gala, while Alex trailed behind her in his casual, irreverent way, hands stuffed in his pockets. Winston, ever the loyal butler, followed with a teapot, setting it neatly next to Jimmy’s mug on the desk.

“Lara,” Jimmy began enthusiastically, “I hear your latest expedition involved diving into underwater ruins filled with dangerous sea creatures?”

Lara smiled. “Yes, dangerous fish and a couple of crocodiles. But the crocodiles turned out to be quite friendly. I think they’d get along well with you, Jimmy.”

Alex interjected, deadpan: “Only if Jimmy looked like their dinner.”

The audience erupted in laughter as Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Alright, Alex, what have you been up to lately?”

“Teaching Winston how to assemble a UK vz. 59 machine gun in under a minute,” Alex replied casually, to audible gasps from the audience.

Jimmy latched onto the idea. “A UK vz. 59? That sounds like something Margot and Tom might want to try!”

Margot, always game for a challenge, leaned forward eagerly. “I’m in!” she said, while Tom looked far less enthusiastic. “Wait, do I get a manual?”

Alex produced a sleek metal case from under the table and opened it, revealing a fully disassembled UK vz. 59. The audience gasped again.

“It’s straightforward,” Alex said. “If you’re not a bureaucrat, you’ll manage. Even I managed that when I was 19.”

Margot dove into the challenge, while Tom fumbled with a piece of the stock. “Does this… go here?” he asked nervously as Margot studied the bolt assembly with determination.

“Thirty seconds left,” Alex announced, leaning back. “Jimmy, your time would’ve run out three times by now.”

At the one-minute mark, Margot looked up in frustration. “Alright, I give up. It’s harder than it looks!”

Without missing a beat, Alex stepped in. “Move over,” he said, taking the pieces and assembling the weapon in a fluid, precise motion. Thirty seconds later, the machine gun was fully operational.

Jimmy stared in disbelief. “You just… How?!”

Alex smirked. “Practice, Jimmy. And maybe growing up somewhere more interesting than suburban America.”

Next, Jimmy unveiled an old Škoda 100 that had been wheeled onto the stage. “Alright, Alex, you’ve shown us how to assemble a machine gun. But can you start this thing?”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Jimmy, I grew up in places where starting a car like this was child’s play. Kids used to do it for fun.”

Jimmy, ever eager to prove himself, jumped behind the wheel. He fumbled with the ignition for nearly a minute, the engine sputtering but refusing to start. The audience was in stitches.

“Let me guess,” Alex said, walking over, “you’ve never driven a car without a computer doing half the work?”

“Hey!” Jimmy protested. “I’m trying!”

Alex leaned in, turned the key, pressed the choke, and with a quick, practiced twist of the wrist, the Škoda roared to life in under five seconds. The audience erupted in applause.

“See?” Alex said, gesturing at the running engine. “It’s not the car. It’s the driver.”

Jimmy threw up his hands in mock defeat. “Alright, alright, you win. But how many people can you actually fit in this thing?”

“Let’s find out,” Alex replied with a mischievous grin.

Over the next few minutes, Alex managed to cram Margot, Tom, Scarlett, Colin, Jimmy, Lara, and even Winston into the small Škoda. Lara took the front seat with a book, seemingly unbothered, while Alex slid behind the wheel. Winston perched on someone’s lap in the back, looking as dignified as ever despite the absurdity.

“How is this even possible?” Jimmy yelled from the middle of the pile.

Alex chuckled. “It’s a Škoda. Just when you think it’s full, it fits more.”

With the horn honking triumphantly, Alex drove off the stage, leaving the audience cheering wildly.

The internet exploded with memes:

• 🚗 “The Škoda 100: The original clown car.”
• 😂 “Jimmy Fallon learns the hard way: Škoda > Tesla.”
• 🔥 “Alex Finch: Starting old cars and assembling machine guns since forever.”

Jimmy, watching the Škoda disappear, turned to the camera and said, “Next season, we’re filming in Prague. I need to figure out how these people live like this!”

Chapter 17

The Škoda 100, a relic of a bygone era, puttered down 5th Avenue like it had no business being there—and perhaps it didn’t. Loaded with eight famous passengers, it heaved and groaned, its exhaust spewing a thick, acrid smoke into the New York air. Pedestrians covered their noses, but their curiosity was piqued. Who were the lunatics in this ancient, sputtering box on wheels?

Inside, the celebrities were adjusting to the peculiar situation. The cramped cabin smelled faintly of oil and history, and the car jolted with every bump in the road. Yet somehow, the atmosphere was cheerful.

Jimmy Fallon, perched between Margot Robbie and Scarlett Johansson, glanced at Alex in the driver’s seat. “So, uh, how much horsepower does this thing have?”

Alex didn’t flinch. “Forty-five.”

For a second, there was silence—then an eruption of laughter.

“Forty-five?!” Margot doubled over, nearly hitting her head on the low ceiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Scarlett was in tears. “That’s less than my lawnmower back home!”

Even Colin Jost couldn’t help but chuckle. “My grandma’s mobility scooter could beat this in a drag race.”

Only Lara Croft and Winston remained stoic. Lara, flipping through her book, didn’t even look up. “It’s not the horsepower that matters,” she muttered, “it’s the willpower.”

Winston, ever composed, added, “And the driver, of course.”

Alex grinned, unfazed by the ridicule. “Laugh all you want. But tell me, how much do you guys spend on servicing your fancy toys?”

The laughter died down as everyone exchanged awkward glances.

“Well, I… uh…” Jimmy began, scratching the back of his head.

“Exactly,” Alex said with a smirk. “Meanwhile, I could rebuild this thing with a hammer and some duct tape if I had to.”

Margot crossed her arms. “Okay, but can it even go uphill?”

“We’ll find out,” Alex shot back confidently.

As the Škoda rumbled along, the thick black smoke pouring from its overburdened exhaust began to attract even more attention. Tourists whipped out their phones, capturing videos and snapping photos. Social media quickly lit up:

• @hipstertravelsNYC: “Only in New York… spotted a Škoda 100 packed with celebs. Is this performance art or just bad decisions? 🤷‍♂️ #VintageVibes #WhatIsThatSmell”
• @carspotterlife: “Rare Škoda 100 in Manhattan. Looks like it’s about to die. Who are these people? Is that Scarlett Johansson?!”
• @realElonMusk: “This is what happens when nostalgia overpowers common sense. PSA: Buy a Tesla.”

On the sidewalk, Beyoncé, in oversized sunglasses and a designer trench coat, paused mid-stride. She turned to Jay-Z, who was holding a coffee. “Is that… Scarlett Johansson in that death trap?”

Jay-Z squinted. “Looks like it. And… is that Jimmy Fallon? What the hell?”

Even Taylor Swift, stepping out of a nearby building with her entourage, stopped to watch as the Škoda chugged by. She raised an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned for them? That car looks like it runs on prayers and duct tape.”

“Alex, I think you’re gassing the entire city,” Colin joked, fanning the air in front of him.

“That’s just character,” Alex replied, nonchalant.

“You keep saying that,” Scarlett chimed in, “but I think I’m developing lung problems back here.”

Winston, still balancing his teapot, interjected. “The smoke does remind me of the fog in London. Quite nostalgic, really.”

Jimmy leaned forward, coughing theatrically. “Nostalgic for who? Victorian chimney sweeps?”

Lara, unfazed, flipped another page in her book. “It’s better than some tombs I’ve been in.”

Margot tapped Alex on the shoulder. “Can’t you fix the smoke?”

“Not with you lot weighing it down,” Alex retorted.

“Ouch,” Margot said, pretending to be offended.

Scarlett grinned. “Well, at least we’re not going unnoticed.”

As the Škoda approached Times Square, the traffic thickened, but Alex navigated with ease. The car sputtered and groaned, but it never stopped, defying everyone’s expectations.

Outside, the gawkers had multiplied. Paparazzi sprinted alongside, their cameras clicking furiously. Tourists waved, some even cheering as the unlikely procession made its way through the city.

“You know,” Jimmy said, looking out the window, “I think this car is more famous than any of us right now.”

Alex smirked. “Told you. It’s not the car; it’s the driver.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Alright, Mr. Bond. Just don’t stall it in the middle of the square, okay?”

“Relax,” Alex said. “This car’s been through worse.”

As they passed a giant screen flashing an ad for a luxury SUV, the Škoda coughed out another plume of smoke, almost as if mocking the modern world.

“Did… did it just insult that ad?” Colin asked, laughing.

“It has taste,” Alex replied.

By the time the Škoda reached the edge of the city, the atmosphere inside was jubilant. What had started as an odd experiment had turned into an unforgettable adventure.

“Alright,” Alex announced, pulling over briefly. “Time to get everyone in properly.”

In a feat of engineering—and sheer willpower—Alex managed to cram all eight passengers, including himself and Winston, back into the tiny car. Legs were folded, elbows were squished, but somehow, it worked.

“Is this even legal?” Scarlett asked, her voice muffled as she squished into Colin.

“Probably not,” Alex replied, revving the engine. “But who’s going to stop us? The cops?”

As the Škoda roared—or rather, wheezed—into the night, the city watched, bewildered and amused. It was a scene no one would forget: seven famous faces packed into a car with less horsepower than a modern vacuum cleaner, laughing and joking like old friends as they disappeared into the glow of New York’s lights.

Somewhere, a tweet went viral: “The Škoda 100. Proof that fame doesn’t need a Ferrari.”

Chapter 18

The Škoda 100 rolled up to the curb outside an upscale Manhattan restaurant, its engine sputtering slightly under the weight of its illustrious passengers. Despite its humble appearance, the little car had managed to turn heads all across New York, not least because of the seven famous faces crammed into its cabin. As they climbed out one by one, a familiar voice suddenly broke the evening calm.

“Unbelievable! Look at this!”

A notorious paparazzo darted out from behind a parked SUV, camera in hand. His grin widened as he recognized the group. Flash after flash illuminated the street as he fired off rapid shots, his excitement palpable.

“Scarlett Johansson, Jimmy Fallon, Colin Jost... Margot Robbie? Oh, this is gold! And in a... wait, is this a Škoda? Are you kidding me?”

Alex stepped out first, standing tall against the barrage of intrusive questions and camera flashes. He calmly opened the door for Winston, who exited with his usual unflappable composure, ignoring the paparazzo as if he didn’t exist. Alex then turned to open the door for Lara, who glanced at the photographer with visible annoyance.

“This is insane,” Scarlett muttered, shielding her face with her hand. “Can we not have one normal evening?”

Jimmy tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, at least he’s not asking what we’re wearing—yet.”

Alex wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He walked directly to the paparazzo, his tone even but firm. “That’s enough. Leave us alone.”

The man laughed, taking a step back but continuing to snap photos. “Enough? Buddy, this is just getting started. Scarlett, could you give me a smile? And Margot, how about a wave?”

Without breaking stride, Alex moved closer, his expression hardening. “This is your last chance. Put the camera down and walk away.”

The photographer smirked. “Or what?”

A moment later, the sound of a fist connecting with a nose echoed through the street. The paparazzo stumbled back, clutching his face as blood began to drip onto his shirt. His camera hit the ground with a dull thud.

“Jesus, Alex!” Colin exclaimed, half-shocked, half-impressed.

“Was that necessary?” Scarlett asked, though she couldn’t hide the faint trace of a smile.

“Absolutely,” Alex replied, brushing off his hands as if the encounter were a minor inconvenience. “Now let’s go inside.”

The paparazzo, still crumpled on the sidewalk, groaned, “You’ll regret this!” Alex didn’t even glance back.

Inside the restaurant, the atmosphere was drastically different—calm, elegant, and far removed from the chaos outside. The group settled at a large table, menus in hand, though the earlier tension lingered.

Jimmy, ever curious, leaned forward. “Okay, Alex, I have to ask—what’s your deal? You’re not exactly the type to punch photographers for fun. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Alex looked up from his menu, pausing for a moment before replying. “Life teaches you a lot when it has to.”

Sensing a story, Margot pressed him further. “Come on, don’t be cryptic. What’s your background? Who are you really?”

Alex exhaled slowly, setting his menu down. “My father died when I was six. Sentenced to a uranium mine for resisting the Nazis during the war.”

The table went quiet. Even Jimmy, usually quick with a quip, was struck speechless.

“And your mother?” Scarlett asked softly.

“She died when I was nineteen. A train hit her bus while she was coming home from work in Bezděčín.”

The silence deepened as the group processed Alex’s words. Margot looked down, fiddling nervously with her silverware, while Colin exchanged an uneasy glance with Scarlett.

“How did you survive after that?” Jimmy finally asked.

“I joined the army,” Alex said plainly. “Spent years there, then became a detective. Did that for twenty-two years before... well, things got complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Colin asked, trying to inject a lighter tone.

Alex gave him a faint smile. “Time travel. But that’s a story for another day.”

The group stared at him, unsure if he was joking or serious. Lara, seated next to Alex, smirked knowingly but said nothing, while Winston raised an eyebrow, silently amused by the reactions.

“Anyway,” Alex continued, “the past is the past. I prefer to focus on the present. Speaking of which, are we going to order, or are you all just going to keep staring at me?”

Laughter broke the tension, and the group began to relax. Their meals arrived shortly after, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics, though Alex’s revelations lingered in the back of everyone’s minds.

After dinner, they decided to pile back into the Škoda for ride.

Chapter 19

The morning sun reflected off the towering glass of the Manhattan hotel as Lara Croft stepped into the lobby, her sharp instincts tingling at the unusual absence of noise. No Jimmy Fallon cracking early-morning jokes, no Colin Jost groaning about subpar coffee, and no Margot Robbie’s exasperated sighs. It was quiet—too quiet.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Jimmy:

“Lara, you NEED to get downstairs NOW. It’s Alex. Again. I can’t. 😂”

Lara sighed, tucking her phone into her jacket. “What’s he done this time?”

When she reached the entrance, the rest of the group—Scarlett Johansson, Colin Jost, Jimmy Fallon, Tom Hiddleston, Margot Robbie, and Winston—were clustered near the massive glass doors. Their expressions ranged from horrified disbelief to barely contained amusement.

“What is it?” Lara asked, joining them.

Margot groaned, gesturing toward the street. “You’re not going to believe this.”

Lara followed her gaze. Parked in front of the hotel, looking as though it had time-traveled straight from the Cold War, was a Karosa ŠD 11 bus. Its bold blue paint gleamed in the sunlight, the massive manual doors propped open like an invitation to chaos. Standing beside it, arms crossed, was Alexander Finch, a picture of smug satisfaction.

Scarlett groaned, rubbing her temples. “He’s completely lost it.”

Jimmy, already filming on his phone, cackled. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: The Alex Finch Experience.” He zoomed in on the bus, narrating like a Discovery Channel host. “Behold the rare and ancient Karosa ŠD 11, last seen roaming the wilds of Eastern Europe in the late 20th century. It’s now been domesticated by one very strange man.”

The livestream chat exploded:

• “WTF is THAT?!”
• “Alex never misses. King.”
• “How is this man the main character everywhere he goes?”
• “Gen Alpha will never understand the Slavic bus aesthetic. 💀”
• “Lara looking like she’s about to karate chop the bus.”

Tom, who had barely recovered from the Škoda ride the night before, took one look and paled. “Please tell me we’re not expected to ride in that.”

“Expected? No,” Alex called, overhearing. “Honored? Absolutely.”

Lara stepped outside, raising an eyebrow. “Alex, do you just… collect old vehicles to torture people?”

“This,” Alex said, gesturing grandly to the Karosa, “is not torture. This is history. A Czechoslovakian engineering masterpiece. Built in 1977. Smooth ride, plenty of room, and a manual door system that’s more reliable than half the tech these days.”

Colin peered at the bus skeptically. “Does it have seatbelts?”

“Nope, it's a 1970s coach bus.” Alex said with a grin.

Scarlett threw her hands up. “Of course it doesn’t.”

Jimmy turned the camera back on himself, wheezing with laughter. “I can’t make this up, folks. No seatbelts. Just vibes.”

The chat went wild:

• “Jimmy’s laugh is giving me life rn.”
• “No seatbelts??? Gen Z would rather WALK.”
• “That bus looks like it smells like diesel and generational trauma.”
• “Alex ‘Safety Is Overrated’ Finch.”

Despite their protests, one by one, the group climbed aboard, with Lara taking the lead. Winston, ever composed, inspected the interior with academic curiosity.

“Well-preserved,” he remarked, running a hand along the seats. “A testament to the durability of Soviet-era design.”

Margot squinted at him. “Are you complimenting the bus?”

Winston shrugged. “It’s practical.”

Jimmy took the back seat, his livestream rolling as he narrated every detail. “Guys, the seats are like… cardboard wrapped in plastic. But hey, the windows open manually. That’s luxury, right?”

Scarlett plopped into her seat, immediately gripping the armrests. “If this thing so much as rattles—”

“It’s going to rattle,” Alex said cheerfully, firing up the engine. The Karosa roared to life with a deep, guttural growl, sending a plume of smoke into the crisp Manhattan air.

“Oh, no,” Tom whispered, clutching the seat in front of him.

As Alex navigated the Karosa through Manhattan traffic, pedestrians and drivers alike stopped to stare. Phones whipped out, and within minutes, TikToks were flooding the internet.

• “Not Alex driving a communist bus through NYC. Iconic.”
• “THE Karosa ŠD 11 spotted on Fifth Ave??? Alex strikes again.”
• “Jimmy Fallon, Scarlett Johansson, and a 55-year-old bus. Peak 2032 vibes.”

Inside the bus, chaos reigned. The engine’s vibrations shook the cabin, eliciting gasps and groans from the passengers. Jimmy’s laughter was interspersed with cries of “Oh my GOD, what was that?!” every time Alex hit a pothole.

About halfway to Watkins Glen International, Margot turned pale. “I… don’t feel so good.”

Jimmy’s camera whipped around. “Wait, Margot, no. NO.”

“Pull over!” she managed to choke out before retching into a hastily grabbed trash bag.

The livestream comments exploded:

• “NOT THE BARBIE THROWING UP.”
• “💀💀💀 Margot’s done with Alex’s nonsense.”
• “This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Alex!” Scarlett yelled, glaring at him. “This is insane! Slow down!”

“Absolutely not,” Alex replied, pushing the bus to its limits. “We’re on a schedule.”

By the time they arrived at Watkins Glen, Tom was clutching his stomach and bolted for the nearest bathroom. Margot followed, looking green but determined. The rest of the group stumbled out, alternately laughing and cursing Alex.

Scarlett pointed a finger at him. “You’re never driving again.”

“Disagree,” Jimmy interjected, still filming. “This is content gold. Look at the comments!”

• “Alex is unhinged and I love him for it.”
• “Scarlett’s face is killing me. She’s SO done.”
• “This man’s chaos is unmatched. Protect him at all costs.”

When Lara unveiled Alex's birthday surprise—a 1968 Lincoln Continental Lehmann-Peterson limousine—the mood shifted. The group cheered as Lara hugged Alex, her excitement palpable.

“Okay,” Margot admitted, still a little pale, “you might be forgiven.”

The group spent the afternoon exploring the track, but Alex wasn’t done with his Karosa. As they piled back in, Scarlett groaned. “I swear, if anyone throws up this time—”

Alex floored it. The Karosa roared down the track, hitting speeds that seemed physically impossible for a 55-year-old bus. The passengers screamed, clinging to their seats as the bus rattled dangerously.

“THIS IS NOT NORMAL!” Colin yelled over the roar of the engine.

Jimmy’s livestream captured everything, and the comments were merciless:

• “Alex going 160 in a bus older than my grandma.”
• “Colin screaming while Alex lives his best life is peak comedy.”
• “This is the content we DESERVE.”

By the time they returned to the paddock, the group stumbled out, hair disheveled, faces pale, and adrenaline pumping. Alex grinned. “So, round two?”

“NO!” they all shouted in unison.

But as the comments rolled in, and the videos went viral, one thing was clear: Alex Finch and his Karosa were legends, and the internet couldn’t get enough.

Chapter 20

The Karosa ŠD 11 was parked majestically in the golden light of the Watkins Glen International pit lane, its bold, unapologetic presence as much a statement as the people standing before it. Cameras were set, microphones adjusted, and chairs slightly wobbling on uneven asphalt. The cast of the day's events—Alexander Finch, Lara Croft, and their unwitting entourage of celebrities—was ready to deliver the latest episode of Truth, Unfiltered.

The makeshift setup looked almost comical, with the vintage bus looming behind them as if it were the unsung hero of the story. Lara lounged in her leather jacket, her signature look both intimidating and chic, while Alex leaned back in his chair like a man with nothing to lose—because he didn’t. The celebrities, now more participants than bystanders, stood awkwardly off-camera, exchanging glances like they were extras in the most absurd indie film ever shot.

The camera rolled.

“Welcome back to Truth, Unfiltered,” Lara began, her tone equal parts sardonic and inviting. “The show where we don’t sugarcoat reality, because let’s face it, the world is already one giant cavity.”

Alex smirked. “And where we tackle the news like a Karosa tackles Watkins Glen: recklessly, loudly, and with minimal regard for safety protocols.”

The chat lit up immediately:

• “Lara already coming for my soul in the first 5 seconds.”
• “Alex and Lara: The chaotic parents we don’t deserve.”
• “Not them using a BUS as a metaphor for life 💀.”

Lara adjusted her chair and leaned forward, mock-serious. “Tonight’s top story: America’s finest—law enforcement. Or as we like to call it, Everyone’s Getting Arrested, Except the People Who Should Be.”

The chat exploded:

• “OH THEY’RE GOING THERE.”
• “Brace yourselves, the cops are about to trend on Truth’s IG.”
• “Say it louder, Alex and Lara!”

Alex jumped in, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’ve got to hand it to them. America’s police force is so bad at their job, they’ve essentially perfected reverse logic. Arrest the guy selling loose cigarettes? Absolutely. But the guy walking into a school with an AR-15? Nah, let him finish.”

The celebrities, previously cautious about chiming in, couldn’t contain their laughter. Jimmy Fallon doubled over, Margot Robbie covered her mouth in shock, and Scarlett Johansson shook her head, muttering, “Oh my God.”

Colin Jost, ever the comedian, quipped, “I mean, maybe they’re waiting for the school shooter to break a traffic law first.”

The chat was relentless:

• “NO WAY DID HE JUST SAY THAT.”
• “Colin for president 2024, let’s go.”
• “Alex & Lara are holding the US accountable harder than Congress.”

Lara wasn’t about to let the moment pass. “And let’s not forget how efficiently they handle nonviolent offenses. Selling weed? Straight to jail. But if you’re running a pyramid scheme that bankrupts retirees, here’s your country club membership.”

“Don’t forget tax evasion,” Alex added with a smirk. “Unless you’re rich enough to buy a yacht and call it a deduction.”

Scarlett finally spoke up, shaking her head. “It’s honestly terrifying how accurate this is.”

Alex shrugged. “Terrifying, yes. Surprising? No.” He leaned into the camera, his tone deadpan. “Here’s a fun fact: America has over two million people in prison, but somehow it’s still the only country where you can commit corporate fraud and get a Netflix documentary out of it.”

The chat went wild:

• “Netflix true crime meets Wall Street—let’s make it happen.”
• “They’re serving TRUTH on a silver bus.”
• “America: Where the poor get locked up, and the rich get reality TV.”

Lara raised an eyebrow, ready to deliver her next zinger. “But hey, it’s not all bad. At least they’re good at TikTok dances. Nothing says ‘protect and serve’ like a choreographed routine while your neighborhood goes to hell.”

Jimmy, ever the entertainer, stood off to the side and began mimicking a poorly executed dance move, complete with fake siren sounds. The crew erupted into laughter, and even Winston cracked a rare smile.

Alex wasn’t done. “Meanwhile, the actual criminals are out there living their best lives. School shooters, human traffickers, and multi-level marketing CEOs—they’re practically untouchable. Because why focus on real problems when you can arrest someone for jaywalking?”

Tom Hiddleston, usually composed, burst out laughing. “This feels illegal to listen to, but I can’t stop.”

The chat agreed:

• “Alex for king of satire.”
• “Lara just ended MLMs in one sentence. Iconic.”
• “Not even Loki is safe from their wrath.”

Lara decided to pivot, pointing at Margot Robbie. “Margot, how do you feel about playing a cop in a future movie? Think you could pull off the ‘I’m here to protect you but also mildly terrify you’ vibe?”

Margot smirked. “Only if Alex writes the dialogue.”

Alex grinned. “Deal. First line: ‘Ma’am, step out of the car—unless you’re rich, then carry on.’”

The group howled with laughter, and the chat couldn’t get enough:

• “WHERE DO I SIGN UP TO FUND THIS MOVIE?”
• “Alex’s script ideas are dangerous and I love it.”
• “Margot as a sarcastic cop? Take my money now.”

The segment wrapped with Lara delivering a searing closing remark. “At the end of the day, America’s justice system isn’t broken—it’s working exactly as it was designed. And that’s the real punchline.”

Alex nodded. “Except it’s not funny.”

A moment of silence followed, heavy but necessary.

Then, Jimmy broke it. “So... are we still getting pizza after this, or did we just get blacklisted by every restaurant in the country?”

The camera cut to black as the crew erupted into laughter.

Within hours, the episode trended worldwide, amassing millions of views and sparking a firestorm of commentary:

• “Alex and Lara just roasted the entire US justice system. Bold of them to assume they’ll survive the week.”
• “Forget politicians, these two need their own United Nations seat.”
• “I’ve never been scared of satire until now. They’re too powerful.”

Alex leaned back in his chair, giving a slow, conspiratorial grin. “Tonight, we tackle two of humanity’s greatest hits: law enforcement and bad ideas that somehow became government systems. Because why stop at one grenade when you can throw two?”

The chat lit up like a Christmas tree:

• “OH NO, ALEX IS IN THAT MOOD AGAIN.”
• “Incoming roast of the century.”
• “Is this live? I need to see the CIA knocking mid-show.”

Lara chuckled, turning to Alex. “So, Finch, you seem particularly salty today. Care to share what’s on your mind?”

Alex adjusted his chair, leaning forward with the air of a man about to commit social media arson. “You know, Lara, I’ve been thinking. People love to argue about which system is better—capitalism, socialism, communism. But let’s talk about communism. The one system where everyone gets to share… a collective trauma.”

Scarlett Johansson let out a loud laugh, while Margot Robbie covered her face, already losing it. Jimmy Fallon looked like he was bracing for impact.

Alex continued, his tone mock-scholarly. “Let’s start with the classics. Communism in theory: equality, fairness, a utopia where everyone has enough. Communism in practice: Gulags, famine, and enough paranoia to make you think your cat is a spy.”

The celebrities burst into laughter, and the chat was relentless:

• “NOT THE CAT SPY.”
• “Alex just said what every history teacher was too scared to.”
• “As a former communist sympathizer, I feel seen.”

Lara nodded thoughtfully, playing along. “But Alex, don’t you think it’s nice that under communism, everyone gets a job?”

Alex didn’t miss a beat. “Sure. Until that job is ‘breaking rocks in Siberia while your family starves.’”

Even Winston, usually stoic, smirked. Scarlett leaned forward, wiping tears from her eyes. “Okay, but what would you have done in a communist regime?”

Alex shrugged. “Simple. I’d either be in a labor camp, dead in a ditch, or running the black market. Probably all three, knowing my luck.”

Colin Jost, always quick with a quip, chimed in. “Don’t forget the propaganda posters. ‘Alexander Finch: The Enemy of the People.’”

The group erupted into laughter, with Jimmy adding, “Or, ‘Comrade Finch: Fixing Buses for the Revolution.’”

Alex grinned, leaning into the joke. “Yeah, except I’d be fixing them with no parts, no tools, and a rifle pointed at my back. But hey, at least it’s equal suffering for all!”

The chat was relentless:

• “HELP I CAN’T BREATHE.”
• “The most communist thing about this roast is that we’re all suffering together.”
• “Finch for Supreme Leader of Snarkistan.”

Lara decided to push further. “Okay, but let’s be serious. What’s the one thing you think people get most wrong about communism?”

Alex paused, his expression shifting just slightly. “The idea that it ever ‘works.’ Sure, it starts with idealism—‘no rich, no poor.’ But it ends with prison camps for dissenters, starvation for farmers, and secret police for everyone else. It’s not equality; it’s just oppression with extra paperwork.”

The room quieted for a moment, the truth of his words sinking in. Then Jimmy broke the tension, grinning nervously. “So... not a fan of Karl Marx, I take it?”

Alex smirked. “Oh, I’m a huge fan. Without him, we wouldn’t have had a century of cautionary tales.”

The celebrities cracked up, and the chat went wild:

• “FINCH DID NOT JUST SAY THAT.”
• “He’s spitting facts, though.”
• “Karl Marx: The accidental father of every dystopia.”

Margot Robbie, trying to recover from her laughter, asked, “But if communism is so bad, why do people keep trying it?”

Alex sighed theatrically. “Because humans are stupid. We fall for the same promises, the same lies, over and over. And every time, we’re surprised when the result is hunger, paranoia, and a whole lot of unmarked graves.”

The chat exploded again:

• “Bro just summarized all of human history.”
• “I feel like I’m getting a PhD in sarcasm.”
• “Alex Finch: The most dangerous man with a mic.”

Lara, smirking, turned back to the camera. “And that, dear viewers, is why we stick to satire. It’s cheaper, safer, and the only thing left after every government system inevitably fails.”

Alex raised a mock toast. “To satire: the last free market.”

As the crew wrapped the episode, the celebrities were still buzzing. Scarlett turned to Alex, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Finch.”

He grinned. “Just a guy with a mic and a lot of bad ideas to roast.”

The episode went live later that evening, immediately sparking a firestorm:

• “Alex and Lara just dragged communism harder than history books ever did.”
• “This isn’t satire; this is a public service.”
• “Are we sure Alex Finch isn’t a time traveler? He knows too much.”

Within hours, the clip of Alex joking about Gulags while fixing buses for the revolution went viral, racking up millions of views and spawning endless memes:

• A photo of Alex with the caption: “Work hard in silence… or else.”
• A still of Lara laughing: “Equality: Where everyone’s equally miserable.”
• And finally, a trending hashtag: #ComradeFinch

Sitting around the bus later that evening, eating leftover pizza and scrolling through the reactions, Alex smirked at his phone. “You know,” he said, glancing at Lara, “if this whole satire thing doesn’t work out, we could always start our own regime.”

Lara raised an eyebrow. “And call it what? Finch-ism?”

Alex leaned back, grinning. “Why not? First rule: No bureaucracy. Second rule: Absolutely no cats named Marx.”

The group burst into laughter, and as the Karosa’s engine rumbled faintly in the background, one thing was clear—Alexander Finch wasn’t just popular. He was a phenomenon.

Chapter 21

The Karosa ŠD 11—a relic of Eastern Bloc engineering—clattered down the freeway, its diesel engine roaring like a half-asleep bear. Inside, Alex Finch sat in the driver’s seat with a look of pure satisfaction, as if this creaky old bus was the chariot of a king. Lara Croft, leaning against the window beside him, looked amused, an eyebrow arched at the sheer absurdity of it all. Behind them, the gaggle of celebrities shifted in their worn seats, trying to ignore the strange smells that wafted from somewhere deep within the bowels of the 55-year-old machine.

They were en route to JFK International Airport, one of the busiest and most modern airports in the world, and they were doing it in what looked like the set of a 1970s road trip movie.

Colin Jost leaned forward with a grin, clearly enjoying the madness. “Alex, seriously. I have to ask—what’s with the Eastern European Mad Max vibe? First a Škoda, now this?”

Alex’s eyes remained on the road, completely unfazed. “This isn’t a ‘vibe,’ Colin. It’s history. Something your Tesla will never have.”

Jimmy Fallon burst out laughing from the back of the bus. “Oh yeah, history and a bunch of health code violations. What’s next, Alex? An ox cart?”

Without missing a beat, Alex shot a look at Lara. “Funny you say that, Jimmy. I might have something even better lined up.”

Scarlett Johansson, attempting to stay upright as the bus hit yet another pothole, deadpanned, “If it’s not a horse-drawn tank, I’m not getting off this thing.”

The Karosa finally screeched to a stop outside a private hangar. The doors clattered open with a dramatic sigh of hydraulics, and the group stumbled out, relieved to be back on solid ground. They watched as the hangar doors slowly opened, revealing a sleek, jet-black Bombardier Global 7500. It gleamed like a jewel against the dull gray tarmac.

Lara’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

Alex just grinned, his arms wide. “Happy birthday, Lara. Consider it a thank you for not murdering me yet.”

Margot Robbie let out a gasp, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Okay, this is not what I was expecting from the guy who picked us up in a Communist clunker.”

Scarlett muttered, “Yeah, from rust bucket to billionaire’s plaything. Classic Finch.”

Lara turned to Alex, her eyes soft with a mixture of exasperation and gratitude. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He shrugged. “That’s why you love me.”

Jimmy started clapping, shouting, “Lara, marry this man! Anyone who goes from a bus to a private jet in the span of an hour deserves a medal.”

The big announcement hit social media a few days later: Alex Finch and Lara Croft were set to co-host a special edition of Weekend Update on Saturday Night Live, teaming up with Colin Jost and Michael Che. Reactions poured in from all corners of the internet, each more excited (and worried) than the last:

“FINALLY! Alex and Lara on SNL?? This is going to be the best train wreck ever.” “If they don’t roast everyone, I’m calling it a scam.” “Lara Croft and Alex Finch—CHAOS DUO UNLEASHED on Weekend Update?? Buckle up, buttercups!”

Backstage, Colin greeted Alex and Lara with a mischievous smile. “I know they say ‘go big or go home,’ but please, guys... try not to get us sued.”

Lara smirked, crossing her arms. “No guarantees, Colin. No guarantees.”

Michael Che leaned in, already laughing. “I’ve got a feeling this episode is going to be the one people remember... or completely regret.”

As the opening notes of the SNL theme played, the energy in the studio was explosive. The camera panned to the four hosts sitting behind the famous desk, the crowd’s anticipation vibrating through the air.

Colin began with his usual calm delivery, “Good evening. I’m Colin Jost.”

Michael chimed in smoothly, “And I’m Michael Che.”

Lara leaned forward, her gaze piercing through the lens. “And I’m the reason tonight’s advertisers are losing sleep.”

Alex smirked, folding his arms. “And I’m here to make sure the FCC regrets ever letting me near live television.”

The audience roared, a mix of cheers and nervous laughter. This was going to be anything but a typical show.

They launched into the headlines with a barrage of scathing jokes and biting satire. Lara tore into corporate hypocrisy, her words sharp enough to draw blood, while Alex took gleeful aim at politicians and law enforcement. Nothing was off-limits, and the crowd responded with wild, cathartic laughter.

Enter Travis Scott and Ariana Grande. The crowd went wild as the two pop stars took their seats at the desk, their smiles a mix of excitement and caution.

Alex leaned back, eyeing Travis with a deadpan expression. “So, Travis... On a scale from 1 to ‘gas station bathroom,’ how much do you actually like using soap?”

The audience erupted, half in shock, half in hysterics. Travis laughed, clearly caught off guard but game to play along. “You know, man, I shower—sometimes.”

Lara jumped in, grinning wickedly. “That’s a relief. Because honestly, the rumors were starting to worry me, I thought You rather play with soap in prison, anyway.”

The crowd roared again as Ariana raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Wow, you two aren’t holding back. Let me guess, you’re going to ask me about my love life next?”

Alex’s grin widened. “Actually, Ariana, I was just wondering—what’s it like writing a song about every guy you’ve dated? Must save on therapy bills.”

The audience howled. Ariana’s jaw dropped in faux shock, but she was laughing, clearly enjoying the absurdity. “Oh, you did not just go there!”

Lara smirked. “Come on, Ari. We’re just here to keep it real. Plus, I think the world deserves to know what happens when you’re not busy organizing... how should I put this... fan appreciation parties.”

The room shook with laughter, a mix of disbelief and delight, while Ariana laughed so hard she had to wipe away a tear. “Okay, okay! You win this round.”

Travis, not to be outdone, leaned toward Alex. “Alright, your turn, Grandpa. Do you even know what TikTok is, or are you still stuck on MySpace?”

Alex’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I know TikTok. It’s that place where people pretend to be funny for likes, right? I prefer my jokes to involve a bit more... intelligence.”

The audience roared again, and the Twitter feed exploded with comments from younger fans:

“#AlexFinch just went full savage on Travis and Ariana 😂” “Gen Alpha here, and honestly, THIS is the energy we need more of. FINCH IS FIN 🔥” “Skibidi Toilet who? We’ve got #FinchRoasts now.”

As the show reached its climax, Alex pulled out a harmonica from his jacket pocket, the crowd erupting in cheers. He leaned into the mic. “Alright, everyone. Let’s bring some real music to this stage.”

Travis stood up, a challenge in his eyes. “Alright, old man, show us what you got.”

With surprising skill, Alex started playing a raucous blues melody, his fingers moving deftly over the instrument. Travis jumped in, freestyling effortlessly over the harmonica’s raw, soulful tones. Lara joined in with a tambourine, and Colin and Michael pounded out a beat on the desk. The result was pure, chaotic magic—a live performance that none of them had planned but everyone loved.

The audience went wild, giving them a standing ovation as they finished the impromptu jam session. The comments exploded:

“THIS WAS THE GREATEST SNL EVER! Finch the Madman did it again!” “ALEX FINCH PLAYING A HARMONICA WHILE TRAVIS SCOTT FREESTYLED? THAT’S MY NEW PERSONALITY.” “Gen Z here: Can we just replace all TikTok influencers with Finch? PLEASE.” “Gen Alpha is LIVING for this roast. This is the energy we needed. FINCH IS GOATED.”

Backstage, as the adrenaline ebbed, Travis slapped Alex on the back. “You know what, man? You’re one crazy old dude.”

Alex pocketed the harmonica with a smirk. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year.”

Lara chuckled, throwing an arm around Alex’s shoulders. “Well, get used to it, old man. I think you’ve got a whole new generation of fans.”

As they left the studio, the wild energy of the night still buzzing around them, it was clear: Alex and Lara were a force to be reckoned with. A force that crossed generations, defied expectations, and made no apologies.

Chapter 22

Lara and Alex returned to Croft Manor with renewed energy, where they continued hosting Truth, Unfiltered. The show was rapidly becoming a cultural juggernaut, a place where no topic was sacred and no celebrity was safe from their sharp and unrelenting humor. With a classic style inspired by the 1970s, Lara always in sleek pantsuits or elegant dresses, and Alex in crisp suits that looked like they came straight from a vintage catalog, they had a certain gravitas that lent a sense of old-world sophistication to their often cynical and biting satire.

Winston, the ever-faithful butler, would occasionally make appearances, elegantly serving tea and refreshments while Lara and Alex traded barbs about the state of the world. These brief, perfectly timed cameos had become a favorite running joke for the audience—and for Colin Jost, who would inevitably express his jealousy every time he called in from his makeshift SNL studio.

Every Saturday, they would connect with Colin for Truth, Unfiltered - Weekend Update. As the broadcast began, the familiar INTERVISION banner would appear, the English and Russian lettering framed by the backdrop of a London skyline. A subtle, nostalgic fanfare echoed in the background, evoking memories of international broadcasts in a bygone era. The whole setup had a retro feel that Alex was particularly proud of—a nod to the vintage communications systems of the 1970s and 80s that still held a place in his heart.

“Good evening, everyone,” Lara greeted, her voice smooth and confident as she adjusted the microphone. “Tonight on Truth, Unfiltered, we’re taking a deep dive into the political cesspool—also known as reality.”

Alex leaned back in his chair, sipping from a glass of whisky Winston had brought just moments earlier. “You know, politics these days make the 70s look tame. I’m almost nostalgic for Watergate.”

Lara laughed. “And to think, they had the decency to actually hide their scandals back then. These days, it’s like they’re auditioning for reality TV.”

Colin, grinning on the split-screen from New York, chimed in. “Oh, come on, guys. Give them some credit. It takes real skill to be so openly corrupt and still keep a straight face.”

Lara raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of straight faces, did you see Senator Dobson’s latest speech? I haven’t seen that level of enthusiasm since I watched paint dry.”

Alex chuckled. “At least paint serves a purpose. Dobson, on the other hand, seems hell-bent on redefining what it means to be a walking disaster.”

Truth, Unfiltered wasn’t just about the news; it was also a chance to skewer the celebrity culture that both fascinated and frustrated their audience. They invited a rotating roster of well-known figures who willingly (or unwittingly) stepped into the ring, knowing full well what awaited them. The guests were a mix of actors, musicians, and internet personalities, each subjected to Lara and Alex’s merciless wit.

One particularly memorable episode featured Timothée Chalamet, who had come to promote his latest movie—a dystopian sci-fi flick that was already garnering mixed reviews.

“Welcome, Timothée,” Lara said with a polite smile as Winston discreetly poured her a fresh cup of Earl Grey.

“Thanks for having me,” Timothée replied, shifting slightly in his chair.

Alex didn’t waste any time. “So, you’re in another movie where you’re staring wistfully into the distance while the world collapses around you. I’ve got to ask, do you have a clause in your contract that requires every film to feature at least one scene where you look like you’re about to cry?”

Timothée laughed nervously, trying to play it cool. “I guess you could say I have a type.”

“Yeah, and that type is ‘existential dread,’” Lara added dryly, causing the audience to burst into laughter.

Colin jumped in from the live feed, clearly enjoying Timothée’s discomfort. “At this point, I’m pretty sure there’s a random dystopia generator that Hollywood uses, and you just get assigned whatever comes out. Spin the wheel, Chalamet’s the lead.”

The chat exploded with memes within seconds—GIFs of Timothée’s pained expressions and mock movie titles like Sad Boy in Space flooded the screen.

Another notable guest was Kanye West, who had recently gone on yet another social media tirade. He had barely sat down when Lara launched her first volley.

“Kanye, welcome,” she began with an almost too-sweet smile. “We’re glad you could take a break from your... artistic endeavors to join us.”

Alex, without missing a beat, added, “I was worried you might be too busy reinventing the wheel, or whatever it is you do these days.”

Kanye laughed, leaning back confidently. “You know, I just do me. I’m a visionary.”

“Ah, yes, the visionary who’s also a part-time Twitter philosopher and full-time shoe designer,” Alex shot back, earning a roar of laughter from the audience.

Kanye was unfazed. “I’m a genius, man. People just don’t get it.”

Lara’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, I think they get it, Kanye. They just don’t agree. But hey, controversy sells, right? Even if it’s... a little unhinged.”

The Gen Z and Gen Alpha fans adored the unfiltered chaos of the show, flooding the chat and social media with their own brand of humor:

“FINALLY, someone’s roasting Chalamet for all those sadboi roles! 😂 #SadboiAesthetic” “Lara serving that 70s look and SAVAGE commentary. Slay, queen! 💅” “Can we talk about Alex giving zero Fs to Kanye? Old man’s got balls! #Legend” “INTERVISION is like vintage Zoom but... cooler? More cursed? IDK, but I’m obsessed.” “SKIBIDI BOP BOP YES YES, Alex and Lara are the chaotic energy we need!” “Truth, Unfiltered is the only reason I’m alive this week. FIN, FIN, more, more, more!”

Each episode featured unpredictable moments where Lara and Alex’s guests often found themselves struggling to keep up with the relentless pace and pointed humor. From fashion faux pas to questionable career choices, no topic was off-limits.

Ariana Grande appeared to promote her latest album, dressed in a sleek outfit that seemed more suited to a night out than an interview. Lara’s gaze was amused but deadly.

“Ariana, darling,” Lara began, “I have to know, are there any topics you won’t write a song about, or is every ex-boyfriend fair game?”

Ariana chuckled, flipping her ponytail. “Hey, I write what I feel. It’s all about being authentic.”

“Authentic, right,” Alex interjected, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Because nothing says authenticity like rhyming ‘love’ with ‘above’ for the twentieth time.”

The audience roared with laughter as Ariana shot him a playful glare. “Alright, Grandpa, what would you know about it?”

“Oh, I know plenty,” Alex replied. “I lived through disco. And trust me, we didn’t have to rely on autotune.”

The show’s blend of vintage visuals and modern commentary had struck a chord with fans of all ages. Each episode was a seamless mixture of nostalgia and edgy critique, wrapped in the style of an old-school variety show with a brutally honest twist. Winston’s occasional appearances only added to the show’s charm—his understated British humor and impeccable timing making him an unexpected star among younger viewers.

Colin, in contrast, was the modern face of the collaboration—a reminder that while Lara and Alex brought a sense of old-world elegance, they weren’t above poking fun at the present. He often joked about his envy over Winston, dreaming of a day he could have someone elegantly pour him a drink mid-show.

As the fan base grew, the audience became as much a part of the show as the hosts themselves, their meme-filled reactions often becoming inside jokes that Alex and Lara would reference in future episodes.

Truth, Unfiltered had become a cultural phenomenon, a space where no one was safe from Lara and Alex’s piercing gaze. The show was the perfect blend of elegance and chaos, merging the class of a bygone era with the irreverence of the internet age. It was a place where Gen Z and Alpha met Boomers and Gen X, where the boundaries of taste and humor were pushed to their limits, and where the conversation never failed to be anything less than utterly unpredictable.

And as long as Lara and Alex sat behind that vintage desk, sipping drinks served by a perfectly timed butler, the world would keep tuning in—waiting to see who or what would fall into their crosshairs next.

Chapter 23

The rise of Truth, Unfiltered was unlike anything anyone had expected. What began as a niche web show with a cynical edge quickly became a cultural powerhouse, drawing viewers from across the globe. Every week, Alex Finch and Lara Croft skewered everything from politics to pop culture, their cutting humor and no-holds-barred style gaining fans and enemies alike. It was a show that spared no one, and the internet couldn’t get enough.

The first major viral moment came when Nicki Minaj appeared on the show. It was supposed to be a standard celebrity interview—promote her latest album, chat about her influence, and keep things light. But Alex had other plans. Midway through the conversation, he raised an eyebrow and leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Nicki,” he said, “do you ever worry that future historians might only remember you for... contouring techniques and strategically placed rhinestones?”

The audience erupted in laughter, and Nicki blinked, clearly caught off guard. Trying to recover, she launched into a defense of her “artistic evolution,” but it was too late. Lara cut in, her voice dripping with mock sincerity:

“I mean, I think you’ve contributed a lot to the cultural landscape... mostly by making spandex a global phenomenon.”

From that moment on, memes of Nicki’s stunned expression flooded social media. Fans posted edited clips with captions like, "Nicki thought she was safe, but not from Truth, Unfiltered," and "When you get roasted harder than your own lyrics 🔥." Nicki’s defenders took to Twitter, but the backlash only fueled the show’s growing popularity. In a matter of hours, TikTok was flooded with fan edits, with one particularly viral clip pairing Nicki’s shocked face with audio of Alex’s sarcastic commentary: "Historians in 2100 will be like, 'Ah yes, the era of wigs and glitter.'"

One of the show’s most infamous moments came when they brought on Kai Cenat, the popular streamer known for creating the Fanum Tax—a term he coined for when someone steals food from you, particularly during a live broadcast. It was a running joke in the streaming community, and Kai had become the face of it.

Knowing this, Alex and Lara decided to play the ultimate prank. During the show, they ordered a massive takeout feast live on air. Burgers, fries, pizza—it was a feast that would make any viewer’s mouth water. When the food arrived, Kai eagerly reached for his burger, only to have Alex snatch it right out of his hand.

“Boom,” Alex said, chomping down with exaggerated relish, “you just got Fanum Taxed, Kai.”

Kai’s expression was a mix of shock and disbelief. He lunged for the food, but Alex held him off with a raised hand and a cheeky grin. The crowd went wild, and Lara, ever the queen of timing, sipped her tea and added:

“Consider this the tax on streaming egos.”

The internet lit up with reaction videos, commentary, and jokes at Kai’s expense. Tweets and memes flew in with hashtags like #FanumTaxGoneWrong and #KaiGotServed. Some viewers were quick to point out the irony: "Kai got hit with his own creation, and honestly, he deserved it," while others laughed at Alex’s boldness. On TikTok, Gen Z fans reenacted the moment with their friends, creating POV videos where someone would “Fanum Tax” their food in dramatic slow motion, complete with exaggerated gasps and captions like, "When your meal becomes a meme 🍔💀."

Even Kai, initially stunned, took it in stride. He posted his own reaction on Instagram with a screenshot of the moment and the caption: "I created the monster, and now it’s come for me..."

The most iconic segment, however, came when IShowSpeed, a notoriously chaotic streamer known for his loud personality and viral antics, agreed to an interview. The plan was simple: a few light questions, a conversation about his streaming success, and then a friendly roast. But when Speed confidently said he could “ace any quiz,” Alex saw an opportunity.

“Alright, Speed,” Alex said, sliding a map of Europe across the table, “let’s put that to the test. What’s the capital of Switzerland?”

Speed hesitated, staring at the map. “Uh... Sweden?”

The studio exploded with laughter, and Alex’s eyes lit up with glee. He leaned back, shaking his head.

“Not even close. Okay, how about this—what’s the country directly east of Germany?”

“Umm... Australia?”

At that, Lara let out a loud sigh and covered her face with her hands. “We’re doomed,” she said, half-laughing, half-mourning Speed’s knowledge of basic geography.

But Alex wasn’t done. With a flourish, he unrolled an old, school-style map of Europe on the table and produced a long wooden pointer. “Alright, class is in session,” he declared, smacking the pointer against the table. The crowd went wild, and Speed looked like a deer caught in headlights.

Alex began pointing to countries at random. “What’s this?”

“Russia!”

“No, it’s Poland.”

“This one?”

“Italy?”

“Nope, Austria. You’re really struggling here, Speed.”

Finally, in desperation, Speed began barking—a signature move that sent the audience into hysterics. Alex stood, twirling the pointer like a baton.

“If you bark every time you don’t know something, we might need a kennel instead of a studio,” he teased.

The next day, TikTok was awash with edits and compilations of Speed’s geography meltdown. The most viral video featured a sped-up clip of the entire quiz set to circus music, with captions like, "When you fail so hard you turn into a dog 🐶." Gen Z flooded the comments with laughing emojis and phrases like, "Bro turned geography into a barking contest!" and "If I was Speed, I'd delete my whole internet history after this 🗺️📉."

Every episode brought something new—a scandalous celebrity takedown, a political figure being put in their place, or a clueless influencer getting a dose of reality. Nothing was off-limits, and no one was safe. On Saturdays, they teamed up with Colin Jost and Michael Che for Weekend Update via the classic INTERVISION broadcast. The familiar, old-school banner flickered on the screen with “INTERVISION” written in both English and Russian, and the nostalgic socialist fanfare played as the show began.

“Welcome to another episode of Truth, Unfiltered - Weekend Update,” Colin would say, “where we get to be savages, and I still don’t have my own butler.”

Alex, sipping his tea, would raise an eyebrow. “Well, Colin, that’s what happens when you don’t have a proper British upbringing. Winston, more tea, please?”

Fans loved Winston’s understated appearances, his deadpan expressions as he delivered snacks or refilled glasses in the middle of chaotic segments. They tweeted, "Winston is the backbone of this madness," and "Forget Colin, Winston deserves a raise!" A popular meme featured Winston pouring tea with a stoic face as chaos erupted around him, captioned: "Keep calm and serve tea ☕."

The show’s success wasn’t just limited to the roast sessions. It became a cultural phenomenon, with fans eagerly tuning in every week to see who or what would get the Truth, Unfiltered treatment next. Gen Z viewers flooded TikTok with reaction clips, and Gen Alpha jumped on Discord servers to discuss the latest burns. Their audience spanned generations, from Baby Boomers who appreciated the vintage aesthetic to Zoomers who lived for the chaos and meme potential.

With a billion followers, Truth, Unfiltered had become more than a show; it was a movement—a movement that celebrated raw honesty, embraced controversy, and proved that humor, no matter how cynical, could unite audiences across the globe. The weekly anticipation was palpable, and every episode sparked a new wave of commentary, from heartfelt praise to outrage, keeping Alex, Lara, and their brilliant brand of satire at the forefront of the internet’s ever-churning cycle of viral content.

Chapter 24

Fame, it seems, doesn’t just change people—it amplifies who they truly are. And for Ivan Tůma, formely Alexander Finch, reclaiming his true self didn’t just revitalize his career; it set the stage for an entirely new era of cultural domination. What started as a biting satirical show became a multi-layered entertainment empire. And in true Ivan fashion, it was all steeped in wit, chaos, and the kind of humor that left no ego unscathed.

One particular evening would go down in history as the defining moment of Ivan Tůma’s unparalleled charisma and unpredictability.

The episode started like any other: the retro-modern studio bathed in warm lights, Ivan seated at his usual desk, and Lara perched next to him, scrolling through notes. The show’s iconic intro music played—a mix of 1970s typewriter clatter and autotuned harmonics—which had become so synonymous with cultural commentary that fans referred to it as "The Truth Anthem."

Ivan launched into his signature opening monologue, skewering the latest absurdities in global politics, pop culture, and social media trends.

“Here’s the state of the world,” he declared with his usual deadpan delivery. “Politicians are still lying, influencers are still selling overpriced vitamins, and somewhere out there, a billionaire is trying to colonize space because Earth just isn’t vibing with him anymore.”

The audience erupted into laughter, their applause punctuated by occasional whoops. The energy was electric, and it only grew when Ivan announced the night’s surprise guest: Emma Watson.

Emma walked into the studio to thunderous applause, wearing her signature grace and charm. She hugged Ivan and Lara, then took a seat between them, visibly at ease despite the show’s reputation for unpredictability.

“So, Emma,” Ivan began, steepling his fingers like a school principal about to deliver a mischievous proposal, “you’ve inspired millions as Hermione Granger—everyone’s favorite know-it-all with a wand. Now, be honest: how often do people ask you to do magic tricks?”

Emma laughed. “All the time. And I have to remind them, it’s not real magic!”

“Well, tonight,” Ivan said, leaning in with a devilish grin, “we thought we’d put that to the test. Here’s your chance to finally prove to the world that you can cast spells.”

The audience cheered as an assistant rushed onto the stage, placing a theatrical wand in Emma’s hands.

“Alright,” Emma said, playing along. “What spell should I do?”

Lara smirked. “Something simple, like levitating a chair. Let’s keep it achievable, you know, for the Muggle audience.”

Emma pointed the wand at a chair and dramatically exclaimed, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Nothing happened.

She tried again, waving the wand with exaggerated flair. Still, the chair remained stubbornly grounded.

The crowd chuckled, sensing where this was going.

Emma sighed, throwing her hands up. “You see? It doesn’t work! Why don’t you try, Ivan?”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Ivan rose from his seat, reached into his blazer pocket, and pulled out a surprisingly authentic-looking wand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with mock seriousness, “prepare to witness the most extraordinary magic trick ever attempted on live television.”

He raised the wand, pointed it at the chair, and solemnly intoned, “Expecto… Kaboomus!”

To everyone’s shock—and delight—the wand promptly exploded in a comically large puff of smoke. Ivan staggered back, coughing dramatically as the crowd erupted in laughter. Lara doubled over, tears streaming down her face.

Even Emma couldn’t keep a straight face. She clutched her sides, laughing so hard she nearly fell off her chair.

“Alright, alright,” she gasped between giggles. “I admit it—you win. That was brilliant.”

The clip of the exploding wand went viral within minutes. Social media platforms lit up like fireworks, with hashtags like #Kaboomus, #IvanTheWizard, and #GrumpyFisherman trending worldwide.

Fans couldn’t get enough of Ivan’s unexpected charm.

• Gen Z: “Bruh has the RIZZ of a thousand suns. No 🧢.”
• Millennials: “I didn’t think I needed Ivan Tůma doing slapstick comedy in my life, but here we are. Peak TV.”
• Gen Alpha: “GRUMPY_FISHERMAN IS A GOD. 💀🔥💀🔥”

Even Emma Watson joined the fun, posting a selfie with Ivan and Lara on Instagram with the caption: “The most fun I’ve had in ages. Thanks for the laughs (and the near-death experience), Ivan!”

Her follow was a badge of honor that only elevated Ivan’s online mystique. Fans dubbed him “The Reluctant Rizz God,” and the nickname stuck.

Back at home, Lara scrolled through her own social media feed, shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of it all. “You know,” she said, looking at Ivan, who was lounging on the couch with a smug grin, “if the internet finds out you’re married, they’re going to lose their minds.”

Ivan smirked. “Let them. It’ll just add to the legend.”

“Legend, huh?” Lara teased, leaning in closer. “Just don’t forget who really holds the wand around here.”

“Duly noted,” Ivan replied, pulling her into a kiss.

As the camera panned out—because in this universe, even private moments felt cinematic—the sound of their laughter echoed through the room.

In the next episode of Truth, Unfiltered, Ivan faced the cameras with his signature serious expression. “Friends, critics, and everyone who has laughed, loved, or hated this show—I have something to say.” He paused, letting the tension simmer. “It’s time for Alex Finch to retire. My name is Ivan Tůma. It always has been. And from today onward, I’ll be nothing but honest—both on this show and in life.”

The announcement sent shockwaves through the fanbase. Social media exploded with reactions. Millennials and Gen Z hailed it as “raw” and “authentic,” flooding platforms like TikTok and Instagram with clips under hashtags like #WelcomeBackIvan and #TruthReborn. Even the youngest generation, Gen Alpha, chimed in, albeit with their usual mix of emojis and slang:

• “Bro just YEETED his fake name 💀💀 #RealOnesOnly”
• “Ivan is GOAT fr fr. No 🧢.”
• “Slay Tůma, slay. 🔥🔥🔥”

With Ivan’s return to his roots, the Truth, Unfiltered brand entered a golden age. The main show retained its satirical edge, but new spin-offs emerged, each more daring and hilarious than the last.

One breakout hit was History Reimagined, a series where Ivan and Lara explored historical events with a modern twist. Their approach? Brutally honest and relentlessly sarcastic. In an episode about the Soviet Union’s collapse, Ivan deadpanned, “From the nation that brought you Sputnik, Ladas, and breadlines, we now have... imported sneakers and political memes. Progress, comrades.”

Another fan-favorite was Driving the Past, where Ivan taught celebrities to drive socialist-era cars. This series became a cultural phenomenon, blending humor, nostalgia, and Ivan’s unparalleled ability to make even Hollywood stars look hilariously incompetent.

The most iconic moment came when Henry Cavill, Hollywood’s beloved Superman, took on the Trabant 601. The episode began with Ivan explaining the car’s quirks in his usual deadpan tone: “This is not a car. It’s an experience. If you’re lucky, it’ll move. If not, well, you’ve just purchased an immobile monument to East German engineering.”

After 20 minutes of grinding gears, stalling, and cursing under his breath, Henry managed to get the car moving—only for it to sputter to a halt moments later.

“What now?” Henry asked, visibly frustrated.

Ivan, barely suppressing a smirk, replied, “You’re out of fuel.”

Henry searched the dashboard in vain. “Where’s the fuel gauge?”

Ivan’s grin widened. “It doesn’t have one.”

The camera zoomed in on Henry’s incredulous expression as Ivan popped the hood and handed him a dipstick. “You measure the fuel manually, Henry. Welcome to 1960s innovation.”

Social media erupted. Memes flooded every platform, with captions like:

• “Henry Cavill vs. Trabant: The ultimate battle of willpower.”
• “Superman can lift buildings, but he can’t handle East German engineering.”

Gen Alpha summed it up succinctly:

• “Imagine ur car stops and they hand u a giant straw to check gas 💀💀💀.”

Even Henry himself joined the fun, posting a photo of the Trabant on Instagram with the caption: “Fuel gauge not included. #LessonLearned.”

The success of these spin-offs also brought changes to the show’s aesthetics. While Truth, Unfiltered retained its retro ’70s vibe, the set was updated to incorporate subtle modern touches. The iconic typewriter jingle in the intro was autotuned, blending nostalgia with contemporary flair. The studio itself became a hybrid of sleek modern design and vintage charm, with wood-paneled walls, avocado-green furniture, and just the right amount of neon signage to make it feel timeless.

Audiences adored the transformation. As one Gen Z fan tweeted, “This is giving Mad Men meets Black Mirror but, like, in the best way possible.”

With each episode, Ivan Tůma solidified his place not just as a television personality but as a cultural icon. Millennials admired his no-nonsense honesty. Gen Z adored his ability to blend wit with wisdom. Even Gen Alpha, despite their penchant for emojis and abbreviations, respected his unfiltered approach.

Truth, Unfiltered wasn’t just a show anymore—it was a movement. And at its heart was Ivan Tůma: unflinching, unapologetic, and undeniably real.

Chapter 25

It was no longer just a show. Truth, Unfiltered had become an institution. The weekly broadcast, hosted by Ivan Tůma and Lara Croft-Tůma, was a no-holds-barred critique of the modern world, where truth was delivered with biting cynicism and unapologetic wit. If Hollywood had Oscars, the Truth, Unfiltered team had something better: the adoration of the masses and a reputation for dismantling egos with a smile.

One of Ivan’s boldest moves was the decision to allow smoking in the studio’s main hall.

“Why not?” Ivan had said during a live broadcast. “The world’s already on fire. Let’s light up together.”

The crowd roared in approval, and from then on, the smoky haze of cigarettes and cigars became part of the show’s signature aesthetic. For viewers at home, it was a throwback to a time when talk shows had grit, not glossy veneers.

The move was polarizing, of course. Anti-smoking activists fumed (ironically), while older audiences cheered. Gen Z, true to their chaotic tendencies, memed it into oblivion, with captions like:

• “Grandpa vibes, but make it savage.”
• “Smoking is bad… unless it’s with Ivan.”

And the TikTok clips? Ivan didn’t care. “TikTokers aren’t our audience,” he declared. “Our audience has functioning brain cells.”

Then there was Winston, the ever-loyal butler, who had become a celebrity in his own right. Initially a behind-the-scenes figure, Winston gradually took on a more prominent role, serving not just Ivan and Lara but also the live audience during the show.

In one memorable episode, Winston wheeled out an elaborate bar cart mid-monologue, pouring cocktails for the hosts and VIP guests.

“Winston, you’re a saint,” Lara said, sipping her drink.

“Merely doing my duty, madam,” Winston replied with his signature deadpan delivery, which drew applause from the audience.

Soon, fans clamored for Winston-themed merchandise—everything from bobbleheads to cocktail shakers—and Truth, Unfiltered obliged, raking in millions in sales.

The guest list was a carefully curated blend of cultural icons and thought leaders. Hollywood A-listers, authors, musicians, and even controversial politicians found themselves seated across from Ivan and Lara, eager to spar in witty debates.

One unforgettable guest was Meryl Streep, who joined a discussion on the state of modern cinema.

“So, Meryl,” Ivan began, leaning back in his chair. “What do you think of the rise of superhero films? Artistic renaissance or cultural dumpster fire?”

Meryl paused thoughtfully. “I think they serve a purpose, but perhaps the industry’s lost balance.”

“Well said,” Ivan replied. “Balance. Like when you use the bathroom scale to weigh a Marvel script.”

The audience erupted in laughter, and even Meryl couldn’t suppress a grin.

On the flip side, influencers and TikTokers were rarely invited—and when they were, it didn’t end well. One infamous episode featured a TikTok star known for his dancing videos.

“So, you… dance?” Ivan asked, his tone dripping with disbelief.

“Yeah, man, it’s like… an art form, y’know?”

Ivan arched an eyebrow. “Interesting. Do you think starving artists in the Renaissance considered wiggling their butts in front of a mirror ‘art’?”

The TikToker sputtered, “It’s more than that!”

“Ah, yes,” Lara chimed in, her voice icy. “It’s also contributing to world peace and curing diseases, no doubt.”

Needless to say, the episode became a meme factory, and the TikToker’s career never recovered.

The heart of the show remained its unfiltered commentary on war, politics, and societal crises. Ivan and Lara’s cynicism was matched only by their unflinching honesty.

When discussing an ongoing global conflict, Ivan didn’t mince words:

“Let’s call it what it is—a resource grab. They don’t care about democracy; they care about oil, rare earth minerals, and making sure their yachts stay fueled.”

Lara added, “And while they send young people to die, they’re sitting in luxury bunkers, sipping champagne and pretending to negotiate peace. It’s pathetic.”

The crowd’s applause was deafening, and social media buzzed with clips captioned:

“They’re not saying it; they’re SCREAMING it.”

While the show tackled heavy topics, the studio maintained its unique blend of 1970s aesthetics and modern technology. The backdrop featured retro wood paneling, rotary phones, and vintage typewriters, while state-of-the-art holograms displayed charts, memes, and even live polls during discussions.

Ivan and Lara had become as famous as Hollywood’s biggest stars, if not more so. Their faces graced magazine covers, their quotes became rallying cries, and their show was a must-watch for anyone seeking truth wrapped in wit.

Even celebrities who weren’t invited clamored for a chance to appear. As one anonymous actor confessed in an interview:

“Getting roasted by Ivan Tůma is like a badge of honor. It means you’ve made it.”

But through it all, Ivan and Lara remained grounded.

“I’m just a fisherman with a microphone,” Ivan often joked.

“And I’m just his wife, here to keep him from getting too big-headed,” Lara would quip, earning laughter and applause.

As Truth, Unfiltered entered its next season, it was clear that Ivan and Lara had created more than a show—they’d sparked a cultural revolution. Their cynicism, sharp humor, and fearless approach to tackling the world’s problems had struck a chord with audiences across generations.

Gen Z summed it up best:

“They’re not just spitting facts; they’re spitting fire.”

Chapter 26

The announcement that the entire D’Amelio family would appear on Truth, Unfiltered set the Internet ablaze. Fans of the TikTok dynasty were eager to see Charli and Dixie interact with Ivan and Lara, while skeptics prepared their popcorn, fully expecting a disaster. What no one anticipated, however, was just how chaotic the episode would become.

As the D’Amelios settled into their seats on stage, Ivan and Lara, true to form, lit up cigarettes—Rothmans, of course. Smoke wafted lazily through the studio as Ivan began his opening question.

“So, Charli,” Ivan said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Your career started with dancing, yes? Do you ever feel a pang of guilt that your fame is built on 15-second videos, while others toil in obscurity despite genuine talent?”

Charli blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… I mean, people like what they like?”

Before Ivan could reply, Dixie interrupted, coughing pointedly. “Do you really have to smoke right here? It’s kind of… gross.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Ah, the youth and their delicate lungs. This?” He gestured to the smoke. “This is freedom. Besides, your father doesn’t seem to mind.”

The camera panned to Marc D’Amelio, who was watching the exchange with amused curiosity. “Actually,” Marc said, leaning forward, “I haven’t had a smoke in years. Mind if I…?”

Ivan, delighted, handed Marc a Rothmans and lit it for him with the grace of a seasoned bartender.

“Dad!” Charli and Dixie chorused in unison, horrified.

“What?” Marc replied, taking a drag and leaning back with a grin. “Feels nostalgic."

Charli blinked, her carefully rehearsed smile faltering. “I don’t think that’s fair—people enjoy what I do.”

“Enjoy?” Ivan’s tone was sharp, his brow furrowing. “My dog chasing its tail is more entertaining and requires more effort. Do you even understand what art or skill means? Or are you too busy chasing algorithms like a mouse chasing cheese?”

Dixie interjected, her tone defensive. “That’s so rude! My sister works hard—”

“Hard?” Ivan snorted, leaning back and exhaling smoke. “I’ve seen men working twelve-hour shifts in steel mills with sweat dripping into their boots. That’s hard work. What you do, girl, is prance around like a puppet for the mindless applause of teenagers.”

The tension in the room grew unbearable as Ivan continued his unfiltered critique of the family’s rise to fame. It was Heidi who finally snapped, her face a mixture of rage and indignation.

“Why are you even interviewing us if all you want to do is tear us down? Is it because you’re just a bitter old man who can’t stand seeing young people succeed? You’re nothing but a miserable asshole who’s jealous of my daughters!”

The room went silent. Even Lara, who had heard Ivan’s sharp tongue countless times, froze, her whiskey glass halfway to her lips. Ivan slowly turned his head to Heidi, his eyes dark and unblinking.

“You… miserable bitch,” he hissed, his voice a low growl. He slammed his fist onto the table with such force that the microphones rattled. “You dare lecture me on success? You, who pimp out your daughters’ lives for sponsorships and views, dare call me bitter?”

Heidi flinched as Ivan reached into his bag and, to the gasps of the audience, pulled out a small stack of items.

“Let me educate you,” Ivan said, his voice icy. He placed a faded red book on the table. “This is my Red Book. My communist party membership card. I didn’t want it, but without it, I wouldn’t have been able to keep my job. Do you know what it’s like to live in a system where freedom doesn’t exist? No, of course you don’t—you’re too busy posing for Instagram!”

Next, he placed two identification cards on the table: one for the VB (Public Security) and the other for the Czech Police. “These,” he said, pointing to the IDs, “represent decades of service—real service. Not your phony, ‘oh my God, my life is so hard’ bullshit.”

Finally, he pulled out a weathered envelope filled with photographs. “And now, for the real education.”

He laid out black-and-white images of crime scenes so brutal that the audience audibly gasped. Lara shifted uncomfortably for the first time as Ivan pointed to each photo.

“This,” he said, pointing to one, “is Olga Hepnarová’s massacre in 1973. Eight dead, countless injured. I was there, documenting the aftermath.” He moved to another photo. “Jiří Straka, the 16-year-old serial killer. I interviewed him, staring into the eyes of pure evil. And here—Christmas 1986—Vladimír Lulek. A man who slaughtered his entire family. Do you understand now, bitches? This is what I’ve seen. This is what I’ve lived. And you—” his voice rose as he pointed directly at Heidi, “you don’t even have the spine to face criticism without whining like a pathetic shit!“

As the room sat in stunned silence, Ivan reached into his bag one last time and pulled out his ČZ 50 service pistol. A collective gasp echoed through the studio.

“Don’t worry,” he growled, ejecting the magazine and emptying the chamber. “It’s unloaded, but it’s a symbol of what it means to have responsibility. Responsibility to protect, to serve, and to bear the burden of decisions that most of you can’t even fathom.” He placed the pistol on the table with a sharp clack.

“You,” he said, glaring at Heidi, Dixie, and Charli in turn, “don’t know responsibility. You don’t know struggle. All you know is vanity and greed, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The D’Amelios left the studio in shambles. Charli was in tears, Dixie clutched her sister for support, and Heidi was pale and visibly shaken. Only Marc remained composed.

He approached Ivan and extended a hand. “That was… intense. But I respect you. If you and Lara are ever in L.A., come over for dinner.”

Ivan, still fuming, hesitated before shaking Marc’s hand. “You’re a decent man, Marc. I apologize if my words were harsh. But your family needed to hear the truth.”

Lara, watching the exchange, smirked. “We’d be delighted to join you for dinner—assuming there’s good wine.”

Marc chuckled. “The best.”

By the end of the episode, Charli looked like she wanted to disappear. Dixie and Heidi were seething, but Ivan and Lara paid them no mind.

“Thanks for coming,” Ivan said as the family awkwardly stood to leave. “And remember, Charli—history is your friend. You should try meeting it sometime.”

The audience roared with laughter as the D’Amelios hurried offstage. Marc lingered behind, shaking Ivan’s hand. “That was something else. Let me know if you ever want to come to dinner—Heidi might kill me, but I think you’d enjoy it.”

“Careful,” Lara quipped. “He might bring the cigarettes.”

The episode cemented Truth, Unfiltered as an unstoppable force in entertainment. Headlines praised Ivan’s takedown as both brutal and necessary:

• “Ivan Tůma Schools Charli D’Amelio in History and Humanity.”
• “Socialism Lesson Goes Viral—And Ivan Is the Internet’s New Dad.”
• “#LearnHistoryGirl Trends Worldwide.”

Even Charli’s fans had to admit defeat. One popular comment read: “She walked in thinking she’d win, but Ivan turned her into a meme. Respect.”

As Ivan and Lara celebrated with a well-earned drink backstage, Ivan chuckled. “I think I’ve just become a history teacher for the Internet.”

Lara smirked, raising her glass. “To you, the Grumpy Fisherman of Truth. Long may you reign.”

Meanwhile..

The fallout from the explosive Truth, Unfiltered episode was immediate. Social media erupted, and the D’Amelio family was at the center of it. Memes mocking Charli and Dixie flooded Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok, while Heidi’s name trended worldwide for all the wrong reasons. But it was Heidi herself who added fuel to the fire by going live on Instagram as they drove away from the studio in their pristine white Tesla Model X, cruising down a British motorway.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Heidi started the livestream with a shaky hand, her face still pale and blotchy from the studio debacle. Her voice quivered with anger as she addressed her followers.

"Let me just say this," she began, visibly trying to hold herself together, "what happened tonight was… unacceptable. That man—that monster—shouldn’t even have a platform! Who even lets someone like Ivan speak on television anymore?"

Her anger escalated as the comments rolled in:

• @JusticeForIvan: "Heidi, sit down. He owned you, and you know it."
• @TeamCharli: "Queen Charli deserved better! Ivan is disgusting!"
• @IvanFan420: "Cry harder, Heidi. Ivan = legend."

Heidi, oblivious to the growing hostility in the chat, ranted on. "He had the audacity to call us talentless, to insult my daughters, to disrespect everything we’ve worked for! And then the gun—he brought a GUN onto the set! That’s not just unprofessional, it’s insane!"

Her voice cracked, and for a moment, she seemed on the verge of tears. "I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. Who does he think he is, throwing those awful photos in our faces? Those… those horrific crime scenes? What kind of sick person even keeps those?!"

Behind the wheel, Marc sighed deeply, clearly exasperated. “Heidi, maybe you should put the phone down and take a breath.”

She shot him a furious glance. “Excuse me? I’m defending our family here!”

Marc, keeping his eyes on the road, said calmly, “I get it, Heidi. I do. But maybe… just maybe, Ivan wasn’t entirely wrong.”

That hit like a bombshell. Heidi stared at him, her jaw dropping. “What did you just say?”

“I said,” Marc replied, his tone steady, “that maybe Ivan had a point. He was harsh—way too harsh—but he wasn’t lying. You know it, and I know it.”

From the back seat, Dixie exploded. “Are you SERIOUS, Dad? You’re taking his side? That psycho called us trash! He called us untalented losers!”

Charli, staring blankly out the window, muttered, “He said our lives were meaningless… in front of a billion people.” Her voice was small, a stark contrast to her usual confident demeanor.

Marc shook his head. “No, he didn’t. What he said was that you should think about the impact you’re making. There’s a difference. And maybe it’s time we all did some reflecting.”

“Reflecting?!” Heidi snapped, her voice shrill. “Marc, he humiliated me in front of the world. He humiliated all of us!”

Marc’s patience finally snapped. “No, Heidi. You humiliated yourself when you called him a jealous bastard! What did you expect him to do? Sit there and take it? The man has lived through things we can’t even imagine— communism, brutal crime scenes. And you attacked him like he was some internet troll. Of course he hit back!”

Heidi was on the verge of tears now. “He could’ve been… kinder.”

“Kindness?” Marc let out a bitter laugh. “Heidi, kindness doesn’t get you through life-or-death situations. It doesn’t survive communism or the things he’s seen. Ivan’s harsh because the world was harsh to him. And honestly? He’s right about one thing—our family has been living in a bubble. Maybe it’s time we stepped out of it.”

The car fell into a tense silence, broken only by the hum of the Tesla’s autopilot. Charli and Dixie exchanged nervous glances, both clearly unsettled by their father’s rare outburst.

As they sped down the M4 motorway, heading back to their hotel, the tension in the car reached a boiling point.

“I can’t believe you’re defending him,” Heidi muttered, her voice thick with tears.

Marc, his tone softer now, replied, “I’m not defending everything he did, Heidi. But I am saying that we should try to understand where he’s coming from. He even apologized to me after the show.”

“He what?” Dixie asked incredulously.

Marc nodded. “He said he went too far and apologized.I invited him and Lara to have dinner with us. And Hesaid yes.”

The car erupted into chaos.

“You WHAT?!” Heidi shrieked.

“Are you kidding me, Dad?!” Dixie added.

Charli, still staring out the window, finally spoke up. “I’m done.”

Marc simply sighed. “You don’t have to. But I am. Because Ivan isn’t the villain here. He’s just a guy who’s seen too much and doesn’t know how to sugarcoat the truth. Maybe we could learn something from him.”

As the lights of London appeared in the distance, Heidi wiped her tears, still visibly shaken. Dixie furiously scrolled through Twitter, reading the endless memes and commentary tearing their family apart. Charli remained silent, her face unreadable.

Marc, however, drove with quiet determination, his mind already on the upcoming dinner with Ivan and Lara. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but deep down, he felt it might just be the reality check his family needed.

Behind them, the motorway stretched endlessly into the night, a fitting metaphor for the long road ahead.

Chapter 27

The D’Amelio family, still bruised from their public humiliation on Truth, Unfiltered, chose to extend their stay in the United Kingdom. Marc found himself quietly captivated by Ivan Tůma’s blunt honesty, though it had cut deep during the broadcast. While Marc saw a strange, almost admirable integrity in Ivan’s unapologetic nature, the women were far less forgiving.

Charli fumed at the mere mention of Ivan’s name, snapping at anyone who dared bring him up. Dixie met every discussion with a dramatic eye roll, dismissing him as "that bitter old guy." Heidi avoided the topic altogether, her humiliation too raw to revisit. Yet, the memory of Ivan lingered like a wound that refused to heal.

One sunny afternoon, the family was cruising through the serene English countryside in their rented white Tesla Model X. The idyllic landscape, dotted with rolling hills and charming stone cottages, did little to soothe the tension simmering inside the car. Charli scrolled through her phone in the back seat, Dixie adjusted her sunglasses with exaggerated disinterest, and Heidi stared out the window, still stewing over the infamous broadcast.

Marc, ever the optimist, kept his hands relaxed on the wheel, trying to enjoy the drive. “Look at this view,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

“Sure, Dad,” Dixie replied flatly. “Nothing like sheep and grass to cure PTSD.”

Charli snorted, but her attention was quickly drawn to a black BMW 535d overtaking them with precision. The car cut smoothly into the lane ahead, its presence commanding attention even on the tranquil roads.

“Nice car,” Marc muttered, watching it with interest. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait a second... Doesn’t that look like Ivan?”

The mention of the name sent a jolt through the car.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dixie shot back, though she leaned forward instinctively for a better look.

Heidi froze, her fingers clutching the armrest. “Marc, don’t.”

But Marc was already squinting at the BMW. The driver wore a dark hat, and though the distance made it hard to confirm, his precise, deliberate movements seemed eerily familiar.

The BMW veered off the main road, turning onto a gravel path leading toward a wooded area near a shimmering lake. Without hesitation, Marc followed.

“Dad, are you serious?” Charli protested, her voice tinged with panic.

“Relax,” Marc said, his curiosity overriding any second thoughts. “I just want to see what he’s up to.”

The Tesla parked at a discreet distance behind a row of trees. The D’Amelios peered out, watching as Ivan exited the BMW with his usual air of calm authority. Even from afar, his movements were sharp and methodical.

Marc leaned forward, fascinated. “It is him.”

“Of course it’s him,” Heidi said, her voice trembling. “Who else drives like they’re auditioning for a spy movie?”

The family watched as Ivan walked around to the passenger side, opening the door for a woman. When Lara Croft stepped out, her graceful, self-assured presence left them momentarily stunned.

“That’s his wife?” Charli finally blurted out.

“She’s way too cool for him,” Dixie muttered, folding her arms.

Marc chuckled. “She’s impressive. I’ll give her that.”

But Heidi wasn’t laughing. Her eyes were locked on Ivan, her unease growing. “Why is he limping?” she asked, her tone quieter now.

Marc squinted. “You’re right. I wonder what happened to him.”

The BMW’s trunk opened, and Ivan began unloading its contents: collapsible chairs, a cooler, two fishing rods... and a rifle.

The sight of the gun sent a ripple of shock through the Tesla.

“Is that a gun?” Charli whispered, her voice rising with each word. “Why does he have a gun?”

“That’s not normal,” Dixie added, her tone edged with fear.

Marc, ever the pragmatic one, studied the weapon from a distance. “It’s not an assault rifle or anything. Looks like a Czech hunting model. Probably for sport.”

Heidi turned to him sharply. “Sport? Fishing isn’t a sport that requires a gun, Marc.”

Marc shrugged. “Maybe he’s just cautious.”

The family’s attention returned to Ivan and Lara. They moved with an ease and synchronicity that spoke of years of partnership. Lara’s laughter, light and genuine, punctuated the quiet hum of their preparations.

“That’s so weird,” Dixie muttered. “Who even laughs with their husband?”

“Who even fishes anymore?” Charli chimed in, scrolling through TikTok as if to distance herself from the unsettling scene.

“They look... normal,” Marc said, almost to himself. “Happy, even.”

Heidi shook her head. “He doesn’t look normal to me. Look at him—every move is so... calculated. It’s like he doesn’t trust anyone.”

Marc tilted his head thoughtfully. “Can you blame him? A guy like Ivan’s probably seen some stuff.”

As if in response, Ivan straightened and scanned his surroundings. His sharp gaze swept across the trees, lingering just long enough to make Heidi’s stomach churn.

“Marc, he’s looking at us,” she hissed, her hand gripping his arm.

Marc raised a hand in an attempt to wave it off. “He’s just being careful. Nothing to worry about.”

But then Ivan began walking toward them.

“Dad, go!” Charli hissed, sinking low in her seat. Dixie followed suit, pulling her sunglasses over her eyes.

Heidi’s voice trembled. “Marc, start the car. Now.”

But Marc stayed put, rolling down the window just as Ivan reached the Tesla. His face was unreadable, his tone measured.

“Marc,” Ivan said, tilting his head slightly. “Interesting to see you here.”

Marc chuckled nervously. “We were just out for a drive and thought we recognized you.”

Ivan’s sharp eyes flicked briefly to Heidi, Charli, and Dixie before returning to Marc. “And decided to follow me? Strange way to spend an afternoon.”

Before Marc could reply, Lara appeared at Ivan’s side, her expression curious but kind. “Hello again,” she said, offering a polite nod toward the family.

Heidi managed a weak smile, her unease palpable. Charli and Dixie avoided eye contact entirely, their discomfort written all over their faces.

Ivan glanced at Marc again. “Enjoy your drive,” he said flatly, before turning and walking back toward the BMW.

The D’Amelios sat in silence as the BMW drove off, its taillights vanishing into the distance.

As they rejoined the motorway, the atmosphere in the Tesla was thick with tension.

“That was terrifying,” Heidi muttered, staring out the window.

Dixie shivered. “He’s so... intense. And his wife? She’s like... Lara Croft. How does that even make sense?”

Marc, however, was quiet, his thoughts lingering on Ivan’s piercing gaze and the faint limp in his step. “He’s been through things we’ll never understand,” he said finally.

Charli folded her arms. “Whatever. He’s still weird. And that gun? Totally sketchy.”

Heidi nodded, her unease still etched across her face. “There’s something... haunted about him. Like he’s carrying the weight of the world.”

Marc didn’t respond. As the countryside blurred into city lights, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Ivan Tůma was a man who had lived through hell—and survived.

Chapter 28

The D’Amelio family’s flight back to the United States was unusually quiet, broken only by the hum of the engines. Marc sat comfortably, scrolling through his phone with a faint grin. His brief encounter with Ivan Tůma had left a lasting impression. Ivan was harsh, unfiltered, and unapologetically himself. In a world of performative politeness, Marc found Ivan’s authenticity refreshing.

Heidi, on the other hand, stared out of the window, her thoughts swirling. That moment on the British motorway when Ivan’s black BMW 535d had overtaken them played on a loop in her mind. The way he handled the car with surgical precision, the unmistakable sharpness in his gaze as he glanced at their Tesla—it was unnerving. She couldn’t shake the image of him stepping out of the car with his limp, moving with the quiet control of someone who had seen far too much.

Charli, however, had no such reflections. Arms crossed and earbuds firmly in place, she glared at her phone as if Ivan himself were responsible for ruining her week.

“He’s just…ugh,” she muttered under her breath. “Why does he even get to have an opinion? He’s like a hundred years old.”

Dixie, sitting beside her, was immersed in her own thoughts. She had spent the better part of the flight scrolling through Ivan’s Instagram. His feed was a chaotic mix of sardonic humor, candid critiques, and unexpected glimpses of vulnerability. There were reels of him delivering savage takedowns on Truth, Unfiltered alongside posts showcasing his love for classic cars, vintage firearms, and fishing trips.

But then Dixie stumbled upon an old photo buried deep in his feed. It was grainy but full of warmth—a much younger Ivan stood with a woman and two small children in front of a bright yellow Škoda 110 R. The caption read:

"1978. Klára, the love of my life, and our children, Adam and Eva, on a trip to Bulgaria. Life was simple, and we were happy. Rest in peace, my loves. Taken too soon but never forgotten."

The Ivan in this picture was unrecognizable. His expression, though serious, held a softness that was absent in his present-day demeanor. Dixie stared at the photo for a long time, feeling a pang of sympathy for the man who had once been a father and husband.

She nudged Charli. “Look at this.”

Charli leaned over, squinting at the screen. “What even is that car? A Lada or something?”

“I don't know, and that’s not the point,” Dixie said, rolling her eyes. “Read the caption. He had a family, and they’re gone.”

Charli skimmed the text, her face blank. “Bulgaria? Isn’t that, like, in Russia or something?”

Dixie groaned. “No, it’s a country in Europe. And can you not reduce everything to geography for once? This is sad.”

Charli shrugged. “Well, maybe if he wasn’t such a jerk, I’d care more.”

Dixie didn’t reply. Instead, she opened a clip from Truth, Unfiltered, where Ivan had hilariously grilled IShowSpeed on geography. The segment started innocently but soon spiraled into chaos.

“So, uh, Germany is, like, next to Russia, right?” Speed asked, scratching his head.

Ivan stared at him with an unreadable expression. “Are you serious, or is this part of the act?”

“Uh, yeah? Isn’t France next to Africa?” Speed replied, laughing nervously.

The audience roared with laughter, but Ivan didn’t flinch. Instead, he unfolded a vintage map and tapped it with a wooden pointer. “This is Europe. Let’s start again.”

By the end of the clip, the audience was in stitches, and Speed looked thoroughly humbled. Dixie couldn’t help but laugh out loud, and even Charli cracked a smile.

Meanwhile, back in London, Ivan and Lara were packing for their upcoming trip to New York. Their collaboration with Saturday Night Live had been a resounding success, and they were eager to ride the momentum.

As Ivan folded his clothes, Lara sat on the edge of the bed, watching him carefully. “Do you ever think about them?” she asked softly.

Ivan didn’t need her to elaborate. He paused for a moment before replying, “Every day.”

Lara placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “They’d be proud of you, Ivan.”

He nodded, his face unreadable as he lit a cigarette.

A few days later, as the D’Amelios settled back into their California routine, the shadow of Ivan lingered over them. Marc couldn’t stop talking about him, much to the frustration of Heidi and Charli.

“He’s rough around the edges, sure,” Marc said over dinner, “but he’s lived. You can’t fake that kind of experience.”

Heidi frowned. “Lived? Is that what you call someone waving a gun around?”

“It was unloaded,” Marc replied. “And come on, he’s not just some thug. The man’s been through hell and back. You can’t help but respect that.”

Charli groaned, pushing her plate away. “Can we stop talking about him? He’s not that interesting.”

But Marc wasn’t so sure. Ivan Tůma was unlike anyone he had ever met—a man as complex as he was uncompromising. And while their paths might not cross again soon, Marc knew Ivan’s presence had left a mark.

Chapter 29

Ivan and Lara pulled their newly purchased 1989 Cadillac Brougham into the long driveway of the D’Amelio estate. The black paint gleamed under the setting sun, the massive car exuding a quiet dignity that suited the pair. Ivan, behind the wheel, gave an approving nod at the car’s smooth handling as he parked it neatly by the grand entrance.

Marc was already waiting outside, his face lighting up with a friendly smile as he saw the couple step out. He approached with an outstretched hand. “Welcome to our home,” he said warmly. “I hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

Ivan shook his hand, his grip firm but not overly so. “No trouble at all,” he said curtly, extinguishing a cigarette and pocketing the stub. He then turned to Heidi, offering a polite nod as he extended his hand. She hesitated for a brief moment before shaking it, her smile strained but civil.

Charli stood off to the side, arms crossed, her expression a mix of disinterest and suspicion. Dixie, however, watched Ivan and Lara with a curiosity that betrayed her effort to appear nonchalant.

The contrast between the D’Amelio mansion and Croft Manor was stark. Though grand and modern, the estate lacked the timeless elegance of Lara’s ancestral home. Still, Ivan and Lara moved through the space with gracious restraint, politely admiring the decor as Marc led them to the dining room.

Dinner was served under the glow of an elaborate chandelier. The meal began with light conversation—mostly Marc’s enthusiastic attempts to keep the mood airy. Ivan responded with his usual succinctness, while Lara added thoughtful comments, her charm helping to ease the tension.

But Charli’s cold silence was palpable, and even Marc’s good-natured efforts couldn’t keep the air from thickening.

Dixie, perhaps emboldened by curiosity, broke through the surface. “Ivan,” she began hesitantly, “I saw a photo on your Instagram. You were standing with a woman and two kids next to this… car? Who were they?”

Ivan set his fork down slowly, his face unreadable. He leaned back slightly, his gaze softening as memories flickered in his mind. “That was Klára, my first wife,” he said after a moment. “And the children were my son, Adam, and my daughter, Eva. That photo was taken in 1978 during a family vacation in Bulgaria. One of the best summers of my life.”

A solemn hush fell over the table. Even Charli paused her indifferent prodding of her food to glance at Ivan.

Dixie pressed on carefully. “And… where are they now?”

Ivan clasped his hands together, his gaze dropping briefly. “Adam is alive. He lives here in Los Angeles, actually. But Klára and Eva…” He paused, his voice tightening. “In 1985, a drunk driver hit their car and forced it into oncoming traffic. They didn’t survive.”

Heidi gasped softly, and Marc’s face fell. Even Charli looked visibly shaken, her hostility faltering.

“I’m so sorry,” Dixie said quietly.

Ivan nodded once, his face unreadable but his voice steady. “Life doesn’t stop for grief. You find a way to keep going.”

Marc, sensing the need to shift the tone, asked cautiously, “And your time in Bosnia? You mentioned Sarajevo before.”

Ivan’s gaze sharpened. “Yes,” he said, his voice clipped. “Sarajevo. Srebrenica. 1995.”

“What… happened there?” Heidi ventured hesitantly.

“Things you don’t talk about at the dinner table,” Ivan replied curtly.

Lara placed a hand on his arm, a subtle gesture of support. Ivan glanced at her briefly before nodding.

Breaking the silence, Ivan turned his attention to Charli. “Listen,” he said, his tone direct but not unkind. “I owe you an apology.”

Charli blinked, clearly taken aback.

“I was harsh,” Ivan continued. “But it wasn’t personal. You’ve got a platform most people can only dream of, and you’re young. You have the time and the resources to learn, to grow. Don’t waste it on shallow things.”

Charli opened her mouth as if to argue but stopped. For a moment, she seemed to consider his words, her posture softening ever so slightly. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her voice subdued.

After dinner, Marc led Ivan to the garage, his excitement palpable. Under pristine lighting sat a 1965 Ford Mustang, its cherry-red paint glowing.

“This was supposed to be Charli’s,” Marc said with a sheepish grin. “But she never got the hang of a manual transmission.”

Ivan walked around the car, his practiced eye appreciating the craftsmanship. “A shame to waste it,” he said with a small smirk.

Marc hesitated, then asked, “Would you teach her? If she’s willing to learn?”

Ivan considered it, then gave a slight nod. “I could. But only if she’s serious. Driving a manual takes patience.”

Marc beamed. “Thank you, Ivan. That means a lot.”

Later that evening, Heidi showed Ivan and Lara to a guest room. As they settled in, Ivan sat by the window, staring out into the night. The Cadillac sat in the driveway, its silhouette a comforting presence.

Lara sat beside him, her voice gentle. “You handled tonight well.”

Ivan exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing. “It’s strange,” he admitted. “Talking about Klára. Bosnia. It feels… distant but close.”

Lara placed a hand on his arm. “You carry it all with you, Ivan. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

He looked at her, his expression softening. “Thanks, Lara.”

As the D’Amelio household settled into the quiet of the night, the weight of Ivan’s visit lingered. He had brought with him a stark reality that disrupted their carefully curated lives—and left them all with much to think about.

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