UnBooks:Ivan's Last Odyssey

Yep...

Shitrific stories have to end sometime, and that includes Ivan’s. This is the story of a man who began as a Prague detective in the shadow of the ČSSR, growing up in the harsh, gray reality of the 1950s, only to transform into a grave robber, a castle steward, an experienced time traveler, and even an agent who managed to bring down "Northern Hungary"—or, as it's better known, Slovakia. He married the Lara Croft, and then, for good measure, her younger version as well.

This final chapter isn’t just the conclusion of an epic; it's the culmination of a wild, sprawling saga, each insane twist and improbable turn paving the road that led him here. Ivan’s journey was never clean, nor ever simple. It was chaotic, absurd, heroic, and tragic—often all at once. From a gritty young detective navigating the underbelly of Prague's streets to a man whose exploits defied time, space, and any reasonable expectation of reality.

He wasn’t content to stay in one role for long. Ivan’s life morphed as he did—from dark alleyways filled with post-war paranoia to ancient tombs filled with deadly traps. He moved from the smoky cafes of Cold War Europe to hidden temples in far-flung corners of the Earth. His story took him from being a man of the law to an adventurer who had no qualms breaking every rule that stood in his way. Along the way, he made enemies, found lovers, crossed moral lines, and embraced the madness of the worlds he stumbled into—sometimes running headfirst, sometimes kicking and screaming, but always moving forward.

And through it all, he loved, fought, and somehow managed to stay alive—despite curses, conspiracies, and the constant risk of having his chest cracked open by ancient magic or Soviet bullets.

This is the last act in a story that refuses to go quietly. A tale that is unapologetically raw, unfiltered, and, in its own way, beautiful. Ivan, a man who has outlived empires and legends, is about to take his final bow. It will be messy. It will be strange. It will be Ivan, through and through.

Chapter 1

Ivan's new whip

A few months after the wild escapades of the Gumbalkan rally, Ivan had picked up a new habit—marijuana. It wasn’t long before the change was noticeable. His newfound love for the herb became a daily ritual, and Lara, despite all her patience, found herself growing exasperated. The man she’d married, once a sharp and cunning adventurer, now spent his days clouded in a mellow haze, rolling joints with surprising expertise.

But maybe it was inevitable. Ivan was retired now, and the weight of approaching old age had started to settle on his broad shoulders. He wasn’t just a retired adventurer anymore—he was a full-time husband, the castle steward of Craft Manor, and a man who couldn’t help but look backward as much as forward. Middle-age had hit him hard, and he found himself nostalgic for his wild days, for the times when life was more dangerous, more uncertain, more alive.

Yet, with that nostalgia came a predictable mid-life crisis. What did he do? He dipped into his government pension—money that came with the quiet and reliable regularity he had once scoffed at—to buy a car he had no real need for. It was a BMW 760 Li, E65 generation, the kind of car that had turned heads back in its day, even if it was cheap now. But Ivan wasn’t content with it as it was; no, he had to make it special. He slapped an Alpina body kit on the vehicle, transforming it into something both ridiculous and flashy, a monument to his fading youth.

Lara couldn’t hide her astonishment when he first pulled into the drive, the heavily modified BMW roaring like a restless beast. “You bought that?” she asked, half amused, half baffled.

“It’s not just any car,” Ivan insisted, puffing his chest out like a younger man. “It’s got soul.”

As the weeks passed, Ivan found himself slipping further into his strange new role—half-retired adventurer, half-aging playboy. He grumbled about young people every chance he got, criticizing them for their lack of work ethic and their obsession with the internet, while at the same time, he eagerly tinkered with his new car, fine-tuning every detail with the meticulousness he once reserved for ancient artifacts. Lara watched, sometimes amused, sometimes irritated, as Ivan threw himself into his new identity with a kind of reckless abandon that seemed oddly familiar.

But it wasn’t just about the car. More and more, Ivan began spending his evenings on the balcony of Craft Manor, staring off into the distance as he nursed a beer or a joint. He’d tell Lara the same stories he’d told a hundred times before—tales of his days as a detective in the ČSSR, of time travel and ancient mysteries, of narrow escapes and old foes. She listened, half-attentive, as he reveled in the glory days he clearly missed.

“Yes, Ivan,” Lara would say, rolling her eyes playfully as she watched him sip from a glass of cheap whiskey. “You’ve told me about the time you outsmarted the KGB at least a dozen times now.”

But Ivan just smiled, the smoke from his joint curling up into the night air. “Ah, but it never gets old,” he’d reply, eyes twinkling with the light of the past. “Not to me, at least.”

Despite all her irritation, Lara couldn’t help but feel a touch of affection for this older, slower Ivan. There was something endearing about the way he refused to go quietly into old age, clinging to every scrap of youth he could manage—even if it meant cruising down the road in a BMW that seemed out of place with his years. There was still a hint of the old Ivan beneath the lines that were beginning to crisscross his face, a spark of that rebellious spirit she had always loved.

And so, she watched as he slipped deeper into his strange retirement, playing the part of an eccentric old gentleman with a stubborn refusal to truly grow old. The adventure had changed, but Ivan was still chasing it—albeit at a much slower, smokier pace.

Chapter 2

How his Whip ended

Ivan had officially lost it. In a fit of mid-life delirium, he made a decision that shocked even those who thought they’d seen everything from him: he sold his prized collection of classic cars. Every vehicle that had once defined his eccentric identity was suddenly gone.

Gone was the beloved Mercedes 220Sb, the car he had pampered for years with a meticulousness reserved for sacred artifacts. He even let go of the Mercedes 300TD Turbodiesel, the sturdy machine that had carried him through countless adventures, both mundane and life-threatening. But the greatest shock of all was the sale of his Škoda Forman, a humble car he had kept since 1992—a car that had travelled through time with him from the chaos of the '90s to the present day. It was the same Forman that, back in 1997, had crossed the boundaries of time, carrying Ivan to the modern world so he could be with Lara. It had been a symbol of his loyalty to the past, his connection to the chaos of his early days, and a reminder of a life that had never followed a straight path.

“I don’t need them,” he muttered to himself as he watched the buyers inspect his cars with greedy eyes. “I don’t need any of them anymore.”

Even his Škoda Superb Combi, a practical, sensible car, had been deemed too “boring” by Ivan’s new standards. He sold it off without a second thought, raising enough money to fund the madness he had in mind. Each of the vehicles he let go of had been in perfect condition, maintained with a care that made collectors eager to pay top dollar. In the end, he pocketed a small fortune—enough for his new obsession.

With the money, Ivan set about transforming his newly acquired BMW 760 Li. He wanted it to be perfect—an embodiment of his second youth. He spent lavishly, sparing no expense. He installed a custom exhaust system that made the car growl like a beast, a deep and resonant roar that echoed through the estate whenever he started the engine. He added subwoofers that could shake the windows, turning the sedan into a rolling concert hall. Every interior detail was replaced with branded Alpina accessories, from the leather gear shifter to the signature wooden trim—he even swapped out the steering wheel for a genuine Alpina model.

Each upgrade was a statement, a rebellion against the dullness of aging, a declaration that he wouldn’t let time slow him down. The BMW became a spectacle, a gleaming monster of a car that looked both absurdly over-the-top and undeniably beautiful. It was, by all definitions, his car.

Lara’s patience, however, was wearing thin. She watched as he spent more and more time in the garage, his face illuminated by the glow of expensive catalogs and piles of auto parts. She tried to reason with him, to remind him of the person he once was, but he just laughed and waved her off.

“What’s the harm in having a little fun?” he said with a devilish grin, polishing the already spotless hood of the car. “I’m not dead yet, am I?”

Lara could only shake her head. “Ivan, you’ve sold everything. The cars you’ve loved for decades—what’s gotten into you?”

Ivan just shrugged. “I want something that’s mine. Something new.”

Lara’s frustration reached its peak when she saw the delivery truck pull up to the manor one morning, carrying a massive shipment of parts—carbon-fiber spoilers, custom rims, racing pedals, and more gadgets than she could name. She watched as Ivan supervised the unloading, her patience fraying like a loose thread.

“This is insane!” she yelled over the rumble of the truck’s engine, but he barely acknowledged her, lost in the excitement of his latest acquisitions.

Finally, she’d had enough. One evening, after another round of Ivan’s engine roars echoed through the halls of Craft Manor, Lara decided she needed a break—a real break. She walked into the garage, where Ivan was adjusting the sound system for the umpteenth time.

“Ivan,” she said sharply, hands on her hips. “I’m going on a Tomb Raid. Don’t bother calling. I’ll be gone for a while.”

He glanced up from his work, wiping grease from his fingers. “Enjoy yourself,” he said with a half-smile, hardly looking up. “Bring me back something cool.”

Lara didn’t bother replying. She packed her gear, loaded it onto the manor’s yacht, and set sail that very night, needing to get as far away as possible from the madness that had taken hold of her husband. She didn’t just want to leave Craft Manor—she needed to escape from Ivan’s spiraling obsession and the overwhelming noise of his newfound mid-life crisis.

As the yacht’s engines roared to life, she cast one last glance back at the estate, seeing the BMW’s headlights glowing brightly in the garage like a pair of demonic eyes. The roar of the custom exhaust followed her into the night, a fading echo in the darkness, and she wondered just how far down this road Ivan would go before he hit bottom.

Chapter 3

Ivan's new style

Ivan was diving deeper into his automotive obsession. His “Alpina”—as he now proudly referred to his modified BMW 760 Li—had become the center of his universe. He spent endless hours in the garage, tweaking and fine-tuning every aspect of the car until it was no longer just a luxury sedan but a roaring beast of raw power. The once-modest twelve-cylinder engine, originally boasting a respectable 445 horsepower, had been chipped up to a blistering 680 horsepower, turning the car into a missile on wheels.

Lara had been gone for weeks, but he hadn’t forgotten his responsibilities. Despite his mania, the manor remained meticulously maintained. He hired gardeners, supervised renovations, and even ensured the vast library was dusted regularly. Yet, beneath the surface of this dutiful facade, Ivan’s antics were becoming increasingly bizarre.

It started with his appearance. One morning, Ivan stared at himself in the mirror and saw a stranger—an old man staring back at him, with deep-set wrinkles and a head of grey hair that spoke of decades of struggle. He made a decision right then and there: he would reclaim his youth, no matter the cost.

The first step was dying his hair back to its original dark brown, the color he hadn’t seen since his days as a young detective in Prague. He spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully erasing every grey strand until his hair gleamed with a youthful vibrancy. It wasn’t enough. He wanted more—he needed to feel young again. So, he sought out the best anti-aging treatments money could buy. He found creams, potions, and ointments that promised to smooth out his skin. Slowly, his crow’s feet faded, his forehead lines softened, and his face began to look like it belonged to a man twenty years younger.

Then, there was the car. The car was everything. He took it out almost every night, the thunderous roar of the twelve-cylinder engine echoing through the quiet English countryside as he sped down winding roads, pushing the car to its absolute limits. The exhaust note was deafening—a primal howl that could make the ground vibrate, almost like a Formula 1 car tearing down the track. The people in the nearby villages began to recognize the sound, muttering to each other about the “madman in the black BMW” who ripped through their streets under the cover of darkness.

And it wasn’t just the sound that turned heads. Ivan himself had become a local spectacle. Sleek, brown hair, wrinkle-free skin, and a confidence that radiated from every pore—he looked like a man trying desperately to cling to his youth, and to his surprise, it worked. Young women on the streets turned to watch as he drove past, their eyes lingering on the strange, yet oddly handsome man in the roaring luxury sedan. He would catch their gazes in his rearview mirror and smirk, feeling a thrill he hadn’t experienced in years.

For a man who had once been a strict enforcer of Communist law, there was a striking irony in his newfound obsession with youth, luxury, and rebellion. He was breaking all the rules he’d once enforced without question, a walking contradiction cruising down the lanes in a car that now felt like an extension of himself—loud, wild, and utterly unconcerned with anything but the moment.

Things reached a new level of absurdity when he joined a local BMW club. The meetings became his new playground. He would show up in the BMW, freshly polished, the exhaust growling as he revved the engine, and the other club members—many of them half his age—would gather around, eager to listen to his stories. They didn’t know about his past; they didn’t know he’d once been a police officer in a repressive regime or that he had journeyed through time and space. All they saw was a charismatic, slightly eccentric man with a passion for fast cars and the money to indulge it.

He’d send messages to Lara now and then, checking in as if everything was perfectly normal. Sometimes she responded with updates on her latest adventures, sharing images of sun-soaked ruins or mysterious artifacts. They were polite exchanges, each pretending the other’s life wasn’t spiraling out of control. But that illusion shattered when she finally returned from her latest expedition and saw him in the flesh.

Ivan had invited her to meet him at Craft Manor, promising a surprise. He stood by the car, grinning like a child, his dark brown hair slicked back, a fresh tan highlighting his newly youthful complexion. He was even wearing a leather jacket that he thought made him look dashing—something he hadn’t worn since the 1980s.

Lara pulled up, stepping out of her Jeep, her face a mask of disbelief. She stared at him, her mouth opening slightly as if to say something, but words failed her. There he was, standing by the modified BMW, the beast he’d poured his newfound soul into, looking like a man playing dress-up with his own past. She felt a chill run down her spine, like she was staring at a stranger wearing Ivan’s skin.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?” she finally managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ivan’s smile faltered for a second, but he quickly recovered, waving her question away with a dismissive chuckle. “What, this?” he said, gesturing to his new look. “Come on, Lara, don’t tell me you’re surprised. A man’s got to take care of himself, you know.”

“You look… different,” Lara said, choosing her words carefully, unable to hide the edge of concern in her voice. “You don’t look like you.”

Ivan’s face tightened slightly. “I’m still me,” he said defensively. “I’m just... enjoying life. I’m retired, remember? I deserve to have a little fun.”

Lara said nothing, but the worry in her eyes spoke volumes. For the first time, she felt a pang of fear—not just for Ivan’s sanity, but for their future. The man she had known, who had survived Communist regimes, wars, time travel, and impossible missions, now seemed to be losing himself to something as mundane as a mid-life crisis.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” she asked finally, staring at the BMW that gleamed under the afternoon sun, its polished surface reflecting the clouds above.

Ivan’s laugh was forced, almost desperate. “No, Lara. I’ve found it.”

The silence between them was heavy, the roar of the twelve-cylinder engine a distant memory. There was a distance growing between them, one that no amount of high-performance upgrades could bridge, and as Lara turned and walked back to her car, Ivan couldn’t help but wonder if he had gone too far—or if he was just getting started.

Chapter 4

Ivan's transformation was getting harder and harder for Lara to ignore. The signs had been there for months—his obsession with the BMW, the tinkering, the nightly drives, the uncharacteristic shift in his style—but now it seemed like he had completely embraced a new identity. He strutted around the manor grounds in his brand-new Alpina shirt and a crisp white BMW cap, the logos flashing proudly as if they were badges of honor. Each morning, he would come down for breakfast wearing his new uniform, talking excitedly about the modifications he’d made to the BMW the night before.

But the final straw was when Lara found him one sunny afternoon, crouched down by the back of the 760 Li, carefully peeling the backing off a stack of gaudy bumper stickers he’d ordered online.

“Turbo Inside,” read one, with a cartoonish swirl of smoke trailing off the letters. Another had a picture of a smirking cat with the caption, “My Other Ride Is Your Mom.” There was even a particularly obnoxious one that said, “If You’re Reading This, I’m Too Fast for You.”

Lara stood there, stunned, as he lovingly smoothed the stickers onto the car’s shiny black bumper, humming a rap song she didn’t recognize. “Ivan, what are you doing?” she finally managed to ask, her voice tight with a mix of disbelief and frustration.

“Just having a bit of fun,” he replied cheerfully, not even bothering to look up. He finished applying the last sticker—a neon green outline of a skull with crossed pistons—and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Doesn’t she look great? It’s about time I gave the Alpina some personality.”

Lara’s jaw tightened. She wanted to shout at him, to demand what had happened to the man she married, but she swallowed her words. Instead, she turned on her heel and stormed back into the house, slamming the door behind her. She could hear the muffled thump of bass as Ivan climbed back into the driver’s seat, cranking up the stereo until the windows of the manor vibrated.

This wasn’t the Ivan she knew. It was like he had become possessed by the spirit of some reckless teenager, and the transformation was only accelerating. She tried to be patient, to remind herself that he had been through more than most men could ever imagine. But every time she saw him swaggering around in his car-branded clothes or blasting down the drive in his Alpina with the windows down, she felt a growing sense of alienation.

The Alpina became his sanctuary. He would sit in the driver’s seat for hours, the engine idling as he filled the cabin with the thick, sweet haze of marijuana smoke. He called it “hotboxing,” a term he had picked up from one of the younger BMW club members. Lara had no idea where he’d developed this new habit, but it became a nightly ritual. He’d disappear into the car, roll up the windows, and let the beats of some throbbing rap song drown out everything else. She watched him from the window one night, shaking her head as he leaned back in the driver’s seat, a smile playing on his lips as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

“Ivan,” she’d said more than once, her voice a mix of sadness and exasperation, “you can’t just… live in that car. It’s not healthy.”

“Why not?” he would reply with a shrug. “I’m retired, remember? I’ve earned the right to enjoy myself. And besides, I’ve still got everything under control.”

But it didn’t feel like he was in control. Not anymore. The real breaking point came one crisp autumn morning when she woke up to find the manor’s grand hall filled with gun crates and empty display cases. He was selling off his armory. The weapons he had meticulously collected and maintained over the years, from rare antiques to high-powered rifles, were being packed into cases and loaded onto a waiting truck. She felt a wave of panic rise in her chest.

“Ivan, what are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He turned to her with a smile, his eyes bright and excited. “I don’t need them anymore,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m not going on missions, I’m not fighting wars… It’s time to let go of all that.” He held up his old pistol, the vz. 52, and gave it a wistful look before sliding it back into a hip holster. “I’m keeping a few, though. You never know when you might need a good old-fashioned sidearm.”

He gestured to the only guns he hadn’t sold—the vz. 52, his massive elephant rifle in .700 Nitro Express, and a well-worn SA vz. 58, leaning against the wall. Lara couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re keeping those? Ivan, you can’t just… get rid of everything.”

“Why not?” he said again, his tone casual. “I’m not the man I used to be. Besides, I’m making room for new adventures.”

And then came the final blow—the suitcase. She found him later that day, methodically packing a heavy-duty duffel bag in their bedroom, his face unusually serious. “What are you doing now?” she asked, her heart sinking as she watched him zip up the bag.

“I’m leaving, Lara,” he said without a hint of hesitation. “I don’t know for how long, but… I need to go. There are things I need to figure out, and I can’t do that here.”

She felt the floor drop out from under her. “You’re… leaving me?” Her voice cracked, the disbelief hitting her harder than any of his other stunts.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, softening his tone. “I just need some time away. To think. To get my head straight.” He picked up the suitcase and headed for the door. She stood there, stunned, unable to move as he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, but there was an emptiness in his voice that made her doubt his words. He walked out of the manor without another word, climbing into the Alpina and starting the engine. The V12 roared to life, a deep, throaty rumble that seemed to echo through the empty halls of the house.

And then he was gone, the taillights of the BMW fading into the distance, leaving Lara standing in the doorway of the manor, alone and more confused than she had ever been. She didn’t even realize she was crying until she tasted the salt of her tears on her lips, staring down the long, empty driveway where Ivan had vanished, his departure leaving a hollow silence behind.

Chapter 5

Lara sat alone in the dimly lit study of Croft Manor, her fingers tracing the spines of old books, feeling a gnawing sadness and confusion she couldn’t quite shake. Ivan’s departure had left a gaping hole in the manor—and in her life. For the first time in a long while, she found herself truly alone. As the days passed, she tried to immerse herself in research, going over old maps and documents, but the weight of Ivan’s absence lingered like a storm cloud.

Meanwhile, Ivan was halfway across Europe, moving like a man possessed. His "Alpine-spec" BMW 760 Li roared down highways and side roads, the guttural rumble of the V12 engine echoing in the narrow streets of old European towns. The thrill of speed, the pounding beat of rap music, and the sweet haze of marijuana kept him in a steady, blissful daze. For the first time in years, he felt liberated, even if that freedom was hollow. He told himself he was starting a new chapter—one that didn’t involve tombs, ancient mysteries, or the heavy weight of responsibility.

One night, at a local bar in a small coastal town, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the buzz of laughter, Ivan’s journey took a sudden turn. It was there, under the neon glow of cheap signs and the rhythmic thud of dance music, that he saw her. A young woman, with flowing blonde hair and striking blue eyes, moved with a careless confidence. Her name, he would soon learn, was Evelyn. She was the center of attention, dancing with friends, laughing, and sipping cocktails, her every movement drawing the eye.

Ivan was seated alone at the bar, nursing a whiskey, when Evelyn’s gaze caught his. Her curiosity was piqued; there was something undeniably magnetic about this older man with his dark, slicked-back hair and rough-edged charm. He was different from the crowd of young, eager faces around her—calm, composed, and with an air of experience that made him seem untouchable. Without hesitation, she approached him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, sliding onto the barstool beside him without waiting for an answer. Ivan, momentarily surprised, nodded and gestured for the bartender to bring another drink.

“You don’t look like you belong in a place like this,” Evelyn teased, her tone playful. Ivan chuckled, a low, raspy sound.

“And what does a place like this look like to you?” he replied, taking a sip from his glass.

“Full of young people looking for trouble,” she shot back, eyeing him with interest. “But you... you look like you’ve seen a lot more than this little corner of the world.”

Ivan’s lips curled into a half-smile. “Maybe I have,” he said, not offering any more details. Evelyn, sensing a story behind his reserved demeanor, leaned closer.

By the end of the night, after several drinks and a flirtatious conversation that danced around Ivan’s past, they left the bar together. The chilly night air bit at their skin as they walked, laughing and stumbling slightly, down the cobblestone streets. Evelyn didn’t know why she was so drawn to him—maybe it was the mystery, or the way he seemed to carry the weight of a thousand untold stories. Or perhaps it was simply the thrill of the chase, the allure of someone so different from the men she was used to.

For Ivan, it was a strange, conflicting mixture of emotions. He knew he was older—far older than he looked—and that there was a world of experiences separating them. Yet, there was something intoxicating about the attention Evelyn lavished on him, about her youthful energy and the way she hung on his every word. Part of him wanted to tell her everything—to explain who he really was and why he felt so out of place in the world. But another part, the darker and more reckless side that had taken hold since Lara left, told him to keep his secrets and simply enjoy the ride.

Evelyn soon became a constant presence in his life. They spent days driving through the countryside, blasting music from the BMW’s modified sound system, and nights tangled together in small-town hotels, drinking wine and sharing stories that only scratched the surface of who they were. She talked about her modeling career, the pressures to stay relevant, and the fleeting nature of fame, while Ivan listened with a quiet patience that she found irresistible. He, in turn, told her half-truths about his “adventures”—stories of far-off places, dangerous people, and treasures lost to time, carefully omitting any mention of Lara or the life he had left behind.

At times, as they lay in bed with the moonlight filtering through thin curtains, he would find himself thinking of Lara—her fierce determination, her intelligence, and the years they had spent together, chasing legends and defying death. He missed her, and the guilt of leaving her behind gnawed at him like a relentless tide. But every time he considered returning, he would look at Evelyn, her youthful face full of excitement and possibility, and the thought would drift away, like smoke in the wind.

Evelyn had no idea that Ivan was over seventy-five years old, nor did she know about the true depth of his past. She saw only what he wanted her to see—an enigmatic man with a past, still strong and capable, with enough money to afford the luxuries she craved. She had no clue about the scars he bore, both physical and emotional, nor about the weight of history that lay behind his eyes.

To Evelyn, he was a fascinating anomaly—a man who defied age and convention, who seemed out of place and time but made her feel more alive than anyone her own age. To Ivan, she was a distraction—an intoxicating, maddening distraction that he couldn’t quite let go of, no matter how much he knew it would end in disaster.

And so they continued, caught in a whirlwind of fast cars, late nights, and secrets unspoken, hurtling down a road that neither of them could see the end of.

Chapter 6

Croft Manor was engulfed in a heavy, suffocating silence. Lara, once the indomitable adventurer, now spent long hours in a single room, staring into the fire crackling in the grand hearth. Her mind was a maze of disappointment and sorrow. Ivan's absence hung over her like a storm cloud, and the uncertainty of his return weighed her down. There were nights when she caught herself looking at the sturdy beams of the ceiling, wondering if they would hold the weight of a noose. She shook those thoughts away, but they always returned, lurking in the dark corners of her mind.

Meanwhile, Ivan was living a whirlwind of decadence and exhaustion. He quickly learned that Evelyn’s lifestyle was far from the quiet, orderly existence he once knew. Mornings began with grueling runs through upscale neighborhoods, Evelyn’s athletic figure always far ahead of him as he gasped for breath. She would laugh and tease him as she waited at the finish line, her perfect hair hardly out of place. Ivan, struggling to keep up, felt the years pressing on him like a heavy weight. It was as if he was living two lives—the reckless present and the disciplined past he could never quite leave behind.

Evelyn’s world was a blur of fashion shoots, exclusive parties, and expensive clubs. She thrived in the neon-lit glamour of the city, where champagne flowed and everyone’s eyes were glued to her. For Ivan, these events were disorienting. He would sit in VIP lounges, his aging face concealed by dim lighting, pretending to fit in among the youthful elite who seemed to have endless energy. His mind would wander, thinking of his days as a hard-nosed detective in Prague, where the line between right and wrong was clear, even if it was often crossed.

He thought back to his time in the military, remembering the rigid discipline of his scouting unit—the early mornings, the crisp salutes, the sense of purpose. Now, everything felt hazy and superficial. But he kept those memories to himself, hiding them behind a well-practiced smile whenever Evelyn looked his way. She didn't seem to notice, wrapped up as she was in the excitement of her fast-paced life.

Yet, in the dead of night, when the glamour faded and they returned to Evelyn's sleek apartment, Ivan would lock himself in the bathroom and look into the mirror. There, he would wipe away the makeup she had insisted on, seeing his own lined face staring back at him. His once-dark hair, now dyed to hide the grey, seemed foreign and wrong. He traced the deepening wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the marks of a life lived hard and long. Each night, they seemed deeper, as if the façade he maintained during the day was slowly cracking.

Evelyn, oblivious to his growing doubts, would call to him from the bedroom, her voice light and carefree. She never noticed the way his eyes hardened as he pulled off the mask of youth, replacing it each morning as they went out into the world again. The pressure of keeping up with her was relentless—he was old enough to be her grandfather, yet he chased her youth like a man half his age. Evelyn’s teasing words, her affection, and her demands blurred together, drowning out the sound of his thoughts.

But deep down, the memories of his former life never left him. As he forced himself to keep up with Evelyn’s frenetic schedule, he started feeling the strain. His chest ached with a persistent tightness, his breath coming in shorter gasps during those early morning runs. The adrenaline rush that once kept him going in the face of danger was now a bitter reminder of the limits he couldn't escape.

He felt trapped between two worlds—the reckless thrill of the present and the disciplined certainty of the past. Every smile he forced in Evelyn's presence was a step further from the man he once was. Yet, he continued to hide it all, burying his doubts beneath laughter and pretending that his fading youth was something he could reclaim.

But Lara—Lara was never far from his thoughts.

Chapter 7

Ivan’s energy, once seemingly endless, was running out. The dye in his hair, which he meticulously applied every month, was beginning to fade. Flecks of grey reappeared, creeping in at his temples like persistent reminders of the time he tried so desperately to hide. Evelyn noticed but dismissed it, waving off his concerns with a breezy, “It suits you, anyway.” She didn't ask questions, preferring the illusion they had built together over any deeper truth.

Meanwhile, Lara teetered on the edge of despair. With Ivan gone, the loneliness became unbearable. She tried to fill the emptiness with her old adventures, diving back into her work with a frantic energy, but nothing seemed to matter. The once-unbreakable adventurer had become a shell of herself. The thought of Ivan and his absence clawed at her every day, driving her to dark places. There were nights when she tied the noose herself, her hands shaking, but each attempt ended in failure—either through a moment of hesitation or the sheer instinct to survive that pulled her back.

In the end, Lara could no longer bear the uncertainty. She decided to find him, to pull him back from whatever path he had chosen. For the first time in years, she packed her gear not for an ancient tomb or a hidden temple but for a search that felt more dangerous than any she had undertaken before: the search for Ivan.

While Lara began her journey, Ivan and Evelyn continued their charade. One Saturday night, they went to a club—an exclusive, dimly lit place that pulsed with loud music and bright strobe lights. It was packed with young people, their bodies moving in sync to the relentless beat. Evelyn, in her element, dragged Ivan to the dance floor, her laughter ringing out over the music. She moved with effortless grace, while Ivan struggled to keep up. His joints ached with every movement, and the sweat dripped down his back, but he forced a smile, refusing to let his weariness show.

They danced for hours, the neon lights casting strange shadows over Ivan’s face. He pushed himself harder, twirling Evelyn and keeping up with her exuberant pace, but his breath became shorter, his movements slower. His chest tightened, and he felt the cold sweat of panic wash over him. The relentless beat of the music became an oppressive thud in his ears, matching the pounding of his heart.

And then, it happened. Ivan felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest, followed by a crushing weight that brought him to his knees. His vision blurred, and he clutched at his heart, gasping for breath. Evelyn’s face twisted into a mask of shock, her carefree demeanor shattered as she screamed for help. The music didn’t stop, the crowd around them hardly noticed—their world continued spinning, while Ivan’s had come to a crashing halt.

The next hours were a blur. A frantic rush to the hospital, the blur of fluorescent lights, and the sterile scent of antiseptics. When Ivan finally woke up, he found Evelyn sitting beside his bed, her face pale and eyes wide with worry. The cold, calculated detachment that had shielded his emotions for so long was gone. He looked at her with a tired, sad smile.

"I can’t keep up with this life anymore," he confessed, his voice hoarse and unsteady. "I’ve been running from myself... from my past... but it’s caught up with me."

Evelyn, shocked and uncertain, didn’t know what to say. She had liked the thrill, the fun, the strange excitement of being with an older, mysterious man. But now, faced with the reality of his age and vulnerability, her affection wavered. She stayed silent, offering only a sad nod as he explained his past—the wild adventures, the love he left behind, and the emptiness that had driven him to chase something he could never fully grasp.

Ivan, knowing what he had to do, stood up from the hospital bed and packed his few belongings. He thanked Evelyn, gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead, and told her it was time for him to go. There were no grand farewells or promises of future meetings—just a quiet understanding that their paths had diverged.

With a worn-out duffel bag over his shoulder, he walked out of the hospital and into the chilly English air. He had no destination, only a vague sense that he needed to keep moving.

His beloved BMW 760 Li waited for him in the hospital parking lot, the massive twelve-cylinder engine purring quietly as he slid into the driver’s seat. It was his sanctuary, his cocoon of leather and horsepower, the one thing that had remained constant in his rapidly changing world. He turned the key, feeling the beast roar to life, and pulled away from the hospital, leaving the city lights behind.

The night stretched before him, a blur of dark roads illuminated only by the piercing headlights of the modified Alpina. The engine roared like a caged animal, and Ivan felt a rush of adrenaline course through him. He pushed the pedal to the floor, feeling the power of the V12 surge beneath him, propelling the heavy sedan forward with shocking speed. The exhaust note cracked through the night, echoing off the narrow streets and empty countryside. He drove aimlessly for hours, the landscape changing from city to rolling hills and dark forests.

Each town he passed was a blur, the neon signs and streetlights flashing by like memories he’d rather forget. He stopped only for gas, smoking a cigarette while the pump hummed, staring blankly at the countryside as if searching for answers in the endless darkness.

Days turned into weeks, and Ivan’s journey became a ritual of long drives and short, restless nights. He would find cheap motels or park in quiet, secluded spots where he’d recline the driver’s seat and drift off, lulled to sleep by the cooling engine and the quiet creaking of the car’s frame settling in the night. The Alpina became his home—its familiar scent, the rumble of its engine, the worn leather seats that bore the marks of his travels.

There were moments when he would catch a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror—the dark circles under his eyes, the deep lines etched into his face, the grey that had returned to his hair—and he would quickly look away, afraid to confront the reality he had tried to outrun for so long. The car became a time machine of its own, transporting him not just across miles but back through the years of his life—the good and the bad, the triumphs and regrets.

As he roared through the English countryside, memories of his days as a criminal investigator, a castle caretaker, and a time-traveling adventurer flooded back. Each gear shift and acceleration felt like an echo of the past—a reckless chase, a stolen moment of passion, the thrill of danger, the quiet solitude of a forgotten road. He thought of Lara often, wondering if she would find him, if she still cared, if he could ever make things right.

One rainy evening, as he pulled over on the side of a lonely road, Ivan sat in his car, staring at the raindrops racing down the windshield. He switched off the engine, letting the silence envelop him. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to feel the weight of his loneliness. He was tired—tired of running, of pretending, of chasing a youth that had slipped away long ago. He knew that somewhere, out there, Lara was looking for him, and for the first time in a long time, he wanted to be found.

Chapter 8

Ivan's new, less striking whip

After weeks of wandering, Ivan’s journey brought him to the quiet, coastal town of Dorset. The sea stretched out endlessly before him, its waves crashing against the rocky cliffs with a calm persistence that mirrored his own search for peace. The salty breeze carried a coolness that he found refreshing—a stark contrast to the smoke-filled clubs and speeding highways of his recent past. It was here, in this sleepy seaside town, that Ivan decided to make a fresh start. He found a small, modest apartment just a short walk from the coast, with creaky wooden floors and a view of the water. It was far from luxurious, but it felt right.

Selling the Alpina wasn’t easy. It had been his pride and joy, a symbol of his desperate grasp at youth, but it was time to let go. After a few tense negotiations, he managed to get a solid £62,000 for the car—a bittersweet deal that left him standing on the street with a fat wad of cash in his pocket and an emptiness that he hadn’t anticipated. He quit the BMW club the next day, deleting the messages and the constant notifications from the group chat. No more meets, no more endless discussions about car modifications, no more pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

With the money, he found another car—this time a BMW 535d, an E60 model with a sleek, understated elegance. The diesel engine was powerful but sensible, the body stylish without being ostentatious. He chose it for its reliability, its simplicity, and perhaps because it reflected the version of himself he hoped to become: no flash, no drama, just steady and dependable. He took care of it meticulously, refusing to make any of the gaudy modifications that had marked his previous obsessions.

His days fell into a quiet routine. Mornings were spent walking the narrow cobblestone streets of Dorset, the mist rising off the sea as he watched the gulls circle lazily overhead. He’d find a small café along the waterfront, order a strong black coffee, and sit alone by the window, lost in thought. There was no urgency, no rush to be anywhere. It was as if time had finally slowed down for him. He quit smoking marijuana, and the haze that had clouded his mind began to lift. His senses sharpened, his thoughts cleared, and he felt a strange kind of clarity for the first time in years.

In the afternoons, he would explore the town—visiting second-hand bookshops, wandering through local markets, and chatting with the friendly shopkeepers who slowly began to recognize him as a regular. One day, he stumbled upon a small, hidden antique shop tucked away in a side alley. Inside, he found an old pocket watch, tarnished but still ticking, and he bought it on impulse. It reminded him of the time he had spent as a criminal investigator, the thrill of chasing clues, the satisfaction of finding answers. It hung heavy in his pocket, a quiet reminder of a past that he was finally beginning to accept rather than flee from.

In the evenings, Ivan would drive his BMW along the coastal roads, the headlights cutting through the thickening fog as he made his way up to the high cliffs overlooking the sea. He’d park, step out of the car, and stand at the edge, watching the waves churn far below, feeling the cold spray on his face. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for out there, only that it brought him a strange comfort to feel so small and insignificant against the vastness of the ocean.

Not everything went smoothly, of course. There were moments that tested his patience and brought a faint smile to his lips, though he would never call them humorous. One day, he accidentally walked into a local gardening club meeting, mistaking it for a historical society gathering. The elderly members, dressed in their finest tweed and wool, welcomed him warmly before launching into a long discussion about soil types and hydrangea care. Ivan, unsure how to extricate himself without being rude, spent the next hour nodding along and pretending to take notes on the best way to prune roses.

Another afternoon, he got caught in a sudden downpour while out on his walk. Without an umbrella or jacket, he dashed into the nearest shelter—a small pub called The Rusty Anchor. It was packed with locals, and as the rain lashed against the windows, the bartender, a stout man with a thick Dorset accent, gave him a knowing smile and handed him a pint of the local brew on the house. Ivan, dripping wet and slightly embarrassed, raised his glass in thanks. It wasn’t until much later that he realized he had walked into the pub on “Karaoke Night.” Before he could finish his pint, a friendly but insistent crowd had coaxed him onto the small stage, where he sang a half-remembered tune from his youth, his deep, gravelly voice cracking over the notes. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so hard at himself.

Lara, meanwhile, was on his trail, tracing his path across England with a mixture of determination and dread. She had started in London, tracking down the places he had been sighted, the names he had used. It wasn’t easy—Ivan was a man who knew how to disappear when he wanted to—but she was persistent. As the weeks stretched on, her frustration grew, but so did her resolve. She knew he was out there, somewhere, and she would find him. Every new lead, every vague clue pushed her closer, and she refused to give up, driven by the desperate need to see him again, to bring him back from whatever edge he was teetering on.

Ivan’s isolation was broken occasionally by chance encounters with the local townsfolk—like the time he met Mrs. Pembroke, an elderly woman who ran a tiny used bookstore just off the main square. She had a sharp wit and a kind heart, and though she never pried into his life, she seemed to sense that he was a man who had lived through things he rarely spoke about. They would sit in her shop, drinking tea among the dusty volumes, discussing everything from ancient history to the weather. She lent him books about forgotten wars, old castles, and the myths of the English countryside, and Ivan found himself drawn into the stories, losing himself in their pages as the autumn evenings grew colder.

As the weeks turned into months, Dorset began to feel more like home, and the memories of his chaotic time with Evelyn started to fade. He still missed Lara, of course, but he no longer felt the overwhelming urge to run from the pain. He spent his days in quiet contemplation, reflecting on the choices he had made and the person he had become. There were still questions he couldn’t answer, wounds that hadn’t fully healed, but for the first time in a long while, he was beginning to feel at peace with himself. The sea, the small town, the simplicity of it all gave him a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in years.

Chapter 9

It was New Year's Day, and Ivan had been on the run for nearly half a year. Winter gripped England, the chill winds sweeping across the landscape as if they carried fragments of his lost past. Each mile he put between himself and Craft Manor only deepened the weight he carried, a quiet, stubborn pain gnawing at him, pulling him further from his old life with each passing day.

Lara, left behind and feeling abandoned, tried to fill the emptiness. Desperation drove her to invite noblemen and aristocrats to her manor, trying to distract herself from Ivan's absence. Though she sought comfort in fleeting affairs, the encounters left her cold and hollow, lacking the passion and understanding she had with Ivan. Nothing felt right, and the shadows of doubt grew longer with every night.

Eventually, exhausted and despairing, she gave up on these liaisons, turning to darker thoughts. She tried to end her pain, first with a rope, then by sinking beneath the bathwater’s icy surface. Each time, something within her resisted—an invisible force pulling her back, some unfinished business, some fragment of hope that refused to be extinguished.

Meanwhile, Ivan, feeling a mixture of sorrow and relief, sold his apartment and took to the road once more. The countryside passed by in a blur of gray and green as he wandered aimlessly, stopping only when he felt the urge. One cold January afternoon, he found himself at Stonehenge, the ancient stones towering above him like silent sentinels. He wandered among them, his fingers brushing the cold, weather-worn surface.

It was there, amidst the ruins, that he stumbled upon an old Celtic artifact half-buried in the ground—a strange, engraved amulet. The thrill of discovery shot through him, momentarily breaking through his despondency. It was something he knew Lara would treasure, a fragment of history he could offer her as a gift, a way to mend what had been broken between them.

But as he pulled the amulet from the earth, the ground seemed to shift beneath him. The air grew colder, and suddenly, shadows moved among the stones. He turned to see spectral figures rising from the ground—ancient Celtic warriors, their eyes glowing with a cold, otherworldly light. Panic surged through him, but his training took over. He reached for his vz. 58 rifle and opened fire. The muzzle flashes lit up the night, each shot a desperate bid for survival.

The spirits dissolved one by one, and soon, only the wind remained, howling through the ancient monument. Shaken but victorious, Ivan tucked the amulet into his coat. It was battered and filthy, but it was a gift—a promise of a reunion he wasn’t even sure would happen.

Exhausted and with no clear destination, he drove north, eventually settling in Newcastle upon Tyne, a city where the shadows were long and the faces unfamiliar. There, he found a small flat, its walls bare and cold, and tried to rebuild his life one cautious step at a time. He could feel the toll that time had taken; each morning, his face in the mirror looked older. The dye in his hair faded, revealing streaks of gray once more. His body ached, slower to rise and even slower to heal. He looked like a man in his sixties, though he knew his true age was closer to seventy-five.

One frigid January evening, as he crossed a rainy street, lost in thought, he was hit by a car. The impact sent him sprawling, and the world went black. Two weeks later, he woke in a hospital bed, his body bruised and battered, every breath a reminder of his frailty. Alone in the sterile room, surrounded by the hum of machines, he felt the weight of his choices and the miles that now separated him from Lara.

But fate wasn’t finished with him. Before he could even leave the hospital, he suffered a heart attack—his second in as many years. The doctors managed to stabilize him, but it was clear that he wasn’t as strong as he once was. Lying in the dim, sterile room, he thought of Lara, wondering if she still cared, if she even knew he was still alive.

Lara, back at Craft Manor, had no idea of the danger he faced. She only clung to a thin, fragile hope that somewhere out there, Ivan was still fighting, still living, and maybe—just maybe—he would come back to her one day.

Chapter 10

As February rolled in, Ivan was slowly adapting to his quiet, hidden life in Newcastle. His gait worsened with each passing day, every step a painful reminder of years spent on the run and the many wounds he’d endured. His left leg was failing him, forcing him to rely on a cane. This new dependence provided support but also stirred a deep frustration—he was a man who once exuded strength and resilience, now forced to lean on a piece of wood just to stay upright.

In the empty apartment, its bare walls colder than the winter outside, Ivan struggled to find purpose. Each morning, he looked into the mirror and saw a man aging faster than he ever imagined. Streaks of gray crept through his hair, lines marked his face, and every glance reminded him that life had taken a heavy toll. His body was no longer fit to face enemies or danger with the ease it once had, each ache now a testament to the toll of his sacrifices.

Meanwhile, Lara, still in the vast and now empty Croft Manor, had no idea what Ivan was going through. She’d lost track of his whereabouts, yet in her loneliness, she often wondered if he was still alive, if perhaps he was still fighting somewhere far away. After failed attempts to fill his absence with shallow relationships, she realized Ivan’s place in her heart couldn’t be replaced.

One frigid evening, as Lara wandered through the silent halls of the estate, she ventured into a small, dusty room in the attic, one she hadn’t used in years. There, she found an old box, carefully tied and filled with letters, most addressed to her. As she opened the first one, she saw Ivan’s familiar handwriting. A short message—simple yet tender, every word holding emotions they had never said aloud. With each letter, she uncovered fragments of his hidden life, his thoughts, his wishes, his silent pleas for forgiveness, and his hope of one day returning to her.

Back in Newcastle, Ivan found himself hospitalized again after another sudden collapse. His only goal: survival. The days in the hospital room, surrounded by sterile walls and the steady hum of monitors, seemed endless. Yet the thought that Lara might be reading those letters, perhaps finding in them what he could never say to her face, gave him the strength to go on.

Chapter 11

February 5th arrived, a damp, mist-laden morning that hung over Newcastle like a soft, dreary blanket. Ivan stood by his aging BMW 535d, now stripped of all its iconic badges—a symbolic end to the pride he'd once taken in the car. Selling the last of his BMW-branded attire had felt like a painful concession to his solitude, yet necessary. He had only himself to keep company in this foreign land, a stranger who felt out of place even in his own skin. The midlife crisis that had quietly simmered within him had now risen to a boil, confronting him with the reality of age and the unpredictability of fate.

Dressed in a patched, threadbare suit jacket and trousers that clung loosely to his frame, he looked out across the cityscape. The Newcastle skyline was a mixture of stark, modern lines and the decayed remnants of industrial prosperity. As he trudged down the path toward the river, he noticed the cautious glances from passersby, who likely took him for yet another stranger in hard times. The worn leather of his walking stick thudded rhythmically against the cobblestones, grounding him with every step—a firm reminder of the body that no longer served him as it once had.

Ivan’s pace was unhurried. He was headed to a quiet spot by the Tyne, where he’d planned to fish—a habit that had become a solitary ritual, a way to clear his mind. The river was a muted gray under the winter sky, its sluggish flow mirroring the rhythm of his thoughts. He cast his line, watching it arc gracefully through the air before plunging into the water with a soft plunk. The serenity of fishing was bittersweet; it reminded him of distant memories, of times when his strength had been unquestionable, and his future unwritten.

But today wasn’t just about reflection. Later, he planned to visit the military cemetery nearby, to pay tribute to the Czech airmen who had served in British forces during World War II. The notion of honoring those who had fought so far from home resonated deeply with him. He felt a kinship with their sacrifice, each man willing to give his life in a foreign land. Now, with a life shaped by distance, he, too, understood the burden of separation.

Meanwhile, miles away at Craft Manor, Lara combed through letters she had found—letters from Ivan, filled with words that she read and re-read, each sentence drawing her deeper into the fragments of the man she loved. The thought of him out there, drifting through England’s landscapes, pierced her with a yearning she could hardly contain. She knew he had left her behind for reasons she might never fully understand. And still, the possibility of his return lingered, fueling her quiet, stubborn hope.

As the sky began to shift from gray to a bruised purple, Ivan pulled his line from the water. It had been a fruitless attempt, but he felt somehow at peace, even if just for a moment. Gathering himself, he set off toward the cemetery, his uneven gait softened by the weight of memory. He stopped in front of a modest gravestone and let his gaze linger, a nod to the bravery and endurance of the men who had stood firm when called upon.

In that quiet place, beneath the endless Newcastle sky, Ivan felt the last fragments of his former self fall away. His journey—this unending, meandering odyssey—had brought him here, to a simple graveyard far from home, and yet it felt like he belonged.

Chapter 12

The drive from Newcastle had been quiet, almost surreal for Ivan. The familiar but worn-down BMW 535d hummed along the narrow, winding roads, each mile a testament to the life he’d cobbled together since leaving Craft Manor. He was no longer the man who had driven away in a storm of pride and silent, stubborn pain. That man had been invincible, or so he’d believed. Now, he was just Ivan—a man with gray creeping through his hair, a body that refused to heal as it once had, and a heavy, aching heart. He was nearly seventy-five but looked every day of it, despite his attempts to stave off time’s relentless march. He could no longer ignore the deep weariness that had taken hold of him, nor the quiet loneliness that came with a life on the run.

As he drove southward, memories flashed through his mind like the trees slipping past the car windows. The moments he’d spent with Lara came back with a vivid clarity he couldn’t escape—nights spent laughing under starry skies, the thrill of shared adventures, the easy, silent companionship they’d shared in quiet moments. Each memory sharpened the ache within him, a reminder of the life he’d left behind in his attempt to chase an impossible dream of perpetual youth and independence.

The roads became more familiar as he neared Craft Manor, the stately old estate he’d once called home. He remembered the last time he’d left this place, the quiet resignation in Lara’s eyes as he’d closed the door behind him, convinced that his departure was for the best. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Time had tempered his confidence, and with each turn of the steering wheel, he felt the weight of those lost months, the distance he’d put between himself and Lara.

Meanwhile, Lara was wandering the grounds of the estate, her steps echoing softly through the empty halls. It was a gray February day, cold but clear, with a faint frost clinging to the trees. The air was still, and she was left with nothing but her thoughts and the hollow ache that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her chest. Since Ivan had left, she’d tried to move on, filling her life with visitors and distractions. But the charm of those fleeting encounters had worn thin, leaving her feeling more alone than ever. In quiet moments, she found herself wondering if Ivan ever thought of her, if he was safe, if he’d found some peace on the road. And yet, deep down, she knew that part of her was still waiting for him, unwilling to let go of the man she loved.

As she walked by the lake, lost in thought, something caught her eye—a sleek, familiar silhouette parked under the trees on the far side of the estate. A BMW 535d, though not the same model Ivan had left in. Lara stopped, her heart quickening as she studied the car. It could have belonged to anyone, she told herself, but something about it felt too familiar, too close. She shook her head, dismissing the thought. It was just a car.

But then, by the water’s edge, she saw a lone figure. He stood with his back to her, dressed in a tattered suit with an olive-green jacket thrown over his shoulders, a hat shading his face as he leaned over the water, a fishing rod in hand. There was something almost haunting about his posture, a quiet resignation that made her pause. Memories surged within her—a sudden flood of moments shared, of laughter and late-night conversations, of Ivan’s steady presence beside her in times of danger and joy alike.

She watched him from a distance, her heart pounding. Could it be him? Could he really have returned?

The man turned, his face partially obscured by the hat’s brim, but the lines of his face, the familiar curve of his jaw—she knew those features by heart. Her breath caught, and for a moment, she felt a strange mix of joy and pain, of relief and disbelief. It was him.

Lara took a step forward, then another, her footsteps quickening until she was standing just a few feet from him. He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, and she saw the same recognition, the same flood of emotions reflected back at her. His face was older, the lines deeper, his hair streaked with gray, and a cane leaned against his side, supporting his weight. This was not the Ivan she remembered, the unbreakable man who had left her without looking back. This was someone changed, someone who had walked through his own trials and come out the other side with a quiet acceptance she’d never seen before.

Without a word, she stepped into his arms, wrapping herself around him in a tight embrace. He pulled her close, his arms strong yet gentle, his grip a little looser than it once was, but no less warm. For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of the months apart melting away in the shared warmth of their embrace.

“What happened?” Lara’s voice was soft, a mixture of relief and lingering hurt. She searched his face, looking for answers, for some hint of why he had left, why he had returned.

Ivan gave a small, weary smile, the kind that comes from hard-won wisdom. “I thought… I could outrun time,” he said quietly, a touch of rueful humor in his voice. He glanced at the cane by his side, the unwelcome reminder of his own mortality. “But life has a way of teaching us the lessons we try hardest to ignore.”

Lara’s eyes softened, a mixture of empathy and understanding. She reached out, resting a hand on his, her touch gentle yet firm, grounding him in the moment. “You don’t have to run anymore,” she whispered. “Not from me.”

He looked at her, his eyes glistening with an emotion he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in months. He had been on the run, not just from her, but from himself, from the reality of growing older, of facing his own vulnerability. And yet, here she was, willing to take him back, despite everything, despite the brokenness he carried.

They stood together by the lake, the wind rustling through the trees, the world around them still and silent. In that moment, nothing else mattered—neither the past nor the future, only the present, only the fact that they were together once more.

Finally, Lara broke the silence, a playful glint in her eyes. “So, what’s with the fishing rod?” she asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Ivan chuckled, the sound soft and warm. “Old habits die hard,” he said, a trace of mischief returning to his expression. “I figured I’d see if I could catch dinner.”

She laughed, the sound bright and clear, the tension between them melting away in the shared humor. It was as though they had slipped back into an old rhythm, a dance they both knew by heart.

“Dinner, huh?” she teased. “Well, you better catch something good, or I’ll have to teach you a few things about fishing myself.”

They stayed by the lake until the light began to fade, talking and laughing, sharing stories and silences alike. When the chill of the evening crept in, they walked back to Craft Manor together, their steps in sync, the distance between them finally bridged.

In the quiet comfort of their home, Ivan settled into an armchair, his cane resting against his knee, a reminder of the journey he’d taken to find his way back to her. Lara sat beside him, her hand in his, a quiet strength that anchored him in a way nothing else could. They didn’t need words to understand each other—their hearts spoke volumes in the stillness of the room.

And as the night wore on, Ivan knew, deep in his soul, that he had finally come home.

Chapter 13

Ivan and Lara returned to Craft Manor in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, yet tethered by a sense of unspoken understanding. The grand, familiar corridors, once teeming with memories of shared adventures and laughter, felt almost foreign to Ivan now. As they walked through the main hall, a forgotten coil of rope caught his eye, left haphazardly on a nearby table. He froze, his gaze locked onto it, and a cold realization washed over him.

A shiver ran down his spine as he pieced it together. The rope wasn’t just some forgotten tool lying around—it was a haunting symbol of the desperation Lara must have felt in his absence. She’d considered ending it all, thinking him lost to her forever. That thought gnawed at him, filling him with an ache deeper than any physical pain he’d felt in the past months.

He looked over at her, his eyes clouded with concern. She met his gaze, noticing the lines on his face that hadn’t been there before, the streaks of gray that had grown bolder since he’d left. In his attempt to flee the burdens of age, he had only hastened its arrival, and now he bore the weight of every mistake he’d made in those seven months. He no longer looked like the fifty-year-old adventurer she remembered; instead, he looked closer to sixty-five, though he was pushing seventy-five.

Lara’s heart twisted as she took in the sight of him, a fragile vulnerability woven into every wrinkle and scar. She’d always admired his tenacity, his unbreakable spirit, but now she understood something she’d been denying. Ivan wasn’t invincible. He wasn’t ageless. And he couldn’t be expected to shoulder the demands of tomb raiding or the relentless thrill of adventure anymore.

Her hand reached out, gentle fingers resting on his arm. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Ivan,” she said softly, her voice laced with a mixture of sadness and acceptance.

He let out a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping as if releasing a weight he’d been carrying for too long. “I thought I could… outrun time,” he admitted, his voice rough with fatigue. “But time caught up to me. Twice, actually.” He managed a small, rueful smile, trying to lighten the confession, but the gravity of it was undeniable. “Two heart attacks… in seven months.”

The reality of it hit her like a punch to the chest. She hadn’t known—hadn’t imagined just how close she’d come to losing him. The bravado that had always been such a part of him had been stripped away, leaving behind only raw vulnerability.

“You’ve given enough, Ivan,” she whispered, her voice barely holding back the tremor of emotion. “You’ve given everything.”

He looked at her, the pain and regret plain on his face. “I wanted to come back to you sooner,” he said. “But I kept thinking… if I just kept going, if I stayed away long enough, I’d find a way to come back as the man you remembered.”

Lara smiled sadly, brushing a hand along his weathered cheek. “You never had to be anything but yourself, Ivan.” Her words settled between them, a balm to his worn-out spirit. “We don’t need more adventures or risks to prove something. You’ve earned a rest… more than anyone I know.”

They stood there in the quiet of Craft Manor, the shadows stretching long and deep, as if wrapping them both in a tender embrace. The weight of the past seven months, of all the choices and regrets, fell away, leaving only the comfort of being together once more.

She guided him to a nearby armchair by the window, where he could sit and simply be—no expectations, no demands, just the peace he had unknowingly been searching for all along. With a gentle hand on his shoulder, she stayed by his side, vowing silently to give him the rest he so desperately needed.

Chapter 14

As Ivan settled back into the familiar—yet suddenly too comfortable—confines of Craft Manor, he felt an odd mix of peace and disbelief. Here he was, a man who’d seen the ruins of Persepolis, fought ghostly apparitions at Stonehenge, and survived seven months of soul-searching through the English countryside… only to find himself propped up in a floral armchair, wrapped in a knitted throw, with Lara watching over him as if he might crumble at any second. She even set down a cup of chamomile tea on the side table, a touch that made him feel like he’d accidentally wandered into the “Grannies of Adventure” edition of the Sunday papers.

“Now, Ivan,” she said, with an almost painfully earnest look. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. Rest is what you need.”

He nearly choked on the word, the notion of “rest” feeling like a foreign concept in his mind. Rest was for tourists, retirees, people who watched daytime TV with a side of knitting. Not for former soldiers with a resume that included battling Soviet operatives, fending off local authorities from Peru to Prague, and dodging death at least twice a week. But no, here he was, instructed to “rest” by a woman who’d once vaulted across a canyon while telling him to “just keep up.”

Lara, sensing his discomfort, simply patted his arm as if he were a particularly stubborn patient. “You know, Ivan, I have to say… you look quite at home here.” She gave him a sidelong glance, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Almost like you were made for a quiet life of… well, chamomile tea and early bedtimes.”

Ivan muttered something under his breath about tea being the official drink of defeat but quickly took a sip to appease her. Chamomile tasted of crushed herbs and resignation.

“And look!” Lara continued brightly, evidently enjoying herself now. “We could even start doing some gardening together. Fresh air, light activity… it’s just what the doctor ordered.”

Ivan closed his eyes, clutching the teacup like it was a lifeline. Gardening. He had gone from a warrior in exotic lands to a man contemplating azaleas and dahlias. He pictured himself in a wide-brimmed hat, knee-deep in soil, perhaps muttering “Oh, those tomatoes are really coming along this year…” to his new friends, the well-meaning retiree society of the local village.

Meanwhile, Lara bustled around, energetically fluffing pillows and adjusting knick-knacks, as if to assert that this was, indeed, the restful paradise they’d both secretly longed for. “Maybe we could even get a dog,” she said with a cheery, conspiratorial grin.

“Oh, splendid,” Ivan replied dryly. “I’ll take it for a sedate walk around the grounds, perhaps while humming a pleasant tune. The pinnacle of man’s existence.”

“Exactly!” Lara exclaimed, either not catching the sarcasm or thoroughly ignoring it. “You’ll see, Ivan, this is the start of a wonderful new chapter.”

Just then, a sharp knock at the door interrupted the domestic tranquility. Lara gave him a knowing look. “See? Nothing exciting. Probably just a delivery man.”

As she walked over to answer, Ivan had a fleeting, irrational hope that it might be a squadron of Soviet agents or a messenger from some hidden society in the Alps. Instead, it was the postman, armed with a cheerful smile and a catalog advertising new garden furniture.

As Lara thumbed through the catalog with genuine interest, Ivan sat back, feeling a deep, tragicomic irony settle over him. Here he was, once known for his endurance, now tempted to nap at the mere sight of wicker furniture sets and bird feeders.

“Well, I suppose it’s time I got used to a slower pace,” he said, finally surrendering to the absurdity.

Lara looked up from the catalog with a soft smile. “It’s not about slowing down, Ivan. It’s about finally being able to just… be.”

And there, in the quiet of Craft Manor, with Lara looking at him like he was both the world’s greatest hero and its most endearing old man, he realized maybe—just maybe—he could find peace in this “chapter.” Or at least, he could try.

Chapter 15

A stillness had settled over Croft Manor. The morning sun barely filtered through the heavy clouds as Lara sat by Ivan’s side, her hand wrapped around his. It wasn’t often that Ivan fell ill, and yet, here he was, looking frail and pale against the polished wood of the bed. For the first time, Lara felt the weight of his age, the years hidden behind his unyielding spirit and stubborn will. Now, those years seemed to have caught up with him, and it left her feeling shaken.

She stayed close by, listening to his shallow breaths, trying to mask her own worry. But as the hours ticked by and Ivan’s condition grew worse, she knew there was no choice left. The team quickly gathered, and together, they rushed him to the hospital. The doctors worked swiftly, assessing his condition, explaining his heart was failing. Surgery was the only option. Lara felt a chill grip her heart, fear gnawing at her as she watched the doctors take him away, leaving her waiting and helpless in the sterile, cold hallways.

The hours dragged on, each one feeling heavier than the last. Memories of their adventures flashed through her mind—his laughter, his stories, the way he always found a way to make her feel safe, even in the most dangerous places. She couldn’t imagine her life without him anymore. She leaned her head back, taking in deep breaths, her mind racing through scenarios, both hopeful and devastating.

Finally, a doctor approached, his face tired but calm. “He made it through surgery,” he said, and relief flooded her body. “We’ve fitted him with a pacemaker. He’s a tough one, I’ll give him that.”

When she saw Ivan again, lying in the hospital bed with tubes and monitors around him, her heart ached. His once-vibrant face looked aged, lines of fatigue etched into his features. She could see the toll his body had taken, the battles he had fought, and it was as if the vitality that once defined him was now dimmed.

A few days later, Ivan was strong enough to return home, and Lara drove him back to Croft Manor in his beloved BMW 535d. The drive was quiet, each of them lost in their thoughts. For Ivan, it was a bittersweet journey. He watched the passing scenery with a gaze that seemed both nostalgic and resigned. He knew things had changed—he could feel it in every creak of his bones, every tired beat of his newly aided heart.

Lara glanced at him now and then, a mix of relief and sorrow swirling within her. She had saved him, yes, but she knew deep down that this wasn’t the same Ivan who had stormed through their adventures with boundless energy. He was still Ivan—her Ivan—but there was a new fragility there, a reality that neither of them could ignore.

When they arrived at the manor, Ivan leaned on a cane as he made his way slowly up the stairs. His posture was a bit hunched, his movements cautious. He looked, at last, like the seventy-year-old man he was. Lara stood beside him, offering a steadying hand, but also giving him the space he needed to adjust to this new version of himself.

Once inside, Ivan gestured for Lara to sit. With a slight, warm smile, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, worn cloth pouch. He handed it to her, his eyes glinting with that familiar mischief and pride.

“For you,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “I thought this would suit you better than me.”

Curious, Lara opened the pouch, revealing a stunning Celtic amulet, its ancient bronze intricately carved with spirals and knots. The amulet emanated a kind of silent strength, a piece of history she could feel in her hands. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise and gratitude.

“This… this is incredible, Ivan,” she whispered, feeling the weight of it settle in her palm.

Ivan smiled, a faint chuckle escaping him. “Got that beauty during one of my ‘escapades’ in Stonehenge. Let’s say… it was a long night and a very interesting crowd.” His voice trailed off with a reminiscent smile. “Thought it was about time I passed it on.”

Lara felt a swell of emotion, clutching the amulet tightly. She knew this wasn’t just a gift—it was a part of his legacy, a piece of the many stories he’d shared with her, and those he hadn’t. She nodded, fighting back tears as she realized this amulet represented not only their time together but also all the adventures, the risks, and the years he had lived with courage and resilience.

As they sat together in silence, Lara leaned against him, finding comfort in his presence, even if it was now softened by age. She knew they would continue on, in quieter moments, perhaps, but she would carry him and his strength with her always. Their journeys may have slowed, but his spirit—the spirit of Ivan—would live on, both in her heart and in the stories they’d share with anyone who’d listen.

And so, Croft Manor stood as a witness to their final chapter together, with Lara holding the amulet close, a piece of Ivan’s legacy that would forever remind her of their wild, wonderful journey together.

Aftermath

Ivan's new automobile

Lara, still lost in the memories of her adventures with Ivan, continued to sift through the dusty box in the attic of Croft Manor. She found more than just old maps and trinkets—each item was a reminder of their past. Amidst the faded keepsakes, her hand landed on something thicker: an old, glossy car brochure from 1978. She opened it, curiosity tugging at her, and there it was—a photograph tucked between the pages.

The photo showed a younger, carefree Ivan, standing proudly beside a bright yellow Škoda 110R. His first wife was by his side, two small children laughing at their feet. Ivan’s hair was thick and dark, his face unlined by age and hardship. It was a glimpse into a life long before Lara, a life of family and simpler times. She felt a pang of emotion—she had never known Ivan like this, never seen this side of him.

An idea formed in her mind, and she knew what she had to do.

Weeks later, with the autumn chill in the air, Lara led Ivan outside, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Close your eyes,” she instructed, and he obliged, albeit with a skeptical look.

When he opened them, his gaze fell upon the fully restored Škoda 110R. The car gleamed in the afternoon light, its bright yellow paint looking as fresh as it did decades ago. Ivan’s breath caught, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Lara...” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out, almost afraid to touch it. “How did you... why?”

“I found the old picture,” she said, her voice gentle, “and I thought you might like to have a piece of the past back. Consider it a gift for everything you’ve given me, Ivan.”

Ivan’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Thank you, Lara. This... this means more than you’ll ever know.”

They took the car out for a spin, the familiar roar of the engine filling the crisp autumn air as they drove to a high-end restaurant in town. Ivan was dressed in a sleek, dark grey suit, its sharp lines contrasting with his age and the cane he now carried. Lara wore a form-fitting emerald green dress, the color accentuating her grace and confidence. The evening felt like a trip down memory lane—a chance to remember the past, and maybe, to let go of a few ghosts.

They dined together, laughter filling the elegant dining room as they reminisced about their wild days—adventures in jungles, deserts, and ancient cities. Halfway through the meal, Ivan’s smile faded slightly as he brought up Evelyn.

“I... I never told you everything about her,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the glass in his hand. “I think I should have.”

Lara raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “Ivan, we all have our secrets. And we all have our reasons. I’m not angry.”

She hesitated, a wry smile forming. “Besides, while you were gallivanting around the world, I wasn’t exactly waiting quietly at home. There were... some interesting aristocrats.”

Ivan’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “Aristocrats, you say? I should have guessed. You always had a taste for the adventurous.”

Just as he spoke, a shadow moved outside the restaurant’s window, catching Lara’s eye. She turned to see a familiar figure standing under the streetlights, her shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. It was Evelyn. Her auburn hair was tied back, and she wore a navy blue Gant hoodie over skinny jeans. Her footwear—clean, Nike Dunk Low sneakers in a black-and-white color scheme—caught the light as she shuffled her feet. There was a vulnerability in her posture that tugged at Ivan’s heart.

Without hesitation, Ivan waved her over, his face a mixture of surprise and concern. Evelyn hesitated, eyes darting from him to Lara, then back again, before she finally pushed open the door and walked in.

Evelyn sat down awkwardly across from them, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if warding off a chill. She looked at Ivan, really looked at him, and her gaze was filled with a mixture of shock and uncertainty.

“You look... different,” she said bluntly, her voice wavering. “I remember you being... stronger. Your hair wasn’t so grey, and you didn’t need a cane.” She said it almost accusingly, as if she blamed him for the passage of time.

Lara’s eyes narrowed, her protective instincts flaring. “Watch your tone, Evelyn. Ivan’s earned every one of those grey hairs. He’s been through more than you’ll ever understand.”

Evelyn’s gaze shifted to Lara, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, I understand more than you think, Lara Croft. But you—why are you with him? He’s just... old. He’s broken.”

Lara’s expression hardened, but her voice remained calm. “Because he’s a hero, Evelyn. He’s lived through more danger and pain than you can imagine, and he’s always come back, stronger and more determined. Even now, he’s still the strongest person I know.”

Evelyn’s façade cracked, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. “He’s not the same,” she said softly, her eyes dropping. “He’s... not the man I knew.”

Ivan leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. “People change, Evelyn. I’ve changed. But that doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

Evelyn’s breath hitched, her face tightening. “They... they cut me off,” she blurted, tears spilling down her cheeks. “My parents... they found out about us. They disinherited me. And then, when the scandal got out, I lost my modeling contracts too. They said I was too... too risky to work with.”

A wave of compassion washed over Ivan’s face, and he reached out, covering her trembling hand with his own. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I should have been there... I should have done more.”

Evelyn’s lip quivered, and she let out a bitter laugh. “It’s too late for that, don’t you think?” She swiped at her tears angrily, but her voice broke. “I’ve got nothing left.”

Ivan’s heart ached. Without hesitation, he reached into his jacket, pulling out a worn leather wallet. He took out a handful of bills—five thousand pounds—and slid them across the table to her. “Take it,” he said quietly. “It’s not enough, but it’s a start. And I can help you get back on your feet. My granddaughter, Priscilla, works for Vogue. I’ll speak to her—maybe there’s a place for you there.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened, her face crumpling with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. She looked down at the money, then back at Ivan, her voice trembling. “Why... why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re not alone,” Ivan said simply, his voice thick with emotion. “And you never were.”

The drive back to Croft Manor was faster than it should have been, the 1107cc engine roaring as Ivan’s old instincts returned. Evelyn sat in the backseat, the wind ruffling her hair through the slightly open window. She couldn’t believe how fast Ivan drove, and it reminded her of their wilder days, days that seemed both distant and achingly close.

When they reached the manor, its imposing silhouette rose against the night sky, illuminated by soft outdoor lights. Inside, Evelyn wandered the halls, feeling both lost and at home, her fingers trailing over the walls as if seeking some connection to this place that was so deeply tied to Ivan.

She stopped in front of a large framed photo hanging in the study. It was Ivan, younger and strong, standing next to Lara atop some ancient ruins. Both of them were covered in dust, grinning widely, the thrill of adventure alive in their eyes. Nearby were photographs from Ivan’s days in the military, snapshots of him in uniform, and candid shots from their many tomb raiding adventures. And then, on a small table, she saw a simple, elegant frame—Ivan and Lara, standing together on their wedding day, her white dress and his tailored suit contrasting against the vibrant green of a summer garden.

She felt a pang of understanding—a realization that Ivan wasn’t just an old man with a past, but a living testament to survival, resilience, and the choices that had led him to this moment.

Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, when she finally spoke. “I... I didn’t know. I didn’t realize... how much you’ve been through.”

Ivan stepped beside her, leaning on his cane. “I tried to protect you from it, Evelyn. Maybe that was my mistake.”

Evelyn’s eyes met his, and for the first time, she didn’t see a stranger. She saw a man who had lived, fought, and loved with all his heart. A man who, even now, was trying to do right by her. She reached out, her hand finding his, and squeezed it tightly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t understand. I do now.”

Ivan pulled her into a gentle hug, patting her back with a tenderness she’d never felt from him before. “It’s alright. You’re here now. And that’s what matters.”

Lara watched them from the doorway, a soft smile on her lips, feeling the weight of years and secrets finally lifting. For the first time in a long while, the manor felt warm, like a home where new beginnings were not only possible but inevitable.

Together, they sat by the fire, the crackling warmth enveloping them as they talked late into the night. Evelyn shared stories of her modeling days, Ivan spoke of his military years, and Lara, with her usual wit, recounted their adventures—the near-death experiences, the close calls, and the triumphs. The bonds that had once frayed were slowly mending, one story, one memory, and one forgiving smile at a time.

The very end

Ivan finally stopped killing people and he became a very wealthy elderly man.

As time continued its relentless march, Ivan felt every ache and creak in his bones. Gone were the days when he’d leap from ancient stones or outpace soldiers in narrow alleys. Now, each step was a careful calculation, and more often than he’d admit, he found himself stumbling, the ground rising up to meet him faster than he could catch himself. His cane became a steady companion, and though he hated the symbol of dependence, he knew it was better than the bruises on his knees or elbows from falls he couldn't prevent.

Yet Ivan was stubborn. The sense of duty, the desire to contribute, and his unbreakable connection to Lara kept him moving, even if his body protested. He insisted on helping her manage the estate, albeit in small ways—inspecting the grounds, adjusting the old gates, or reading through dusty account ledgers with her. And for her last birthday, he surprised her with a gift that made her gasp—a sleek Learjet 35, though an older model, just like him. He’d arranged it in secret, pulling every favor and reaching out to old connections to make it happen. He’d never forget her expression, a mix of surprise and wonder that only deepened the bond between them.

His vision, however, continued to fade. Reading became a chore, and long drives—a cherished freedom—now required him to wear thick glasses to make out road signs. Lara, perceptive as always, noticed these struggles. But instead of turning away or expressing dismay, she stood closer, a subtle reinforcement of her commitment, her understanding unwavering. She knew this man before her had faced down trials few could fathom; her own heart wouldn’t let her dismiss him now that he needed her most.

Their bond had been forged in fire from the very beginning. She still remembered that first encounter in 1989, a strange collision of timelines when a younger Lara had emerged from the cold waters of the Slapy Reservoir. Ivan, tracking her movements from a safe distance, had only been a voice over the radio then, calmly negotiating her surrender. Her adrenaline-fueled instinct to escape clashed with an odd sense of trust in the deep, reassuring tone on the other end. She stayed hidden in the frigid water for so long, clinging to his every word, that her limbs went numb and she nearly drowned, requiring the intervention of divers to pull her from the depths. It had been absurdly close, yet somehow, even then, Ivan had known she was more than just another fugitive. She was something far rarer—an equal.

As the years unfolded, that bond had only deepened. They’d navigated Prague together in the early ‘90s, dodging local authorities while Lara indulged her thrill-seeking habits, dragging Ivan along in her escapades. Tomb raiding with him by her side, they’d evaded traps, outrun deadly foes, and even ventured into the unknown territory of time travel. Through all the danger, he was her rock, her trusted anchor when she teetered on the edge of life and death.

Ivan had seen—and survived—the impossible. The memories were indelible: watching Lara, heart pounding, in the clutches of time-twisting relics; the bittersweet joy of winning the Gumbalkan rally; the thrill and chaos of their shared journey. He knew her past as well as his own tragedies, as if they were woven together. He’d witnessed her devastation at Amanda’s cruel betrayal when the older Lara—another version of her—had been stolen from him, a bitter loss that had marked him deeply.

And Lara, in turn, had shared his pains, understanding the void left by his father, who perished in the uranium mines, and the emptiness when his mother’s bus was struck by a train, an unsparing blow that life dealt him before he was even a man. She saw these scars, even the ones he kept hidden, and still, she stayed. For all the years he’d given to her, she offered him an unbreakable loyalty in return.

One late evening, they sat together in the library, an intimate ritual they had created. Ivan, glasses perched low on his nose, squinted at a worn journal of past expeditions, tracing the faded ink with a shaky hand. Lara sat beside him, watching the subtle tremor in his fingers as he turned each page.

“You don’t have to keep this up for my sake, Ivan,” she whispered gently, brushing a hand across his. “You’ve done enough.”

He shook his head, looking at her with a stubborn pride. “Enough? I’m not dead yet, Lara. I’ve still got a few good years left to keep you in line.” His eyes softened, and his fingers closed around hers. “But I’m grateful… for all of this. For you, even as much as you’ve worn me out.”

They shared a laugh, but Lara knew better. The man beside her was no longer invincible, and it was her turn to protect him. Ivan’s former pursuits, the fierce need for revenge, the untamed violence—those chapters had been closed. His hands, once capable of delivering swift, calculated justice to her enemies, now shook as they held hers. But he was here, breathing, present, and for that, she would offer him all the tenderness he had once shielded her with.

In the days that followed, they visited Priscilla, Ivan’s granddaughter, at Vogue, where she had established herself as a formidable presence. There, Ivan was met with Evelyn—his former love interest during a moment of crisis in his midlife—now working closely with Priscilla. As he watched them interact, a strange sense of closure filled him. The past, once chaotic and unhinged, seemed to settle peacefully around him.

Back at the manor, the sleek Mercedes 600 Der Großer was parked in the driveway, gleaming in the morning light. Ivan, leaning on his cane, allowed himself a satisfied smirk at the sight. It suited him in a way that felt oddly comforting, a nod to an era of power and elegance that had long passed. Lara, admiring his proud stance beside the car, teased, “You do look like a dictator with that car. Just don’t start issuing orders, or I might have to stage a coup.”

He laughed, leaning in to kiss her, his grip on her steady. “Wouldn’t dare, Mrs. Croft-Tůma. Besides, I’m quite fond of my ruling partner.”

In the evenings, they would drive through the countryside, Ivan at the wheel despite his failing eyesight, and Lara by his side. And when the stars dotted the night sky, they would lie in bed, whispers of love and shared stories weaving through the silence. He might not be the fierce protector he once was, but he still offered her everything he had left.

Ivan also started giving generously to charities, supporting causes close to his heart. His days of hunting down enemies, exacting vengeance, and evading death were gone. Now, he embraced a gentler life, savoring the peace that came with it. Yet he was always there, a shadow of strength beside Lara, even as the demands of tomb raiding or grand adventures faded into the background.

As they walked the estate hand-in-hand, Ivan occasionally stumbled, his body no longer cooperating with his mind’s demands. But each time, Lara would be there, steadying him, reminding him he was safe. For every struggle, every reminder of mortality, she offered him a touch of love that had only deepened over the years.

He was older, weaker, yet never had he felt more complete. Lara’s quiet understanding, her unflinching loyalty, her love—it was enough to let him rest, to finally, truly, enjoy his last great adventure.