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 2024.”
• 🤣 “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.”