UnBooks:Lara's Cursed Honeymoon

Lara Croft had always known that life with Ivan would never be mundane. Even now, as they had both vowed to start fresh—under new names and identities—it seemed the universe had other plans for them. Lara had taken to calling him Alexander Finch, an unassuming name that suited his sharp wit and quieter demeanor. Ivan, now "Alexander," had embraced the change with surprising ease, immersing himself in this new chapter of their lives with an enthusiasm that even she found infectious.

Their new life was peaceful—at least for a time. They spent their days renovating a modest countryside home, indulging in Lara’s passion for archaeology and Alexander’s love of classic cars. It was the latter, however, that would disrupt their newfound serenity.

It started innocently enough. Alexander had been scouring auction listings when he stumbled upon a 1965 Cadillac Sixty Special. The car was a masterpiece of mid-century American engineering, with gleaming chrome accents and elegant tail fins that seemed to stretch toward eternity. Despite Lara's initial protests about his "collector’s impulse," she couldn’t deny the car’s beauty.

“You know, these kinds of purchases are what got us into trouble in the first place,” she had teased as he finalized the transaction.

Alexander smirked, undeterred. “Come on, it’s just an old American car. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The worst, as it turned out, was something neither of them could have predicted.

Chapter 1

Alexander grew up

Croft Manor had undergone a subtle yet unmistakable transformation. The imposing halls, once marked by shadows of history, were now filled with light and laughter. Amelia had taken charge of the estate alongside Winston, whose meticulous care kept every corner gleaming. Alexander Finch—formerly Ivan Tůma—had found his place in this new chapter of life, blending seamlessly into the rhythm of the manor’s daily affairs.

Meanwhile, Alister and Zip formed an unlikely but effective duo. Alister’s scholarly precision and Zip’s tech-savvy expertise made them indispensable to Lara’s adventures, supporting her from the manor’s high-tech command center. Lara herself was often away, her insatiable curiosity drawing her to ancient ruins and forgotten tombs.

One sunny morning, Alexander returned from a short excursion with a proud gleam in his eye and an unusual purchase in tow: a beige 1965 Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special. The car, parked elegantly on the manor’s cobblestone drive, caught everyone’s attention. Its sleek lines and refined presence immediately elevated the estate’s ambiance, standing in stark contrast to the utilitarian Škodas Alexander had driven in the past.

Amelia was the first to praise his choice. “It suits the manor perfectly, Alexander. A touch of elegance—exactly what we needed.”

Even Winston, ever the traditionalist, allowed a small smile to cross his face. “A fine acquisition, sir. It complements the estate quite well.”

Alexander beamed, clearly pleased with the reception. The Cadillac quickly became his vehicle of choice, a symbol of his newfound identity and the life he was building. He took to driving it around the estate grounds, savoring the smooth ride and the admiring glances it drew from visitors and staff alike.

When Lara returned a few days later from an expedition in the Mediterranean, she was greeted not by the familiar sight of Ivan tinkering with one of his Škodas but by a far more polished Alexander stepping out of the Cadillac. He was dressed impeccably in a suit with a wide-lapelled jacket, complete with a matching hat.

“Alexander?” she called out, a hint of amusement in her voice.

He turned to her with a grin. “Welcome home, Lara.”

Her eyes drifted to the car, then back to him. “A Cadillac? I must say, I didn’t see this coming.”

“Do you like it?” he asked, his tone cautious but hopeful.

Lara circled the car, admiring its pristine condition and the way it seemed to blend effortlessly into the manor’s setting. “I do,” she admitted. “It’s quite the step up. Though I must say, I’m surprised you’ve traded in your Škoda loyalties so easily.”

Alexander chuckled, adjusting the brim of his hat. “I haven’t abandoned them entirely. But let’s just say I’m exploring… new horizons.”

As she looked closer, Lara noticed subtle changes in him. His hair had a touch of gray she didn’t remember from before, and his wardrobe seemed to have undergone a complete overhaul. The loose, utilitarian clothing of his past life was gone, replaced with tailored suits and polished shoes. Even his mannerisms had shifted slightly; there was an air of confidence and refinement that hadn’t been as pronounced before.

“Not bad,” Lara remarked, stepping closer to him. “I like the new look. Though I have to admit, it’s a bit strange seeing you like this.”

“Strange? Or an improvement?” he teased.

“A bit of both,” she replied with a smirk.

Deep down, she wasn’t overly concerned. If anything, she was relieved. The lingering traces of his former life—marked by the austerity of his upbringing in a socialist era—seemed to be fading, replaced by something brighter, freer.

As the days went on, Lara couldn’t help but notice how much happier Alexander seemed. The Cadillac became a centerpiece of his routine, and his enthusiasm for it was infectious. Though she teased him about his newfound flair for vintage American style, she secretly admired his ability to embrace change with such fervor.

For the first time in a long while, Croft Manor felt truly alive—a place where the past and present could coexist, each lending its own charm to the other. And as Lara watched Alexander drive off in his beloved Cadillac one sunny afternoon, she felt a renewed sense of hope for the future.

Chapter 2

Alexander Finch, once Ivan Tůma, found himself completely absorbed in his new identity. The sharp lines of the Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special seemed to awaken something within him—a drive for refinement, an embrace of style that he had never allowed himself before. Trips to the local tailors and boutiques became routine, as Alexander carefully curated a wardrobe befitting both his new life and his classic car.

Gone were the remnants of his utilitarian Czech past. Instead, his closet filled with tailored suits, polished leather shoes, silk ties, and even an array of elegant hats. He walked the halls of Croft Manor with an air of confidence, his movements now measured and deliberate, exuding charm in every gesture.

Lara, ever the observer, watched these changes with a mix of curiosity and delight. He was still unmistakably Ivan—dependable, grounded, and deeply caring—but this newfound elegance added a layer of intrigue that she hadn’t expected. One evening, she caught him adjusting the cufflinks on a freshly pressed shirt, his reflection framed by the mirror in their bedroom.

“Alexander, I must admit,” Lara began, her voice light with amusement, “I never thought I’d see the day when you’d outshine me in sophistication.”

He turned to her, his lips curling into a playful smile. “Do you approve, Lady Croft? Or am I overdoing it?”

Lara crossed the room, placing her hands gently on his lapels as she looked up at him. “I approve,” she said softly. “Though it’s strange. You’re still you, but…”

“…different,” he finished for her.

“Different in a good way,” she reassured him. “You carry it well, Alexander.”

Her words seemed to spark something in him. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke, his tone uncharacteristically nervous. “Lara, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his uncharacteristic hesitation. “Go on.”

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, “it’s been a long time since we’ve had… well, since we’ve had time for just us. And I thought, perhaps, we could take a trip. Somewhere quiet, beautiful. Perhaps even call it—”

“Honeymoon?” Lara interrupted, using the Czech word for honeymoon with a playful smirk.

He blinked, caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “Yes, exactly. Honeymoon.”

Lara’s heart melted at his awkward but earnest proposal. She reached up, brushing a strand of his graying hair away from his face. “I’d love that, Alexander.”

The days leading up to their departure were filled with anticipation. Alexander, ever the gentleman, took charge of the preparations, ensuring every detail was perfect. He packed their bags with care, his meticulous attention to detail evident in every fold and choice of clothing. When the day arrived, he greeted her at the manor’s grand entrance, standing beside the Cadillac, dressed impeccably in a charcoal-gray suit and hat.

As Lara descended the steps, he moved to open the car door for her, his manners impeccable. “Your chariot awaits, my lady,” he said, his voice tinged with playful charm.

She laughed, sliding into the passenger seat. “You’re spoiling me, Alexander.”

“Only as much as you deserve,” he replied, closing the door gently before walking around to the driver’s side.

Their destination was Loch Ness, a serene retreat far from the noise of the world. The drive itself was a journey of quiet companionship, the hum of the Cadillac’s engine providing a soothing backdrop to their shared conversation. Alexander, ever attentive, made sure Lara was comfortable, adjusting the car’s settings with care and stealing glances at her radiant smile.

As they crossed the Scottish Highlands, the beauty of the landscape seemed to mirror the renewed bond between them. Lara leaned her head against the window, watching the rolling hills pass by, while Alexander navigated the winding roads with the confidence of a man in his element.

For Lara, this trip wasn’t just a vacation—it was a rediscovery of the man she loved, now transformed yet still deeply familiar. And for Alexander, it was a chance to show her the depth of his devotion, a vow renewed with every mile they traveled together.

Chapter 3

They spawned here...

The night had started perfectly. A lavish dinner at a high-end restaurant near Loch Ness, a slow drive under the stars, and now the two of them parked in Alexander’s pride and joy, the 1965 Cadillac Fleetwood. The car hummed softly as Alexander reclined in the driver’s seat, pulling a cigar from the glove compartment with a casual air of indulgence.

“Are you serious with that thing?” Lara teased, her eyebrow cocked as she leaned toward him, watching him cut the tip with practiced precision.

Alexander shot her a look, lighting the cigar. “Every man needs his vice, darling. Some drink. I smoke.”

“Hmm,” Lara mused, leaning closer, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Give me one.”

Alexander paused mid-drag, narrowing his eyes. “A cigar? You? Didn’t think you had the lungs for it.”

Lara rolled her eyes. “Don’t patronize me. Just light the damn thing.”

Shaking his head, Alexander complied, handing her a freshly lit cigar. Lara took an ambitious drag and immediately choked, doubling over as her face turned crimson.

“Bloody hell, Lara!” Alexander burst out laughing, the cigar almost slipping from his fingers. “You look like you’ve just inhaled jet fuel.”

“Fuck off,” she rasped, coughing violently.

Still chuckling, Alexander leaned back, puffing away as Lara composed herself. She glared at him but soon followed suit, taking smaller, more deliberate drags until she finally managed to hold the smoke.

“You’re not half bad when you’re not dying,” Alexander said with a smirk, his hand resting on the gear shift.

Lara ignored him, focusing instead on the thick curl of smoke leaving her lips. She watched it dissipate before turning to Alexander, her expression shifting. The playful banter was gone, replaced by something hungrier.

Without a word, she slid closer, her hand landing on his thigh. Alexander froze, his cigar halfway to his mouth.

“Lara,” he began, his voice rough.

“Shh,” she whispered, her hand trailing higher, undoing his belt with deft fingers.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, leaning back as she unzipped him.

Lara smirked, her confidence palpable as she lowered herself, her lips brushing against his skin before taking him into her mouth. Alexander groaned, his head falling back against the headrest as his hand instinctively tangled in her hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his cigar slipping from his fingers onto the dashboard.

Lara’s movements were deliberate, calculated, driving him to the edge with every flick of her tongue. The air in the car grew thick—not just from the cigars, but from the heat between them. Alexander was barely holding on, his knuckles white as they gripped the seat.

Then it happened.

A blinding flash of light filled the car, so sudden and intense that Alexander yanked Lara back in shock.

“What the fuck was that?!” Lara exclaimed, wiping her mouth and looking around, her pulse racing.

“I don’t—” Alexander began, but his voice trailed off as he looked outside.

The serene hills of Loch Ness were gone. In their place was chaos—blaring horns, shouting pedestrians, and flashing neon signs. The Cadillac was no longer parked by the water. It was sitting on the curb of a bustling city street.

“Where the fuck are we?” Lara demanded, panic rising in her voice.

Alexander looked around, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. A group of people in bell-bottoms and tie-dye shirts stood gawking at them. A man with a camera darted forward, snapping a photo that lit up the interior of the car.

“San Francisco,” Alexander muttered, still in disbelief. “And judging by the looks of this circus, I’d say 1967.”

Lara’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m fucking kidding?” Alexander snapped, hastily zipping up his trousers.

Another flash went off as the crowd outside grew larger, murmurs turning into laughter.

“Oh my god,” Lara groaned, sinking into her seat. “They’re all staring.”

“No shit,” Alexander growled. “I was just getting my dick sucked in a Cadillac. What the fuck else would they be staring at?!”

Lara slapped his arm. “Will you shut up? You’re not helping!”

“And you think hiding your head’s going to make this better?” he shot back, glaring at her.

The crowd outside was practically pressed against the car now, cameras clicking furiously. A woman in oversized sunglasses pointed at them and laughed.

Alexander turned his attention to the man with the camera. “Oi! One more picture, and I swear to god, I’ll shove that thing up your arse!”

The man didn’t flinch, snapping another photo with a grin.

Lara covered her face with her hands. “This can’t be happening. This cannot be fucking happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening, love,” Alexander muttered darkly, reaching for the gear shift. “Buckle up. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

Chapter 4

Alexander turned the key, and the Cadillac’s engine erupted with a sound that could wake the dead—or at least turn every head within a five-block radius. The familiar rumble of the 429 cubic-inch V8 was gone, replaced by an earsplitting roar that rattled the windows and sent pedestrians scattering in alarm.

“What the actual fuck?” Alexander growled, glancing at Lara, who was equally stunned. “When the hell did my exhaust turn into straight pipes?”

Lara didn’t answer. She was too busy clutching the dashboard as the Cadillac’s interior vibrated violently. Alexander didn’t wait for her response. Gripping the shifter, he slammed the transmission into gear, his jaw tight with determination.

The rear wheels screamed in protest as he floored the accelerator, sending a cloud of smoke billowing behind them. The Cadillac surged forward with terrifying force, its tires clawing at the asphalt as it rocketed down the street.

“Bloody hell, Alex!” Lara shouted, her voice barely audible over the engine’s deafening roar.

“Hold on!” he barked, his focus locked on the road ahead.

The Cadillac tore through the city center, weaving between cars and dodging startled pedestrians. Alexander’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. Every time he shifted gears, the engine let out a feral snarl, echoing off the surrounding buildings.

“Why is this thing so goddamn loud?!” Lara yelled, her hair whipping around her face.

“Beats me!” Alexander shot back. “But I’ll be damned if I let this city trap us!”

As they roared past a row of parked cars, a group of hippies dove out of the way, their peace signs turning to middle fingers as the Cadillac thundered by.

Lara craned her neck to look out the back window. “We’re drawing too much attention! People are going to remember this!”

“No shit, Sherlock!” Alexander growled, slamming his foot down harder on the gas pedal. The Cadillac responded with a guttural bellow, its rear tires losing traction as it fishtailed around a corner.

They hit the edge of the downtown district and barreled onto a wide boulevard lined with palm trees. The engine roared, its power nearly overwhelming the car’s suspension as they hit bumps at breakneck speed.

“Alex, slow down!” Lara shouted, gripping the door handle for dear life.

“Slow down?!” Alexander shot her a disbelieving look. “You want to slow down when we’ve got half of San Francisco gawking at us? Not a chance!”

The Cadillac’s speedometer needle climbed steadily, pushing past 80, 90, then 100 miles per hour. The roar of the straight-piped engine was deafening, drowning out every other sound as they hurtled toward the city limits.

“Where the hell are we even going?!” Lara demanded.

“Anywhere but here!” Alexander snapped, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror. He could see a trail of chaos behind them—screaming pedestrians, honking cars, and more than a few angry drivers giving chase.

As they crested a hill, the city skyline fell away, replaced by a sprawling view of the Bay Area. Alexander spotted an empty stretch of highway in the distance and veered onto the on-ramp, the tires screeching as the Cadillac slid into the turn.

The moment they hit the open road, Alexander floored it again. The engine howled like a banshee, the straight-pipe exhaust amplifying every ounce of its raw power. Lara, still gripping the dashboard, glared at him.

“Are you trying to kill us?!”

“Relax, love,” Alexander said, a smug grin spreading across his face. “This beast was built for comfort and speed. I’ve got it under control.”

As the Cadillac tore down the highway, the chaos of the city faded into the distance. For a brief moment, it was just the two of them and the open road, the roar of the engine a constant reminder of the madness they’d just escaped.

But in the back of Alexander’s mind, one question loomed large: how the hell had his car gone from a classy cruiser to an earth-shaking monster? And what the fuck had brought them here in the first place?

Chapter 5

The Cadillac’s growling engine finally settled into a steady hum as Alexander eased it onto the shoulder of a quiet parking lot, letting out a deep sigh. Lara, arms crossed, sat silently beside him. The adrenaline rush from their wild escape from San Francisco had dissipated, leaving an awkward tension in its place.

“I suppose,” Lara began, her voice softer now, “that wasn’t entirely your fault.”

Alexander chuckled dryly. “Glad to see you’re coming around. Next time, I’ll try to teleport us somewhere quieter.”

Lara rolled her eyes but allowed herself a faint smile. Before they could exchange more words, the unmistakable flash of red and blue lights illuminated the interior of the car. A police cruiser pulled up behind them, its siren briefly chirping.

“Shit,” Alexander muttered. “Here we go.”

Lara sat up straighter as Alexander lowered his window. A stocky officer in aviator sunglasses approached, clipboard in hand.

“Good evening,” the officer said, his tone polite but firm. “You know why I pulled you over?”

Alexander offered a practiced, apologetic smile. “Let me guess—speeding?”

“Bingo,” the officer said, peering into the car. His gaze lingered a moment on Lara, who returned it with a polite, almost charming nod.

“I’ll need your license and registration,” the officer continued.

Alexander reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the requested documents. As he handed them over, he noticed something strange. The name on the license wasn’t Ivan Tůma or even Alexander.

It read Connor McCormick.

Alexander blinked. “What the hell…” he murmured under his breath.

“What was that?” the officer asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Alexander replied quickly, forcing a tight smile.

The officer glanced at the license, then at Alexander. “You from around here, Mr. McCormick?”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Alexander lied, trying to keep his cool.

The officer handed back the license and gestured toward Lara. “And you, ma’am? French Canadian, I take it?”

Lara furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?”

“Your accent,” the officer said casually. “Québécois, right?”

Lara opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself. Was her accent really… French? She exchanged a bewildered glance with Alexander.

“Right,” she said hesitantly. “Québécois. Oui.”

The officer scribbled something on his clipboard. “Alright, folks, keep it under the speed limit. And here’s your citation. Pay it within 30 days.”

Alexander took the ticket with a strained smile. “Thank you, officer.”

The officer tipped his hat and returned to his cruiser. Alexander let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as the police car drove off.

“Well,” Lara said after a moment. “That was… odd.”

“No kidding,” Alexander muttered, glancing again at the license in his hand. “Connor McCormick? What the hell is going on?”

“Let’s find out,” Lara suggested.

They pulled into a nearby McDonald’s parking lot, the golden arches glowing against the evening sky. Alexander parked the Cadillac and leaned back in his seat, trying to make sense of everything.

Lara, meanwhile, rummaged through the glove compartment. She pulled out a small stack of papers—vehicle registration, insurance, and what appeared to be her own identification. Her heart skipped a beat as she read the details.

Name: Juliette Rousseau-McCormick

Place of Birth: Québec, Canada

“Juliette?” Lara said aloud, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Alexander turned to her. “What?”

She handed him the ID. “Apparently, I’m Canadian too. Born in Québec. And I took your name, Connor.”

Alexander stared at the ID, then back at her. “Rousseau? What the hell is going on here?”

“I was hoping you’d have some idea,” Lara replied.

They sat in silence for a moment, the sound of a distant drive-thru speaker crackling in the background. Finally, Alexander broke the silence.

“Let’s eat something,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Maybe a burger will make this all less insane.”

Lara nodded, though her mind was racing.

After finishing their meal inside, they decided to sort through more documents in the Cadillac. Among them was a folded piece of paper tucked inside the glove compartment.

It was an address:

345 Hollywood Boulevard

Hollywood, California

“What the hell?” Alexander muttered, staring at the address.

Lara looked over his shoulder. “Do we live there?”

“Apparently.”

Their eyes met, confusion and a hint of trepidation reflected in both their gazes. Whatever had happened to them, it was clear they weren’t just displaced in time. They were living someone else’s lives.

Chapter 6

Connor's and Juliette's neighbor.....

Lara stared at the phone, her fingers frozen on its smooth surface. The data worked seamlessly, but what she had just discovered was not something anyone could prepare for. Slowly, she turned the screen toward Alexander, who was navigating the streets of Hollywood with one hand firmly on the wheel.

“Alex...” she said in a shaky voice, trembling with panic.

“What?” he replied, a hint of irritation in his tone after the chaos of the past hours.

Lara didn’t say a word, just showed him.

“Scottish Tragedy: Couple Burns to Death in Car Crash!”

On the screen was a photograph of a charred car wreck, eerily similar to their Cadillac. Beneath it were their names and faces—Alexander Finch and Lara Croft.

Alexander slammed on the brakes, and the Cadillac screeched to a halt at the curb, its engine growling softly. He turned to Lara, snatching the phone from her hands. For a few seconds, he stared at the screen, his eyes darting between the headline and the picture.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked, his voice cold and sharp.

Lara swallowed hard. “No, Alex. We’re… dead.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “We’re sitting right here. We’re not dead. We’re alive!”

“Look at this,” she pointed to further details in the article. “They found us in the wreckage somewhere in Scotland. Two days ago. And look around. This isn’t teleportation. This is something else.”

Alexander was silent, his mind racing in a storm of disbelief and denial. He wasn’t the type to accept the impossible easily, but… what else could explain their situation?

“So what?” he finally asked. “What is this? Some… afterlife?”

Lara shrugged, momentarily lost. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t look like we can change anything.”

Silence hung in the air. The Cadillac’s engine idled steadily, broken only by the distant noise of the city. Alexander finally exhaled, a long, heavy sigh.

“Fine,” he said. “So we’re dead. So what? It doesn’t really change anything, does it? We’ve got nothing to lose. So let’s make the most of it.”

“Alex…” Lara began, but he cut her off.

“Listen to me, Lara,” he turned to her and grabbed her hand. “Maybe we died. Maybe this is some version of hell or heaven, or God knows what. But we’ve been given a second chance. Nobody’s chasing us. Nobody wants anything from us. No past. No obligations. Just you and me. So why not make the most of it?”

Lara stared at his determined face for a moment, thinking. Slowly, she began nodding.

“Alright,” she said softly. “You’re right. We’ve got a clean slate. Let’s start over.”

Alexander smiled, his face softening. “That’s my girl,” he said, flipping the indicator on as the Cadillac rolled forward again.

A few minutes later, they arrived at their new address in Hollywood, and both froze in stunned silence. The villa before them was straight out of a fairy tale. Elegant Mediterranean architecture with high pillars, lush gardens, and a long driveway like something out of a movie.

“Well, what do you think?” Alexander asked, parking the car and stepping out to get a closer look.

“Wow,” Lara said simply, removing her sunglasses as she stepped onto the driveway.

The door of the neighboring house opened, and out came a couple—a beautiful woman with long blonde hair and a petite man in glasses.

“Hello, neighbors!” the woman called out with a cheerful wave.

Lara and Alexander exchanged glances as the couple approached them.

“I’m Sharon Tate,” the woman said with a dazzling smile, while the man beside her nodded. “And this is my husband, Roman Polanski.”

Alexander and Lara blinked, caught off guard by their friendly approach. The couple came closer.

“Connor McCormick,” Alex finally said, shaking Sharon’s hand. “And this is my wife, Juliette.”

Roman gave them a knowing smile. “You’re the ones in the papers, right? The rebels everyone’s talking about.”

“What?” Alexander asked, his brows furrowing.

Sharon pulled a folded newspaper from under her arm. “This.”

Lara and Alexander were left speechless as they saw the headline. There, on the front page, was a photograph from earlier that afternoon—their Cadillac on a busy San Francisco street, Lara bent over Alexander’s lap while he stared wide-eyed directly into the camera.

"Hot Ride in California: The McCormicks Take Hollywood by Storm!"

Alexander’s face turned beet red as Sharon burst into laughter. “You’re rebels; I like that. The young people adore you.”

Lara buried her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare,” she muttered.

Alexander sighed and folded the newspaper to hide the photo. “Well, at least we’ve made a name for ourselves.”

Roman chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

As the couple disappeared back into their home, Alexander turned to Lara, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, still holding the newspaper. “Clean slate, huh?”

Lara groaned but couldn’t suppress the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Alexander grinned and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “But it’s our disaster.”

Chapter 7

Connor's little helper scared shit out of Sharon Tate..

Connor McCormick stepped into the villa with a sense of cautious awe. The sheer luxury of the interior was beyond anything he had ever imagined. Marble floors gleamed in the grand entrance hall, a spiraling staircase curved gracefully toward a vaulted ceiling, and chandeliers sparkled like scattered diamonds. Each room they explored revealed more opulence: intricate moldings, tasteful artwork, and furniture that practically whispered wealth.

“Jesus Christ,” Connor muttered, running a hand over the polished mahogany bannister.

Juliette wandered toward the living room, stopping by a glass wall overlooking the backyard. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene: a pristine pool surrounded by lush greenery, a sunlit patio, and even a state-of-the-art gym discreetly tucked into the corner.

“Connor, look at this,” she called, her voice a mix of wonder and disbelief.

He joined her, gazing out at the idyllic view. “This…” she began but trailed off, unable to find the right words. She pressed a hand to the glass. “This is incredible. I’ve never felt so… spoiled.”

Connor chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Enjoy it. We earned this after, well… you know, dying.”

Juliette shook her head in disbelief and wandered off to explore further, finding a walk-in closet filled with luxurious clothing. As her fingers grazed a silk dress, she noticed a small plaque mounted on the wall.

“Juliette McCormick, Senior Art Director at Paramount Pictures,” she read aloud.

Connor appeared in the doorway. “What’s that?” he asked.

“I apparently work at Paramount Pictures,” she said, turning toward him. “And I was born in 1942.”

Connor raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a half-smile. “So, you’re technically older than me now?” he teased.

Juliette swatted his arm playfully. “What about you? Did you find anything?”

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Born in 1935, served in ‘Nam with the special forces a few years ago. Now I’m a senior engineer at McDonnell Douglas, designing Phantom jets. Oh, and I get a military pension.”

“Phantom jets?” Juliette’s eyes widened. “You mean…”

Connor nodded. “The fighter jets. Apparently, I’m good at it.”

As their exploration continued, Connor opened a heavy door and froze. Inside was a walk-in armory. Rifles, handguns, and even heavy weapons like an M60 machine gun lined the walls, gleaming under soft lighting.

Juliette stepped in behind him and gasped. “What the hell, Connor? Are we arms dealers?”

Connor shook his head, inspecting an M1 Garand. “Everything’s legal. Fully permitted. But still…” He trailed off, uneasy about the arsenal.

Before they could linger too long, the sharp chime of the doorbell broke the moment. Connor instinctively reached into his pocket, pulling out the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver he’d grabbed from the armory moments earlier.

“Seriously?” Juliette hissed as she followed him toward the door.

“It’s a reflex,” Connor muttered, keeping the gun low but ready. As he cracked the door open, his eyes landed on a blonde woman standing on the doorstep with a plate of cookies. She was radiant, dressed in a floral sundress, her smile disarming in its warmth.

“Hi there, neighbors!” she said cheerfully. “Roman and I were wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner tonight.”

Without thinking, Connor raised the revolver and pointed it directly at her. The woman’s smile vanished, and her eyes widened in sheer terror as she took an instinctive step back.

“Oh my God!” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

Connor froze as Juliette smacked the back of his head. “Put that down, you idiot!” she hissed.

Lowering the gun, Connor immediately realized his mistake. “I— I’m so sorry!” he stammered. “This is… uh, not what it looks like. Just a bad habit from where I’m from.”

The woman’s face paled. “A bad habit? Pointing a gun at people?” She was trembling, the plate of cookies wobbling precariously in her hands.

Connor scratched the back of his neck, fumbling for words. “I’m from Czechoslovakia,” he blurted out as though that explained everything. “We, uh, tend to be cautious.”

Juliette stepped in, flashing an apologetic smile. “Please don’t mind him, Sharon. He’s—well, let’s just say adjusting to civilian life is a work in progress.”

Sharon blinked. “Hi Juliette!” she said.

Juliette gestured at the armory behind them, trying to laugh it off. “We, uh… may have found a dossier. Totally normal, right? And we’d love to come to dinner. Connor will leave the gun at home, I promise.”

Sharon hesitated, her smile returning slowly but with a tinge of nervousness. “Okay… Seven o’clock then?” she said, stepping back carefully.

Juliette nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. Thank you so much!”

As Sharon walked away, Connor watched her retreating figure with a guilty grimace. “Well,” he muttered, sliding the revolver into his waistband. “First impressions could’ve gone worse.”

Juliette glared at him. “You’re lucky she didn’t call the police.”

“Relax,” Connor said, waving her off. “It’s the 1960s. People are more forgiving.”

Juliette sighed. “If dinner goes anything like this, we’re screwed.”

Chapter 8

Connor McCormick stood in front of the villa’s gilded mirror, meticulously adjusting his brown plaid tie. He smoothed the lapels of his tailored brown suit—a subtle sheen revealing its fine quality—before stepping back to admire his reflection. The ensemble was completed with wide-legged trousers, polished leather shoes, and a brown felt fedora perched at a slight angle. He looked every bit the sharp, no-nonsense engineer of the era, with just enough flair to hint at a rebellious streak.

From the adjacent room, Juliette emerged like a vision. Her emerald-green gown hugged her figure perfectly, the low-cut neckline and subtle slit along the side exuding a mix of elegance and seduction. She wore a string of pearls that rested lightly on her collarbone, and her heels clicked against the marble floor as she approached.

Connor turned to her, his jaw tightening for a moment. “You’re stunning, Jules. Honestly, I’m starting to think Polanski and Tate are the ones who need to impress us.”

Juliette smirked, tilting her head coyly. “And you’re pulling off the whole ‘engineer chic’ look surprisingly well. Though that hat…” She reached up, adjusting it slightly. “Now you look perfect.”

He grinned, reaching for his jacket. As he shrugged it on, Juliette caught sight of the revolver holstered underneath.

“Connor!” she hissed. “Are you seriously taking that to dinner?”

“Relax,” he said, his tone casual. “It’s a Colt Lawman. Just a precaution. You know I’ve got a license, and I was in the Army.”

Juliette sighed, shaking her head. “If Roman or Sharon sees it—”

“They won’t,” he interrupted, tipping his hat with a smirk. “Now, let’s go knock their socks off.”

At precisely seven o’clock, the doorbell chimed. Connor opened it to reveal Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski. Sharon’s radiant smile seemed to light up the evening, her flowing white dress and gold earrings perfectly complementing her ethereal beauty. Roman, in a sharp blazer and black turtleneck, stood beside her, his piercing eyes taking in Connor’s outfit with an approving nod.

“Evening,” Connor greeted, his voice warm. “We’re still pretty new in town. Any recommendations for dinner?”

Sharon laughed lightly. “La Scala in Beverly Hills. You’ll love it—great Italian food, and the ambiance is wonderful.”

Connor stepped aside to let them in. “Perfect. We’ll drive. The car’s ready to go.”

Minutes later, the four of them were cruising through Los Angeles in Connor and Juliette’s impeccably maintained beige Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special. The interior smelled faintly of leather and aftershave, and the soft purr of the engine harmonized with the city sounds outside.

As they rolled to a stop at a red light, Connor’s sharp eyes caught sight of a newsstand. A particular magazine on the rack made him do a double take. Without explanation, he abruptly pulled the car over and got out.

“What’s going on?” Juliette asked, confused.

Connor returned moments later, a copy of Time in hand. His expression was equal parts amused and incredulous as he handed it to Juliette.

“What is this?” she murmured, flipping the magazine over to look at the cover.

Her face went pale. The glossy cover displayed a candid photo of their Cadillac, unmistakable in its beige finish, parked on a busy street. Behind the wheel, Connor’s face was clearly visible, his expression one of slight confusion. But what dominated the image—and left no room for interpretation—was Juliette’s head tilted down into his lap, her face obscured but her actions undeniable.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Juliette stammered, her cheeks flushing crimson.

Roman, seated in the back, leaned forward to see the cover. The moment he registered the image, he burst into unrestrained laughter. “Now that’s something you don’t see every day!”

Sharon gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God! You two are on Time magazine… for that?”

Connor, still trying to maintain composure, chuckled softly. “Guess they caught us at the wrong—or maybe the right—moment.”

Juliette buried her face in her hands, groaning. “This is humiliating. How did they even… Why were they even… Ugh!”

Sharon leaned over, her curiosity overtaking her initial shock. “Juliette, I have to ask—was it at least real? I mean, was it… sincere?”

Juliette peeked through her fingers, her blush deepening. For a moment, she hesitated, then sighed, resigned. “Yes, it was real,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “And… yeah, it was deep. Very deep.”

The car erupted into laughter. Roman was nearly in tears, clutching his stomach, while Sharon giggled uncontrollably, shaking her head. “Well, you’ve certainly made an impression. Hollywood loves a scandal, and this… this is iconic.”

Despite her initial mortification, Juliette found herself smiling faintly, the tension in the car lifting. Even Connor, who had been more amused than anything, reached over to squeeze her hand reassuringly.

By the time they arrived at La Scala, the air in the car was light and filled with teasing remarks. The magazine incident, scandalous as it was, had broken the ice in a way no polite dinner conversation ever could.

As they stepped out of the Cadillac, Roman patted Connor on the back. “You two might just be the most talked-about couple in town by tomorrow morning. Congratulations on the publicity!”

Sharon grinned at Juliette. “And don’t worry. If anyone gives you a hard time, just tell them it’s art.”

Chapter 9

La Scala.

As they stepped into La Scala, the atmosphere embraced them like a warm velvet curtain. The soft glow of chandeliers reflected off polished silverware and crystal glasses, while the rich aroma of basil and slow-cooked tomato sauce filled the air. Heads turned, but not because of Sharon Tate’s radiant presence—though she carried the effortless glamour of Hollywood royalty—but because Juliette’s emerald gown shimmered under the low lighting, drawing eyes like a spotlight.

Connor, following close behind, removed his beige fedora with a smooth, deliberate motion, draping it casually over his forearm. His sharp, tailored suit and unflappable demeanor radiated the confidence of a man used to control. Roman Polanski, who never missed an opportunity to observe human behavior, noted this with interest, his mind already spinning possibilities for his next protagonist.

“Reservation under Polanski,” Roman announced with his usual flair, his tone a mix of command and charm.

The maître d’, clearly accustomed to high-profile guests, led them to a secluded corner table, perfectly framed by flickering candlelight. The setting was intimate, almost conspiratorial.

As they settled into their seats, Roman immediately motioned for the wine list. “Tonight, we drink to my latest premiere!” he declared, his dramatic gesture earning a laugh from Sharon.

“Don’t mind him,” she whispered to Juliette. “He does this for every occasion. Last time, he toasted the cat’s birthday.”

Connor scanned the menu, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. “So, what’s the must-try here?”

Sharon leaned forward with enthusiasm. “The eggplant parmesan. If you don’t try it, you’ll never understand Italian cuisine.”

With their orders placed, the conversation flowed naturally. Roman dominated, recounting eccentric tales from film sets, while Sharon chimed in with anecdotes about their social circle. Yet Connor and Juliette remained slightly guarded, their connection evident in the fleeting glances they exchanged and the subtle way Connor’s hand occasionally brushed hers under the table.

It was Sharon who finally broke through. “So,” she said, resting her chin on her hand, “what’s your story? You two don’t seem like your typical Hollywood couple.”

Connor glanced at Juliette, who hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of her martini glass. “It’s… complicated,” she began cautiously.

Roman, sensing intrigue, leaned forward. “Complicated is my favorite kind of story. Please, do share.”

Juliette sighed, setting her drink down. “All right, but you won’t believe us.”

Connor smirked. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Juliette began recounting their tale, weaving the strange and fantastical events that had brought them together: the mysterious time shifts, the sudden thrust into this glittering world of 1960s Los Angeles, and their scramble to adapt. As the story unfolded, the initial laughter at the table faded, replaced by rapt attention. Even Roman, usually quick to poke holes in narratives, listened in silence, his sharp eyes fixed on Juliette.

When she finished, there was a moment of stunned quiet. Then Roman, ever the dramatist, leaned back in his chair with a sly smile. “You know what I think?”

“That we’re completely insane?” Connor quipped, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“No,” Roman replied, his grin widening. “I think you have the makings of an incredible autobiography. Or perhaps… a screenplay.”

Juliette let out a breathless laugh, her tension dissolving. “Of course you’d say that.”

Sharon, ever the empath, reached over to squeeze Juliette’s hand. “Well, whether it’s true or not, it’s the best story I’ve heard in years. And don’t worry—if anyone questions you, just say it’s art. In this town, they’ll believe anything if it’s art.”

The mood at the table lifted, and with it, a newfound ease between the couples. Roman launched into a monologue about the absurdity of Hollywood egos, complete with exaggerated impressions, while Sharon teased him mercilessly. Connor and Juliette found themselves relaxing, laughing at the absurdity of their situation and the warm camaraderie that had emerged.

By the time the eggplant parmesan arrived, they were a quartet of kindred spirits, bonded over scandal, humor, and the surreal nature of life under the California sun.

As they exited La Scala, Roman clapped Connor on the back. “You two are going to be the talk of the town tomorrow,” he said with a wink. “Trust me, in this business, that’s the best thing that can happen.”

Connor tipped his hat, his smirk returning. “Here’s hoping.”

Juliette glanced at Sharon, who leaned in with a mischievous grin. “And remember,” she whispered, “art.”

The Cadillac purred to life, carrying them into the glittering expanse of Los Angeles. The city was a strange, wonderful beast, and tonight, they were part of its mythos—characters in a story even Hollywood couldn’t script better.

Chapter 10

Connor's enemy:

The Cadillac Fleetwood rolled through the dimly lit streets of Los Angeles, its engine purring softly. Inside the car, a thick tension had settled after the evening’s unsettling revelations. Sharon had been unusually quiet, her hands nervously wringing a napkin she’d tucked into her lap. Roman leaned back, watching the city lights flicker past, while Connor gripped the wheel, his jaw tight. Juliette was unusually alert, her gaze shifting between the dark streets and Connor’s face.

Then, a shadow darted into the road.

“Shit!” Connor cursed, slamming on the brakes. The Cadillac screeched to a halt just inches from a man running for his life.

Juliette gasped, gripping the dashboard. “What the—?”

From the side of the road, figures emerged, clad in white robes and hoods. Their torches cast a flickering light as they advanced, shouting racial slurs and jeering at the fleeing man.

Sharon sat bolt upright, her eyes wide with horror. “Oh my God. Are those—are those the Klan?”

Connor’s lips pressed into a grim line as he watched the man stumble and scramble for cover. “Not on my watch,” he growled, pulling the car to the curb.

“Connor, no!” Juliette hissed, grabbing his arm. “Don’t do this. Let him go!”

Connor was already out of the car. He opened the trunk with purpose, retrieving a Thompson submachine gun and his Colt Lawman revolver. The cold steel gleamed under the streetlights.

Connor's typewriter

From the backseat, Sharon’s voice rose in panic. “Connor! What are you doing? Stop! Please!”

Roman, though pale, tried to keep his composure. “Connor, listen. Just get back in the car. This isn’t our fight.”

Connor didn’t answer. He stood tall, the Thompson slung across his chest, and took a few steps toward the group.

The leader of the Klan stepped forward, his posture confident. “You lost, stranger?” he drawled. “Ain’t no place for your kind here.”

Connor smirked, his voice cold and cutting. “Neither is it for yours.”

The leader’s smirk faltered as Connor raised the Thompson. Without hesitation, Connor unleashed a barrage of gunfire. The rapid bursts echoed through the street as bullets tore through the night—and through the robed men.

Sharon screamed, throwing her hands over her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. “No! Oh my God, no! Stop!” Her voice cracked as she began to sob, her entire body trembling.

Juliette, seated next to Connor’s open door, winced at the noise but stayed silent, her expression hard as stone.

Roman tried to shield Sharon, pulling her into his arms as she cried uncontrollably. “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, though his own voice betrayed his fear.

When the gunfire stopped, silence fell. Bodies lay crumpled on the pavement, blood pooling beneath them. All except one.

The leader had fallen to his knees, his hood askew, his face pale with terror. Connor approached him slowly, the Colt now drawn, his footsteps echoing ominously.

“Please,” the man stammered, raising his hands. “Don’t… I’ll tell you anything you want!”

Connor’s eyes narrowed as he placed the barrel of the Colt against the man’s temple. “Where’s your headquarters?”

“An old house… 283 Maple Street,” the man choked out.

Connor nodded curtly. “Good. Now, here’s a message for your friends.”

He pulled the trigger, and the Colt roared. The man’s body fell limp, blood splattering onto the ground.

“Connor, stop this!” Sharon sobbed from the car, her hands still covering her face. “Please! This is too much!”

Connor didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he holstered the Colt, hoisted the leader’s body over his shoulder, and walked back to the car.

“Pop the trunk,” he said flatly.

Juliette pressed the button without hesitation, watching as Connor dumped the body inside. Sharon let out a horrified wail, her tears streaming freely. “You’re a monster! You can’t just… just kill people like this!”

Connor didn’t respond as he climbed into the driver’s seat. He drove in silence, the heavy atmosphere in the car punctuated only by Sharon’s muffled sobs. Roman held her tightly, his face pale and expression grim.

When they arrived at 283 Maple Street, an old, decrepit house on the outskirts of town, Connor parked the car beneath a large oak tree. He climbed out and dragged the leader’s lifeless body to the tree, tying a rope around its neck. With a grunt of effort, he hoisted the body high, leaving it to sway in the wind.

Juliette stepped out of the car, crossing her arms as she watched. “Message received,” she said quietly.

Sharon stayed inside, her hands trembling as she clutched Roman’s arm. “This is wrong,” she whispered. “This is all wrong. He’s not a hero—he’s a murderer.”

Roman didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on Connor as he wiped his hands on a rag and climbed back into the car.

Connor glanced at Sharon in the rearview mirror. “You’ve got a problem with how I handle things?”

She didn’t answer, too consumed by her tears.

Connor’s voice softened, but his tone remained firm. “Evil doesn’t listen to words, Sharon. Sometimes, it needs a reminder that there are consequences.”

The ride back to their homes was heavy with silence, save for Sharon’s quiet sobs. When they arrived, Connor stopped the car and turned to Roman and Sharon.

“Stay safe,” he said simply.

Connor and Juliette lived next door to Roman and Sharon in a quiet, upscale neighborhood nestled in the heart of Los Angeles. Their villas, separated by a line of neatly trimmed hedges and a shared driveway, often gave way to impromptu visits and casual conversations over coffee or cocktails.

Connor and Roman had quickly bonded over their shared appreciation for classic cars and fine whiskey, while Juliette and Sharon connected through their love of art and fashion. Despite their different backgrounds—Connor and Juliette’s lives steeped in mystery and intrigue, Roman and Sharon's rooted in the glamour of Hollywood—the two couples found common ground and a budding friendship.

It wasn’t unusual to see Connor leaning over the fence, exchanging jokes with Roman while tinkering with his Cadillac, or to catch Juliette and Sharon laughing together on the terrace as they swapped stories about the eccentricities of Los Angeles.

Their neighborly rapport, however, masked the stark contrasts in their personalities. Connor and Juliette carried an air of intensity, their pasts shrouded in secrecy, while Roman and Sharon embodied the carefree elegance of the entertainment world.

That night, as Connor and Juliette returned home with Roman and Sharon after the violent encounter with the men in white hoods, the boundaries of their friendship were tested in ways none of them had anticipated.

Chapter 11

The morning sun filtered through the curtains of the villa’s living room, casting long golden streaks across the parquet floor. Connor, still dressed in a robe and nursing a steaming cup of coffee, flicked on the television. The local news was in full swing, the anchor's voice measured but carrying a hint of alarm.

“…the bodies of seven men were discovered late last night near a rural property believed to serve as a base for the Ku Klux Klan. Among the deceased was their leader, identified as Augustus ‘Gus’ Turner, found hanging from the front porch of the property, a gunshot wound to his head. Authorities have yet to release further details but have described the scene as ‘gruesome.’”

Juliette emerged from the kitchen, a slice of toast in one hand and a smirk on her face. She leaned against the doorway, her silk robe draped elegantly around her. “Well,” she said dryly, “this certainly isn’t how I envisioned our honeymoon going.”

Connor gave a low chuckle, though his gaze remained locked on the screen. “No kidding. Guess we’re making memories for the history books, huh?”

Juliette walked over, sitting beside him on the couch. The news shifted to a close-up of the Klan’s hideout, the camera lingering on the dangling figure of Turner. Sharon’s villa was visible in the background, just beyond the police tape.

“Do you think they’ll trace it back to us?” she asked, her tone quiet now, her humor replaced by a tinge of concern.

“Not a chance,” Connor replied, setting down his mug. “We were careful. No witnesses, no fingerprints. They’ll chalk it up to some rival gang or internal feud. And even if they did suspect us… well, they’d never dare.” He flashed a wry smile, but Juliette didn’t return it.

After a long moment of silence, she sighed. “You’re probably right. Still… this isn’t exactly the romantic getaway I had in mind.”

Connor kissed her on the forehead. “Let me make it up to you tonight. Fancy dinner, just the two of us. And no surprise shootouts, I promise.”

Juliette raised an eyebrow but couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. McCormick.”

Later that morning, Connor left for work at McDonnell Douglas, his suit crisp and his demeanor calm, as though the previous night’s events had been nothing more than a bad dream. Juliette, meanwhile, decided to take a different approach to the day.

She crossed the garden separating their villa from Sharon’s, carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers. Sharon, still shaken from the events of the night before, answered the door with a forced smile.

“I thought you might like some company,” Juliette said warmly, holding up the flowers.

Sharon hesitated, then stepped aside to let Juliette in. “Thanks… I could use some coffee. Didn’t sleep much after… you know.”

Inside, Sharon’s villa was as elegant as ever, but the tension in the air was palpable. They settled in the sunlit kitchen, where Juliette brewed a fresh pot of coffee.

After a few minutes of small talk, Sharon couldn’t hold back any longer. “Juliette… what happened last night? Connor—he—he just killed those men. And the way he moved, the way he handled himself—it was like something out of a war movie. Who is he? And who are you?”

Juliette stirred her coffee slowly, her expression unreadable. “Sharon,” she began carefully, “there’s a lot you don’t know about us. About me. And if I tell you, you need to promise it stays between us.”

Sharon nodded, her eyes wide. “Of course. I wouldn’t breathe a word.”

Juliette set down her spoon and looked Sharon directly in the eyes. “My name isn’t really Juliette McCormick. It’s Lara Croft.”

Sharon blinked, confusion clouding her face. “Lara… Croft? I’m sorry, should I know that name?”

Juliette—Lara—smiled faintly. “Not yet. But one day, you might will. I’m an archaeologist… and let’s just say my field of work involves more than digging up old relics. It’s dangerous, and it’s not the kind of life most people would choose. But it’s who I am.”

Sharon leaned back in her chair, processing this. “Okay… but Connor—”

“Connor,” Lara interrupted gently, “isn’t really Connor, either. His name is—well, his name was—classified where we come from. But let me give you the short version. He grew up behind the Iron Curtain, in a world you can’t even imagine. Orphaned as a teenager, drafted into the military, trained to survive anything. He’s done things no one should have to do, endured things no one should have to endure. But through it all, he’s been kind. Loyal. And somehow, fate brought us together.”

Sharon stared at her, dumbfounded. “So… you’re spies? Secret agents?”

“Not quite,” Lara said with a wry smile. “But close enough.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Sharon let out a nervous laugh. “I can’t believe this. I mean, here I thought you were just this glamorous couple with an air of mystery. And now you’re telling me you’re—what, some kind of international vigilantes?”

Lara laughed softly. “Something like that. But Sharon, we’re your friends first. And I promise, as long as we’re here, you and Roman are safe.”

Sharon nodded slowly, her fear beginning to give way to cautious understanding. “Okay. I trust you, Jul—Lara. But… please, no more bodies. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

Lara smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze Sharon’s hand. “No promises, but we’ll do our best.”

As the morning wore on, Sharon began to relax, the weight of the previous night easing slightly. But in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder: how many more secrets were Connor and Juliette—or rather, Lara—still keeping? And how long before their dangerous past caught up with them again?

Chapter 12

Connor's Pride

The late afternoon sun painted the driveway in golden hues as Connor pulled up in his latest acquisition: a sleek, sky-blue Oldsmobile Delmont 88. The car gleamed like new, though its understated elegance was a stark contrast to the opulence one might expect from someone in Connor’s position.

Juliette, who had been lounging on the veranda, raised an eyebrow as she walked down to meet him. “A Delmont? What happened to the Cadillac?”

Connor shrugged nonchalantly as he stepped out of the car. “It’s parked at the office. Can’t have the neighbors thinking we’re Rockefeller types. Engineers are supposed to be practical, not flashy.”

Juliette smirked. “I see you’re blending in perfectly. Though you might’ve gone a bit too practical this time.”

Connor chuckled, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. “Function over form, my dear. Speaking of blending in…” His gaze shifted toward the house, catching sight of Sharon through the window. “What’s she doing here?”

Inside, Sharon was perched nervously on the edge of the couch, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup. She looked up as Connor entered, and her unease was palpable. Since the previous night, she had been unable to reconcile the brutal, efficient killer she had witnessed with the affable neighbor she thought she knew.

Connor’s eyes narrowed as he crossed the room and sat down opposite her. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” he said, his tone calm but direct. “Why don’t we clear the air?”

Sharon hesitated, then blurted out, “Who are you, Connor? Or should I say Ivan? Because that’s what Juliette said earlier.”

Connor sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “Fine. You want to know who I am? I’ll tell you.” His voice hardened, the mask of politeness slipping away. “I’m Ivan. A man who grew up in a world you can’t even begin to comprehend.”

Sharon leaned back, visibly unsettled. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Connor interrupted, his voice rising. “To pry? To judge? Let me ask you something, Sharon. Was your father killed mining uranium because he fought in the Resistance during the war? Did you grow up in poverty so crushing you had to steal just to eat? Did you bury your mother in the same year you graduated high school?”

Sharon’s eyes welled with tears, her hands trembling. “I—”

“Did you work in a police force where the regime threw its own officers in prison?” Connor pressed, his tone relentless. “Did you survive being beaten half to death by the very people who were supposed to have your back?”

Sharon broke down, her sobs echoing through the room. Connor’s expression softened immediately, guilt flashing across his face. He leaned forward, placing a hand gently on her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That was out of line.”

Sharon sniffled, wiping her eyes. “Why… why are you telling me all this?”

“Because,” Connor said, his voice steady now, “you need to understand that the world isn’t black and white. Sometimes, the only way to fight evil is with evil, no matter how much it makes you sick to your stomach.”

Sharon stared at him, the raw honesty in his words leaving her speechless.

After a moment, Connor stood and walked to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He poured one for Sharon and handed it to her with a small, apologetic smile. “Truce?”

Sharon hesitated, then took the glass. “Truce.”

The atmosphere lightened slightly, and Connor leaned back in his chair. “Look, Sharon, I’m not proud of everything I’ve done. But I’ve made peace with it. And if you or Roman ever need help, any kind of help, you come to me. Got it?”

Sharon nodded, a small smile breaking through her tears. “Thanks, Connor.”

“Good,” Connor said, standing up. “Because there’s one more thing you need to see.”

Sharon followed him hesitantly down a narrow corridor to a locked door at the back of the house. Connor produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it, revealing a room that made her gasp in shock.

The walls were lined with racks of firearms: pistols, rifles, shotguns, and submachine guns. In the corner, a few larger weapons were mounted, including a pair of RPGs and, unbelievably, a flamethrower. Sharon stepped back, her hands covering her mouth.

“You keep… all of this here?” she stammered.

Connor shrugged. “Can’t exactly store it at the office. Besides, you never know when you might need it.”

Sharon looked at him, equal parts horrified and fascinated. “Connor, this is… this is insane.”

“Maybe,” Connor admitted, closing the door behind them. “But it’s also necessary. And remember, if you or Roman ever run into trouble, you know where to find me.”

Sharon nodded again, her mind racing with everything she had learned that day. As they returned to the living room, she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort despite the overwhelming revelations. For all his flaws, Connor—or Ivan, or whoever he truly was—had made one thing clear: he would protect the people he cared about, no matter the cost.

Chapter 13

Connor saw Sharon to the driveway, offering her a reassuring nod as she hesitated near the edge of their property. “Remember, Sharon,” he said, his voice steady and calm, “if you or Roman ever find yourselves in danger, don’t hesitate. You come to me. I’ll handle it.”

Sharon shifted nervously, glancing back toward her own home. “I appreciate that… I think I just need time to wrap my head around all of this.”

Connor offered her a small, understanding smile. “Take all the time you need. Just remember, we’re here.”

As Sharon turned to leave, Connor stood for a moment, watching her walk away. His expression tightened as he muttered under his breath, “I hope Roman appreciates what you’ve got.”

Back inside, Connor rolled out blueprints on the dining table, pouring over schematics for the latest iteration of the Phantom. His pencil darted across the paper, jotting down notes and making small adjustments. Engineering work kept his mind sharp, a welcome distraction from the chaos of their past.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Juliette had slipped into their private gym. Her slim figure was silhouetted in the doorway for a moment before she began her workout.

Dressed in sleek athletic wear, Juliette swung between parallel bars with ease, each movement precise and fluid. Her strength and agility were mesmerizing as she transitioned to the rock wall, scaling it with speed and confidence.

At her window, Sharon couldn’t help but watch. She stood there, transfixed by Juliette’s display of athleticism. The woman moved like no one Sharon had ever seen—graceful yet powerful, her every motion exuding confidence.

As the sun dipped lower, Connor finally set his pencil down, stretching his arms above his head. He glanced toward the gym, smirking at the faint sound of Juliette’s training.

He changed out of his work attire, donning a crisp brown suit, a blue shirt, and a bold, colorful tie. A trench coat completed the ensemble.

“Where are we going?” Juliette asked as she entered the room. She’d swapped her gym clothes for a stylish outfit: a fitted top, a cardigan, a mini skirt that stopped just above the knee, and striking white knee-high boots. Her oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, and her hair was pulled into a playful high ponytail.

Connor gave her a once-over, smiling. “Dinner by the coast. Thought we deserved a little escape.”

With a practiced chivalry, Connor opened the passenger door of their blue Oldsmobile Delmont 88, waiting for Juliette to step in before closing it gently behind her. He slid into the driver’s seat, the engine purring as they pulled out onto the road.

The seaside restaurant was perfect—soft lighting, the distant crash of waves, and smooth jazz drifting through the air. They sat at a private table, enjoying a quiet meal while reminiscing about their former lives.

“Do you ever think about it?” Juliette asked, her voice soft as she swirled the wine in her glass. “The things we’ve done, the lives we’ve lived?”

Connor leaned back in his chair, considering her question. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But we’ve earned this. Haven’t we?”

Juliette’s lips curled into a small smile. “I suppose we have. It’s just… sometimes I miss the thrill.”

Connor chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible to satisfy.”

“That’s why you love me,” she shot back with a wink.

After dinner, they strolled hand-in-hand along the beach, the moonlight casting a silvery glow on the water. The beach was deserted, their footsteps the only sound apart from the waves.

At the car, Juliette leaned against the hood, her eyes on the horizon. Connor stepped closer, his hands sliding around her waist.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he murmured, his voice low.

Juliette smirked, her hands resting on his chest. “Oh? And what are you going to do about it?”

Connor didn’t answer with words. He kissed her, hard and urgent, his fingers tightening on her hips. Juliette gasped against his lips, her body pressing against his as the tension between them broke.

They stumbled into the Oldsmobile, their desire taking over. The car rocked on its suspension as they gave in to their passion, the intensity raw and unrelenting. Juliette’s breathless cries filled the air, mingling with Connor’s low growls.

“Connor,” she gasped, clutching his shoulders, “you’re insatiable.”

He chuckled, his voice rough. “Only with you.”

The drive home was quiet, the tension between them replaced with a comfortable warmth. Juliette leaned against Connor, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm.

At the villa, they barely made it to the bedroom before their passion reignited. Sharon, watching from her window across the street, felt a pang of envy as the light in their room flickered off. She sighed, pulling the curtains closed, retreating into her own thoughts.

Chapter 14

The McCormicks continued their new lives with vigor and joy, fully embracing the opportunities before them. Days were filled with work, shared adventures, and stolen moments of passion. For Connor, the demands of engineering at McDonnell Douglas were fulfilling. Juliette, restless by nature, found her purpose as a gymnastics and acrobatics instructor, which brought her both satisfaction and a growing reputation for excellence.

Their neighbors, Roman and Sharon Polanski, admired the McCormicks from afar, quietly envious of their vitality and confidence. Sharon, in particular, found herself drawn to Juliette’s elegance and grace, though she remained shy about showing it.

Christmas 1967

That winter, the two couples celebrated Christmas together. Their homes, modest yet warm, were adorned with festive decorations. Connor, ever the practical one, built a roaring fire in the hearth while Juliette busied herself arranging a tray of freshly baked cookies.

Over whiskey and mulled wine, the group laughed and shared stories. Roman teased Connor about his penchant for tinkering with everything.

“So, did you fix Santa’s sleigh this year, too?” Roman quipped.

“Not yet,” Connor replied with a grin, “but I’ve got a spare carburetor just in case.”

Meanwhile, Juliette and Sharon talked in hushed tones.

“You’re so confident,” Sharon said, her voice tinged with admiration.

Juliette smiled. “Confidence is just practice, Sharon. You’d be surprised what you’re capable of when you try.”

Summer 1968: A Wedding to Remember

By the summer, Roman and Sharon’s long-awaited wedding brought the neighborhood together. The ceremony was small yet elegant, with white roses and soft jazz filling the air. Connor and Juliette were, of course, in attendance. Connor even stepped in when the venue lost power during the reception.

“Typical,” he muttered, grabbing his toolbox from the car. Within minutes, the lights flickered back on, to the applause of the guests.

“You saved the day,” Juliette said, kissing him on the cheek.

“Just another Tuesday,” he replied with a smirk.

Later, on the dance floor, Juliette dragged Connor into the spotlight.

“I can’t dance,” he protested.

“You can’t engineer your way out of this,” she teased, twirling him awkwardly. Despite his protests, Connor managed a clumsy charm that left Juliette laughing.

Connor’s Reputation Grows

Connor’s actions throughout the year didn’t go unnoticed. At work, his diligence and ingenuity earned him the title of Employee of the Year 1968. In the neighborhood, his occasional bouts of street justice—always directed at those who “deserved it”—earned him a mix of admiration and fear.

“Did you hear what McCormick did?” one neighbor whispered. “Caught a guy breaking into Mrs. Grady’s house and left him hogtied on the lawn!”

“Well, that’s one way to keep crime down,” another replied.

Christmas 1968

As Christmas approached, Connor went all out. The tree sparkled with carefully chosen ornaments, and gifts lay neatly wrapped beneath it. On Christmas morning, Connor handed Juliette a small, elegantly wrapped box.

Inside, she found a set of throwing knives, each handle engraved with her initials.

“These are beautiful,” she breathed, running her fingers over the polished blades.

“I figured you’d appreciate something... practical,” Connor said with a grin.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “Practical, yes. But now I owe you a gift you won’t forget.”

The New Year’s Revelation

As the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, Roman and Sharon made a toast.

“To new beginnings,” Roman declared. “And to new life—Sharon and I are expecting a baby!”

Cheers erupted, and Juliette threw her arms around Sharon. “That’s amazing! Congratulations!”

Connor clapped Roman on the back. “You’re in for quite the adventure, my friend.”

But later that night, as the festivities quieted and the two couples returned home, Connor’s thoughts turned inward.

“Juliette,” he began hesitantly as they lay in bed, “do you ever think about... having kids?”

She froze for a moment, then sighed. “Connor, I’ve thought about it. But it’s not possible for me. No one knows why.”

Her voice trembled as she continued. “I’m sorry, Connor. I know how much this means to you.”

Connor pulled her close, his tone firm yet gentle. “Don’t. You’re everything I need, Jules. Kids or no kids.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I just wanted us to have everything.”

“We already do,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “And if there’s anything more we want, we’ll face it together. Just like always.”

A Special Gift

Weeks later, Connor surprised Juliette with a weekend getaway. He rented a secluded cabin by the beach, complete with a roaring fireplace and a view of the ocean.

As they sat on the sand, watching the waves crash under the moonlight, Juliette leaned into him. “Thank you for this,” she said softly. “For everything.”

Connor kissed her temple. “You don’t need to thank me. Just being here with you is enough.”

Their night ended with a passion that left the Oldsmobile Delmont 88 rocking under the starlit sky. It was their way of celebrating life, their bond unshaken by the challenges they faced.

Back home, Sharon, watching from her window, couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing.

Chapter 15

Connor’s orders came with the inevitability of thunder on the horizon. Despite his and Juliette’s protests, he was redeployed to Vietnam in early 1969. The quiet domesticity they had built was shattered, leaving Juliette to pack his duffle bag in silence while Connor stood stoically in their kitchen.

At the airport, Juliette clung to him tightly. "You’ve already given enough," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Connor stroked her hair, his jaw tight. "It’s not about what I’ve given, Jules. It’s about what they take."

When he boarded the plane, she didn’t cry. Not then. But the moment his plane disappeared into the clouds, she felt a void she couldn’t fill.

The heat in Vietnam was the same as he remembered—oppressive and relentless. Connor returned to a unit he barely recognized, filled with younger men eager for glory and blinded by rage. His orders were clear: neutralize threats by any means necessary. And so he did, ruthlessly and without hesitation.

One day, his squad raided a small village suspected of harboring Viet Cong operatives. Among the chaos, Connor discovered a young Vietnamese woman being dragged by a group of U.S. marines. She was screaming, her face streaked with blood and tears, as they argued over who would deal the killing blow.

“She killed four of our guys with a grenade stuffed under her skirt,” one of the marines spat. “Bitch deserves what’s coming.”

Connor stepped forward, his voice cold. “And what’s coming, exactly? A field execution? That’s not justice—that’s a war crime.”

The marine sneered. “What do you care, McCormick? She’s just another gook.”

Without warning, Connor’s fist connected with the marine’s jaw, sending him sprawling into the mud. The others froze as Connor leveled his rifle at them. “Back off. Now.”

He took the woman under his protection, knowing full well the risks. Over the next several weeks, she barely spoke, her fear palpable. Connor didn’t pry, focusing instead on keeping them both alive.

During an ambush, Connor’s luck ran out. A hidden grenade exploded near his position, taking his left leg below the knee. The woman, now indebted to him, dragged him to safety despite the chaos around them. When he was finally medevacked out, he made sure she was on the same chopper.

Back in the States, Connor ensured she was placed in a safe house far from Los Angeles. He handed her a modest sum of money and a note with contact information for someone who could help her start over. “You’ve got a chance now,” he told her. “Don’t waste it.” She nodded, tears streaming down her face, but said nothing as he walked away.

Connor returned home in May 1969, the stump of his leg fitted with a functional, if crude, wooden prosthetic. When he stepped through the door of their home, Juliette was there, her face a mix of relief and heartbreak.

“Connor,” she whispered, rushing to him. “Oh my God... your leg.”

He shrugged. “Better than the alternative.”

Juliette led him inside, helping him sit on the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Didn’t want you worrying more than you already were,” he replied. “Besides, I made it back. That’s what matters.”

But the emotional toll was evident. Juliette, now fully embracing her identity as Lara Croft, struggled with the realization that they might never return to their own time. For Connor, the war had left scars deeper than the physical.

Connor’s return to McDonnell Douglas brought little solace. Though his higher rank and pay were welcome, he was reassigned to an office role, a far cry from his previous hands-on work. “Congratulations,” he muttered to himself one morning, “I’m officially a paper pusher.”

Lara, meanwhile, found herself restless. She threw herself into training, pushing her body to its limits in their home gym. One night, after a particularly grueling session, she sat beside Connor and handed him a glass of whiskey.

“Do you ever think about leaving all this behind?” she asked.

Connor took a sip, his gaze distant. “Every day. But running doesn’t change what’s already happened.”

Lara nodded, her expression pained. “I just wish we could go back. Fix everything.”

Connor placed a hand on hers. “We can’t. But we can keep moving forward.”

Their lives settled into a fragile routine. Connor adjusted to his new reality, while Lara began planning another expedition, determined to find answers. Though their paths diverged, their bond remained unbreakable—a testament to their shared resilience and love in the face of insurmountable odds.

Chapter 16

Connor had always trusted Lara Croft-Finch to handle herself. She was, after all, a woman who thrived on calculated risks. When she packed her gear for Mexico, her demeanor was confident, even cheerful, as though this were just another adventure.

“Three days,” Connor had said as he walked her to the door, his voice betraying a trace of concern.

Lara turned and smiled at him, her brown eyes sparkling with a mixture of determination and affection. “Three days, Connor. You know nothing keeps me down for long.”

She kissed his cheek and was gone, leaving Connor standing in the doorway, watching her disappear into the distance.

The first few days passed without much worry. Connor kept himself busy with neighborhood patrols, taking care of repairs for neighbors, and even indulging in some friendly rivalry with Roman Polanski, his sprint races between the Dodge Charger R/T Hemi he’d just bought and Roman’s Ferrari 275 GTB becoming a local spectacle.

But then the third day came and went. And the fourth. And the fifth. By the seventh day, Connor’s unease had become a gnawing sense of dread.

That evening, while sitting on his porch cleaning his Garand rifle, Sharon approached him cautiously. She carried a tray of cookies, clearly hoping to lighten the mood.

“Maybe she found something interesting,” Sharon offered, trying to sound optimistic. “You know how Lara is when she’s on a mission.”

Connor shook his head, his jaw tightening. “No, Sharon. She doesn’t just disappear without a word. Not like this.”

The next morning, Connor made his decision. If Lara wasn’t coming back on her own, he would go find her.

In the garage, he prepared the Oldsmobile Delmont 88 for the journey. He checked the oil, the tires, and the engine before moving to his arsenal. The Garand rifle went into the trunk first, followed by a Thompson submachine gun, his trusty M1911 pistol, and a combat knife. He added a few days’ worth of supplies—water, canned food, medical kits.

Roman caught him as he was locking up the garage. “What are you doing?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorframe with a coffee cup in hand.

“Going to find her,” Connor replied without looking up.

“You’re sure this isn’t just... I don’t know, another one of her games?” Roman’s attempt at levity fell flat against Connor’s steely determination.

Connor finally turned to face him, his eyes hard. “No. Something’s wrong.”

Roman held his gaze for a moment, then nodded silently.

Sharon, wrapped in a robe, appeared on the porch and called out hesitantly. “What if you can’t find her?”

Connor stared at her for a long moment, his expression unyielding. “Then someone’s going to pay.”

The Oldsmobile roared to life, its engine a low, guttural growl that echoed through the quiet neighborhood. As Connor pulled out onto the street, Roman and Sharon stood watching, their unease growing with every second the car grew smaller in the distance.

“Do you think she’s okay?” Sharon asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Roman sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “If she’s not, Connor definitely won’t be.”

Connor, now hurtling toward the border, gripped the wheel tightly, his mind racing with grim possibilities. One way or another, he would bring Lara back—or make damn sure whoever was responsible for her disappearance paid the price.

Chapter 17

Connor’s hands gripped the steering wheel of the Oldsmobile tightly, his knuckles white against the black leather. The road ahead stretched endlessly under the moonlight, every shadow flickering in his headlights making his stomach clench. He was too deep in thought to even notice the radio softly playing some old blues tune.

Then, on the edge of the road, something caught his eye. A shape.

“Is that...?” His voice trailed off as his foot instinctively moved to the brake.

He pulled over, the car’s tires crunching against gravel. Jumping out, he approached the figure cautiously, his heart pounding. It was a body, limp and unmoving, the dim glow of his headlights casting eerie shadows over it.

Light-blue tank top. Short shorts. Combat boots.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. “Lara?”

His breath caught in his throat as he dropped to his knees beside her. His hands hovered over her for a moment, trembling, before he checked for a pulse. There it was—faint, but steady. She was alive.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” he muttered, his voice breaking.

Without another moment’s hesitation, he scooped her up in his arms, her body light but unnervingly limp. He carried her to the car and gently laid her on the back seat, taking a moment to adjust her head so she wouldn’t slump awkwardly.

The drive back home was a blur, his mind racing with questions and worst-case scenarios. Who had done this to her? How had she ended up here? But as he neared the house, a gnawing doubt crept in.

She needed more than just rest.

Connor swore under his breath, turned the car around, and headed for the nearest hospital.

The waiting room was a haze of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. Connor paced the linoleum floor, his hands clenched into fists, his expression a mix of anger and worry. Hours crawled by before a doctor finally emerged, his face calm but serious.

“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “Dehydrated, exhausted, some bruises, but nothing life-threatening. You can see her tomorrow morning once she’s fully rested.”

Connor thanked him, though the relief barely reached his face. He refused to leave, though, planting himself in one of the uncomfortable chairs outside her room.

Morning came, and with it, a sliver of sunlight filtering through the hospital windows. Inside the room, Lara stirred, her body aching as she slowly opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was Connor, slumped in a chair beside her bed, his head tilted awkwardly as he slept.

She blinked a few times, her thoughts sluggish, her memories scattered. But the sight of him—the man who had dropped everything to find her—brought a faint smile to her lips.

With effort, she reached out and took his hand, her fingers brushing against his rough palm.

Connor stirred, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he looked disoriented, but as soon as he saw her, he straightened up. “Lara?”

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

She smiled weakly. “Sorry.”

Connor shook his head, squeezing her hand gently. “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me you’re okay.”

“I think so,” she said, her brow furrowing as she tried to piece things together. “I... don’t remember much. I was looking for something, and then... everything’s blank.”

Connor didn’t push her for details. He could see how exhausted she still was. “Doesn’t matter right now. You’re here. That’s what counts.”

By noon, after the doctors cleared her to leave, Connor carefully helped her into the car.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again as he adjusted her seatbelt.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, though her voice was still shaky.

Connor dropped her off at the house, making sure she was settled before heading to work. Sharon, who had been watching from her own porch, ran over as soon as Connor drove off.

“Lara!” she exclaimed, relief evident in her voice. “You’re okay!”

Lara managed a small smile. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.”

Sharon didn’t pry, sensing her friend’s exhaustion, but she stayed for a while, offering quiet company.

Later that evening, when Connor returned from work, he found Lara sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, a mug of tea in her hands. She looked up at him and smiled—a tired, grateful smile that spoke more than words ever could.

He sat beside her, his presence solid and reassuring. For now, that was enough.

Chapter 18

It was late July 1969, and Connor McCormick—formerly Ivan Tůma, now fully embracing his posthumous identity—was savoring the quiet pleasures of his new life. Reclining in his living room, a beer in one hand and a newspaper in the other, he occasionally glanced at the television humming in the background. His wife, Lara Croft-Finch, was busy rearranging their bookshelves, her light summer dress swaying with her movements.

The evening news interrupted their calm.

“Reports are emerging of a cult known as the Mason Family conducting brutal ritualistic murders across California,” the anchor announced solemnly. “Authorities believe these acts are part of an increasingly erratic pattern of violence...”

Connor lowered his newspaper, his brows furrowed. “What the hell is wrong with people?”

Lara froze mid-step, the book in her hand slipping to the floor. “Connor, this is horrifying. Who would do such a thing?”

Connor stood, moving to turn off the television. “Sick bastards, that’s who. Let’s not ruin the evening with this garbage.” He reached out to her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. “Come on, let’s grab dinner. Something nice. Just you and me.”

The dinner was an attempt at normalcy, but the news lingered in both their minds. Over candlelight and soft music, they focused on each other, pushing the dark world outside far from their thoughts. For a moment, they allowed themselves to be simply a man and a woman in love.

Connor, however, couldn’t fully relax. His instincts, honed over decades of soldiering and intelligence work, told him that something was brewing, something dark and inevitable.

August came, bringing with it a mix of joy and unease. Connor decided to take Lara on a trip to Woodstock, the legendary music festival that promised to be a celebration of freedom and life. The festival was a whirlwind of music, dancing, and vibrant counterculture. Even Connor, with his hard edges and military past, found himself swept up in the energy.

For three days, they laughed, danced, and immersed themselves in the free-spirited atmosphere. Yet, when they returned home, reality loomed heavier than ever.

August 9, 1969.

The morning began like any other. Connor rose early, preparing coffee and reading the newspaper. The date stood out like a beacon, triggering memories buried deep in his mind. As Ivan Tůma, he had known about this day from the history books. He knew what was coming.

He turned to Lara, who was still asleep in their bed, her hair sprawled across the pillow. For a moment, he considered waking her, telling her everything. Instead, he dressed quietly and made his way to the garage.

There, he prepared. His tools: a compact, nickel-plated Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver, a flamethrower he'd acquired through questionable means, and a hunting knife he kept razor-sharp.

Lara found him just as he was finishing his preparations. “Connor, what’s going on? Where are you going?”

He turned to her, his expression unreadable. “There’s something I have to do. Stay here. I’ll be back.”

“Connor—”

“Trust me, Lara.” He kissed her on the forehead and left before she could say more.

The Polanski villa stood eerily quiet under the moonlight. Connor parked his car a few blocks away, moving silently through the shadows. He didn’t have to wait long.

The Mason Family cultists arrived just before midnight, their twisted intentions evident in their movements. They carried knives, ropes, and a chilling air of confidence, believing themselves invincible in the face of their madness.

Connor stepped out from his hiding spot, the flamethrower strapped to his back and the revolver in his hand.

“Evening,” he called out, his voice calm but menacing.

The cultists froze, their heads snapping toward him. One of them laughed nervously. “Who the hell are you?”

“Your worst nightmare,” Connor replied, pulling the trigger.

The first burst of fire engulfed the leader, his screams piercing the night. Chaos erupted as the others scattered, but Connor was relentless. Switching to his revolver, he moved with the precision of a seasoned soldier, each shot finding its mark.

One of the cultists charged at him with a knife, but Connor sidestepped, driving his hunting knife into the man’s side. The fight was brutal and short. By the end, the lawn was littered with bodies, the stench of burned flesh hanging heavy in the air.

Connor stood over the carnage, his breath steady. He wiped his knife on one of the cultist’s shirts and holstered his revolver.

The next morning, August 10, Sharon Tate awoke to a nightmare. Stepping outside, she froze at the sight of charred and bloodied bodies strewn across her property.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she staggered back inside. She grabbed the phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed Connor’s number.

“Connor,” she said when he picked up, her voice shaking, “it was you, wasn’t it?”

“Are you safe?” Connor asked, his tone even.

“Yes, but—”

“Then that’s all that matters. I’ll handle the rest.”

Sharon hung up, sitting on the floor as tears streamed down her face. She owed her life to Connor, but the sheer violence of what had happened left her shaken.

Back at his house, Connor cleaned his weapons methodically, his mind already moving to the next challenge. Life in this strange afterworld was far from the peace he had expected, but as long as he had Lara, he would face whatever came their way.

Chapter 19

It was still August 10, 1969, and Connor McCormick had no time to rest. The bodies of the Mason Family cultists were strewn across Sharon Tate’s property, and the stench of death lingered in the air. As the sun rose higher, he knew he had to act quickly.

He rolled up to the Polanski villa in his Dodge Charger R/T, its polished black paint glinting under the Californian sun. Sharon greeted him at the door, her face pale and her hands trembling.

"Connor...what are you going to do?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Take care of it," he replied curtly. His voice was calm, but his expression left no room for debate. "Go inside. Stay away from the windows. Roman will be here soon."

Connor worked methodically. First, he draped heavy tarps over all the windows, blocking any prying eyes. Then, one by one, he dragged the corpses from Sharon’s front lawn, loading them into the Charger’s spacious trunk and back seat. The smell was unbearable, but Connor, a seasoned veteran of far worse, didn’t flinch.

As he finished tying down the last tarp over the bodies, Roman Polanski’s car pulled up to the driveway. Roman stepped out, his face a mask of horror as he took in the scene: Connor, drenched in sweat, his shirt streaked with blood, standing next to a car filled with bodies.

“Connor,” Roman stammered, “what the hell is going on? What is this?”

Connor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out an old newspaper, yellowed with age. He unfolded it carefully, showing Roman the headline: "Hollywood Actress Sharon Tate Murdered in Cult Massacre."

Roman’s eyes darted between Connor and the paper. His face turned even paler as the realization hit. “This… this was supposed to happen?”

“It did happen,” Connor said flatly. “But not this time.”

Roman stood frozen, struggling to process the impossible truth. Finally, he swallowed hard and said, “Thank you.”

Connor nodded. “Don’t tell Sharon. She doesn’t need to know.”

With Roman gone and Sharon inside, Connor climbed into the Charger. The rumble of the Hemi engine filled the quiet morning air as he drove out to the outskirts of Los Angeles, heading for a remote canyon he had scouted earlier.

The drive was long, the weight of his actions pressing heavily on him with each mile. When he reached the edge of the canyon, he stopped the car and got out. He looked down into the ravine, its jagged rocks promising to erase all evidence of what had happened.

Connor took a long, deep breath before reaching back into the car to release the handbrake. With a slight push, the Charger began to roll forward, picking up speed until it plunged over the edge.

The sound of the crash echoed through the canyon, followed by an eerie silence. Connor stood there for a moment, watching as smoke rose from the wreckage below. It was done.

He turned and began walking back toward the nearest bus stop. The journey home was uneventful, and by the time he stepped through his front door, he was ready to act like nothing had happened.

But something had happened.

“Lara?” he called out as he entered the house, expecting to hear her usual sarcastic quip or see her lounging on the couch with a book. Silence greeted him instead.

Frowning, Connor moved through the house, calling her name again. When he reached the kitchen, he froze.

On the counter was a single envelope, his name written on it in Lara’s familiar handwriting. His hands trembled as he picked it up and opened it.

Inside was a letter and a photograph. The letter read:

Connor,

I found it. I found a portal back to the reality where we belong. Where I belong. I had to go—I couldn’t stay here, not knowing there was a chance to return to my family. I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you, but I couldn’t risk it closing before I could step through.

I’ll never forget you, Ivan. You gave me a life I never thought I’d have. You taught me how to love, how to fight, how to survive. But it’s time for you to be who you truly are: Ivan Tůma. Please, don’t lose yourself here. Come back to us when you’re ready. We’ll be waiting.

Love always,

Lara

Connor stared at the photograph tucked into the envelope. It was a group picture: Lara, smiling with her arm around a man Connor recognized as Alister. Next to them were Zip, a woman he assumed to be Lara’s mother Amelia, and an older man in a butler’s uniform—Winston. They looked happy, standing together in a sunny garden.

His chest tightened as the words of the letter sank in. She was gone.

He dropped into a chair, the photograph slipping from his fingers. The house felt unbearably empty now, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. He had lost her—again.

For hours, he sat there, unmoving, staring at the letter and the photograph. The words echoed in his mind: “Come back to us.”

But how could he? Could he really leave behind the life he had built here, even if it was just an illusion?

The man who had once been Ivan Tůma wrestled with himself late into the night. When he finally stood, his resolve was clear.

He walked into the bedroom and opened the drawer where he kept a small, weathered box. Inside was a faded photograph of a younger man in a Czechoslovakian uniform—himself, before everything had changed.

“Ivan Tůma,” he whispered to himself, testing the name as though it were foreign.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel strange at all.

Chapter 20

For days, Connor wrestled with Lara’s parting words. “Come back to us,” she had written. But what did that even mean anymore? Could he return to the reality where he had once belonged, where he was Ivan Tůma—a man who had lived a lifetime of adventure and love? Or was he Connor McCormick now, doomed to drift through the haze of 1960s America like a ghost?

He found himself spending more and more time at the Polanski villa, helping Roman and Sharon come to terms with the night that had nearly claimed them. It was Roman who, seeing Connor’s restlessness, suggested a way to anchor him to the present.

“Connor, you saved our lives,” Roman said one afternoon, his face drawn and pale. “Let me offer you something in return. We need someone we can trust here—someone who knows what they’re doing. Sharon’s expecting, and... well, I can’t think of anyone better than you to look after her.”

Connor was silent for a long moment, staring out at the Los Angeles skyline as the warm breeze ruffled his hair. The idea was tempting—too tempting. It was a way to stay connected, to hold onto something real. “What exactly are you asking?” he finally said.

“Stay,” Roman urged. “Be our caretaker, our guard. We’ll pay you well, and you’ll have a place here, with us.”

Sharon, who had been listening quietly, placed a hand on Connor’s arm. “Please,” she said softly. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

And so Connor stayed. He moved into a small guest house on the property, a comfortable but simple place where he could keep his past at arm’s length. His life fell into a routine that felt safe, if a little surreal. By day, he worked at McDonnell Douglas, his engineering skills making him invaluable. By night, he kept watch over the Polanski estate, his revolver never far from reach.

Months passed, and the autumn of 1969 settled over Los Angeles. Sharon’s belly swelled with pregnancy, and Connor found himself drawn deeper into their lives. He was there the night her water broke, driving them to the hospital in the early hours of the morning, his hands steady on the wheel while Roman fumbled with the back seat, his nerves getting the best of him. When Sharon’s son was born, Connor stood outside the delivery room, a silent guardian keeping the shadows at bay.

Yet, as the years passed, a restlessness gnawed at him. No matter how deeply he buried himself in the rhythm of work and duty, there were moments when he would wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. He missed Lara—missed her sharp wit, her defiant smile, the way she made him feel alive even in the darkest moments. No amount of whiskey or fleeting company could dull that ache.

Connor's occasional visits to the seedy bars and back-alley clubs of Los Angeles became a way to chase away the loneliness, but each meaningless encounter left him emptier than before. He would lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, hearing Lara’s voice in his head: Come back to us. But he didn’t know how.

The years blurred together. Connor’s life became a repeating cycle of long days at the McDonnell Douglas office, punctuated by quiet, watchful nights at the Polanski home. He was there for every important moment—Sharon’s laughter when her son took his first steps, Roman’s dark moods when the pressure of fame bore down on him, the birthday parties, the holiday dinners.

But every time he looked at Sharon, he couldn’t help but see the woman who had trusted him with her life on that blood-soaked night. And every time he heard laughter or music coming from the house, he thought of the empty villa he returned to each night—a place that felt more like a prison than a home.

In the quiet moments, when the house was still and the only sound was the ticking of the clock, Connor would take out the photograph Lara had left him. He traced the faces of those he had once known—people he had loved and left behind. He had built a life here in California, but it felt hollow without her, without the thrill of danger and the comfort of knowing he wasn’t alone.

As the 1970s dawned, he began to realize that he was living someone else’s life—a life that had been cut off from the path it was meant to take. He was tired, lost, and the weight of the choices he had made pressed down on him like a physical force.

One cold December night, sitting on the porch of the guest house with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other, he whispered to himself, “It’s time, Ivan. It’s time to find your way back.”

But finding his way back meant unraveling the lie he had been living for years, facing the truth he had buried, and coming to terms with who he truly was: Ivan Tůma, not Connor McCormick.

He drained the glass, stubbed out the cigarette, and stood up. In the distance, the lights of Los Angeles glittered like a sea of stars, each one a reminder of the life he had chosen to leave behind.

Maybe it was time to change that.

Chapter 21

It was the winter of 1971, and the weight of Connor’s life in Los Angeles had only grown heavier. He was still caught in a rhythm that felt increasingly meaningless, days bleeding into each other without purpose. The rare flashes of excitement that had first drawn him to this new reality had dulled, leaving behind only a persistent ache. Each day, he drove his beige Cadillac Fleetwood or blue Oldsmobile Delmont 88 to McDonnell Douglas, his mind miles away from the engineering projects that demanded his attention. Each night, he watched over the Polanski estate, knowing every crack in the walls and shadow in the garden like the back of his hand. It was a comfortable prison, but a prison nonetheless.

Then, one cold February evening, a letter arrived.

Connor was sitting on the worn leather sofa in the guest house, half-listening to the radio, when he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel outside. He looked up, expecting Roman or one of the delivery boys, but saw nothing. When he opened the door, he found an envelope resting on the front step, the paper yellowed with the cold and damp of winter. His name was written on the front in a familiar, flowing script—Lara’s handwriting.

His hands trembled as he tore open the envelope, and he unfolded the letter with a sense of dread and longing.

Dear Ivan,

It’s been so long. Too long. I don’t know why I keep writing these letters when you never answer. But I can’t stop—I can’t give up on you.

Where are you, Ivan? Why haven’t you come back to us? We thought you would have returned by now. Everyone here misses you, even Alister, though he’ll never admit it. Winston still sets an extra place at dinner, just in case. And your old room is exactly how you left it, waiting.

I need to know if you’re okay. I need to know if you’re still you.

Do you remember the last night we spent together at Croft Manor, before you left on that final mission? We had stayed up until dawn in the library, talking about all the places we wanted to visit together, all the things we still had to do. We talked about your past, about what it meant to be Ivan Tůma—the man who survived everything, who never gave up.

Where is that man now?

I can’t help but feel like I’m losing you, like you’re slipping away into a world that doesn’t belong to you. But if there’s any part of you that still remembers who you were—who you are—please, come back to us.

We’re waiting.

With love,

Lara

Connor’s vision blurred as he finished the letter. It was like a crack in the wall he had built around himself, a reminder of the life he had abandoned and the people he had left behind. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of Croft Manor for a long time, but now, in the quiet of his lonely house, the memories came rushing back.

He moved to his desk, where an old shoebox lay tucked away in the back of a drawer. He opened it, revealing a pile of worn photographs, each one a snapshot of a life that felt both familiar and alien. Connor’s hands lingered on one particular image—his garage at Croft Manor.

The photo was taken in early spring, the light falling just right on the row of cars that lined the walls of the spacious garage. He could see them all clearly in his mind:

• The BMW 535d, a sleek black beauty, all power and precision. He had loved the way it felt on the open road, how it could glide through the narrow lanes of Surrey without a sound.
• The BMW 502, a classic, elegant and imposing—a car for a gentleman. It had belonged to his father, and Connor had painstakingly restored it to its former glory.
• The Mercedes 600, a titan of a car, with its deep, luxurious interior and chrome detailing. It had been Lara’s favorite, the car she had taken when she needed to feel invincible.
• The Škoda Super Estelle, a modest car by any standard, but one that had meant everything to him. It was his link to the old days, a piece of Czechoslovakia that had followed him to England.
• The Škoda 110R, bright yellow and rebellious, a car he had driven through some of the wildest escapades of his career as a young detective.
• The Škoda 130 RS, a rally legend that Connor had pushed to its limits more times than he could count, racing through muddy roads and snow-covered mountain passes.
• And then there was the Škoda Forman, the humble, red wagon that had been his constant companion in the ’90s—a time when he was both a lawman and an outlaw, playing a double game with the underworld. It was the car he had driven when everything was simpler, when he still knew who he was.

Connor let the photograph slip from his fingers, falling softly onto the table. The memories hurt, but they also brought a warmth he had almost forgotten existed. They reminded him of what it had been like to truly live—to have a purpose beyond surviving each day.

For the next few weeks, Connor’s mind was a battlefield. The letter from Lara had shaken him, cracked the facade he had maintained for years, but he still wasn’t ready to leave. Los Angeles, with all its flaws and darkness, had become his sanctuary. The city’s chaos had given him a sense of control he hadn’t felt since he had first stepped through that portal. Here, he was Connor McCormick, the watchful protector, the reliable man who never let down his guard. Leaving would mean facing everything he had run from—the past, the guilt, the man he had been before.

But Lara’s words haunted him. Each night, he would take out the letter and read it again, hearing her voice in his head, her quiet desperation. He knew she was right—he had forgotten who he was. The Ivan Tůma she knew would never have let himself get lost like this, drowning in whiskey and hollow one-night stands. The Ivan Tůma she loved had faced down armies, tracked ancient artifacts, and defied death more times than he could count.

Connor began to see the cars from his old garage in his dreams—vivid and detailed, as if they were calling to him. The Škoda Forman, in particular, seemed to pull at him, a symbol of everything he had once been: a man who lived on his own terms, who had laughed in the face of danger, and who had loved a woman who challenged him at every turn.

It wasn’t until one rainy night in March, with the Los Angeles sky black and unyielding, that Connor made his decision. He was staring out the window, watching the water stream down the glass, when he felt something shift inside him—a quiet resolve that settled into his bones.

He couldn’t keep living this way. He couldn’t ignore Lara’s plea.

Connor knew it wouldn’t be easy to leave the life he had built in California, to walk away from Roman and Sharon, who had come to rely on him more than he wanted to admit. But he also knew that he had stayed too long, that the real world—the one where he belonged—was out there, waiting.

He packed a small bag that night, just the essentials. He looked around the guest house, at the life he was leaving behind. Then he picked up the letter and the photograph from the desk, slipping them carefully into his jacket pocket.

It was time to find a way back. To find out if he was still Ivan Tůma, the man who had once laughed in the face of fate.

Connor closed the door behind him and walked into the cold, wet night, the sound of the rain on the roof like a drumbeat guiding him forward.

Chapter 22

It was November 1973. America was in the midst of a crisis. Economic tension and political turmoil filled the newspapers, casting a shadow over even the sunny streets of Los Angeles. Connor’s once-respected role as bodyguard and servant to Roman and Sharon Polanski had soured over the years. What had begun as a relationship based on trust had devolved into something darker, something bitter. To them, Connor had become a burden, a relic of a past they wanted to forget, and the contempt in their eyes was impossible to miss.

Every day, Roman and Sharon’s disdain grew sharper. What had once been polite requests became commands, and those commands soon turned into biting insults. They treated Connor as if he were less than human, a shadow lurking in the corners of their glamorous life. And Connor could feel the anger boiling inside him, a rage that had been simmering since the day he had chosen to leave his old life behind.

But then, on one cold November evening, he received another letter from Lara.

Dear Ivan,

I don’t know if this letter will reach you or if you’ve already made your way back to us. But I can’t help writing to you again. We’ve been through so much together, and yet I feel like we’ve been separated forever. I miss you, Ivan. Every day, I imagine opening the doors of Croft Manor and seeing you standing there in the hallway, that you’d hold me and say you’re finally home.

I’m here, waiting for you. Alister tells me I should move on, but I can’t. I can’t let you go. Please, come back before it’s too late.

Love,

Lara

Her words were simple, heartfelt, and they cut through Connor like a knife. They made him realize that he had been running for too long, hiding from the truth of who he was. For the first time in years, he felt a pang of something real, a need to return to the world he had left behind.

The next morning, Connor walked into the office at McDonnell Douglas and handed in his resignation. His superiors barely blinked, just nodded and wished him well. It was exactly as he had expected. He was just another replaceable cog in a machine that had no place for a man with a past like his.

For years, he had lived in the shadows, serving Roman and Sharon Polanski as a bodyguard and housekeeper—a role that had become increasingly degrading. Once a respected protector, he was now treated like an inconvenience, a reminder of a past they no longer wanted. He had traded one life of violence for another, but he couldn’t escape who he really was.

Connor stood in his small bedroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He wore his usual attire—a worn but sturdy brown suit, frayed at the edges from years of service, with wide-legged trousers that had long gone out of fashion. Over it, he buttoned a white engineer's coat, an odd piece of clothing that had become his uniform of sorts, a remnant of the time when he was more than just a hired hand. A dark brown fedora rested on his head, giving him an old-fashioned, almost anachronistic air.

Tonight was the night he would leave, one way or another. His decision had been made after Lara’s latest letter—a desperate plea that reignited a spark in him, one he thought had died out. In the garage sat his newest acquisition: a 1973 Buick Century with a rumbling, powerful V8 engine, capable of putting out 250 horsepower from its 455 cubic-inch motor. It was a car that demanded attention, a symbol of the man Connor wanted to become again—a man who was not afraid to face the future.

But first, he had to deal with Roman.

The evening began innocuously enough. Roman was lounging in the living room, a cigar clenched between his fingers, dressed in a loud, paisley shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest to reveal gold chains that glittered under the dim light. Sharon, sitting beside him, wore a soft blue dress, modest and elegant, her hair styled in loose waves. Her eyes followed Connor’s every move, and he noticed her gaze linger on the stiff way he moved, his artificial leg barely hidden beneath the pants of his suit.

Connor had come to despise the disdain he saw in Roman’s eyes—the way he sneered at Connor’s limp, the biting comments about his usefulness. Tonight, however, Sharon’s face was different; it was tense, wary, as if she knew something was about to break.

As Connor approached to clear the remnants of dinner, Roman tossed his cigar aside and gave a derisive snort. “What’s the matter, Connor? You look even more pathetic than usual,” Roman mocked, his words slurred from too much whiskey. “You can’t even keep up anymore, can you, man?”

Sharon’s head snapped up. “Roman, stop it,” she said sharply, her voice trembling. “You don’t need to talk to him like that.”

Roman’s gaze flicked to her, annoyance flashing in his eyes. “Oh, come on, Sharon. Look at him. He’s a cripple playing at being a hero.” He gestured dismissively at Connor’s engineer’s coat, a sneer curling his lips. “You’re not even a real bodyguard anymore. Just a washed-up relic.”

Connor’s hands clenched around the dishes, and he felt the fury rising inside him—a rage that had been buried for too long. He knew he should walk away, but Roman’s contempt pushed him past the point of no return.

Sharon stood up, her voice shaking with anger. “Stop it, Roman! Connor’s been more loyal to us than anyone else. He’s done everything you’ve asked and more. Leave him alone!”

Roman’s face twisted with irritation. “He’s nothing, Sharon. Can’t you see that? A man who hides behind a gun because he can’t stand on his own two feet!”

The words hit Connor like a slap, and before he realized what he was doing, his hand shot to the Colt M1911 tucked under his coat. The gun came out smoothly, pointed directly at Roman. Sharon gasped, taking a step back, her hands instinctively moving to her belly—her pregnancy had been a fragile secret, but Connor had known.

There was a heavy silence, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Roman’s face drained of color, his bravado gone in an instant. He took a shaky step back, but Connor’s aim was steady.

“Apologize,” Connor said quietly, his voice cold and controlled. “Apologize to Sharon.”

Roman opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His eyes darted to Sharon, and something like panic flickered there. Connor saw it—the fear, the realization that he had pushed too far.

“I’m sorry,” Roman said finally, his voice barely a whisper.

Connor’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t move the gun.

Sharon stepped forward then, placing herself between the two men. “Connor, please,” she said softly. “Put the gun down. You don’t have to do this.”

For a moment, Connor hesitated. But the anger still burned, deep and unquenchable. He could feel the weight of everything he had lost, everything he had given up, pressing down on him. Roman had crossed a line, and Connor knew he would never be able to forgive the man standing before him.

With a single, fluid motion, Connor shifted his aim and fired—three shots, clean and precise. Roman’s body crumpled to the floor, his eyes wide with shock. The room was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the only sound was Sharon’s soft, choked sobs.

Connor’s hand was steady as he lowered the gun, his eyes meeting Sharon’s. She was shaking, her face pale, but she didn’t move. For a long moment, they stood like that, frozen in the wreckage of what had just happened. Then, slowly, Connor holstered the pistol.

“I’m leaving,” he said, his voice flat. “I won’t hurt you. Or the child.”

The air inside the Polanski villa was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder. Connor McCormick’s hands were steady as he lowered the smoking Colt M1911, the echoes of the gunshots still reverberating in his ears. Roman Polanski lay lifeless on the floor, his body crumpled like a broken doll, and Sharon stood frozen in the doorway, her face pale and streaked with tears. Her son clung to her leg, too young to fully understand what had just happened.

“Sharon,” Connor said quietly, his voice almost gentle, “this place isn’t safe anymore. You can’t stay here.”

Sharon’s eyes darted from Roman’s lifeless form to Connor’s calm face. She had seen a different side of him—a cold, ruthless man who had shown no hesitation in pulling the trigger. But she also saw the same worn man she had known for years, a man who had always been kind to her despite the growing disdain from Roman.

“What... what do we do?” Sharon’s voice trembled as she clutched her son’s small hand.

Connor took a deep breath, his decision made. “You’re coming with me,” he said. “I’ll take you to my place—my villa. You’ll be safe there. Gather what you need, but do it quickly.”

She nodded, moving with the numb, automatic precision of someone in shock. Connor watched her for a moment, then turned back to the room where Roman’s body lay. He moved quickly now, grabbing a can of gasoline from the garage and dousing the elegant furnishings in fuel. There was no room for second thoughts. He struck a match, and flames began to lick up the walls, consuming everything they touched. Roman’s empire, his legacy, would be nothing but ashes.

Outside, the air was cold and crisp, a stark contrast to the inferno blazing behind them. Sharon and her son were already waiting by Connor’s Buick Century, her face lit by the flickering flames. Connor slid behind the wheel, his white engineer’s coat and brown suit stained with soot and ash, and they drove away from the burning villa, the roar of the Buick’s powerful engine drowning out the crackling of the flames.

It wasn’t a long drive to Connor’s own villa, tucked away in the hills outside of Los Angeles. The Buick’s 250-horsepower engine handled the twists and turns with ease, and the car felt like an extension of Connor’s own fury and determination. They arrived just as the first hints of dawn lightened the horizon, and Connor stepped out, turning to Sharon as he opened the front door.

“Stay here,” he said. “This house is yours now. I have things I need to do—places I need to go.”

Sharon hesitated, her eyes searching his face for some hint of what he was planning. “You’re leaving?”

Connor nodded, his expression hardening. “I have to. There are things I can’t ignore any longer.”

She didn’t argue, didn’t try to stop him. Instead, she nodded slowly, and for a brief moment, something like understanding passed between them.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Connor didn’t respond. He turned away, climbed back into the Buick, and without another word, drove off into the darkness.

The desert swallowed him as the Buick roared down the highway. He didn’t look back, not even when the flames of Roman’s villa were no longer visible in his rearview mirror. His mind was racing, thinking about the letters from Lara—the life he had left behind, the choices he had made. He knew he was heading toward something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. He just knew he had to keep moving.

The Nevada desert stretched out before him, vast and empty, and Connor drove on, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun as it rose higher in the sky. The Buick’s engine rumbled beneath him, a constant reminder that the road ahead was long and uncertain.

Hours passed, the miles slipping away, until he spotted something strange on the horizon—a shimmer, like heat rising from the ground, except it wasn’t hot. It was something else entirely, something otherworldly.

Connor slowed the car, his instincts telling him this was what he had been searching for. As he drew closer, the shimmer took on a more defined shape—a portal, glowing faintly in the midday light. It was like nothing he had ever seen, and yet he knew, deep in his gut, that this was his way forward.

He stopped the Buick, staring at the portal, his heart pounding. For a moment, he hesitated. He had no idea what lay on the other side, but he knew he couldn’t stay in this world any longer. He had lost too much, sacrificed too much. It was time to move on.

Taking a deep breath, Connor slammed the car into gear and gunned the engine. The Buick roared forward, the tires kicking up dust as it charged toward the portal. The light enveloped him, blinding and all-consuming, and for a moment, there was nothing but the roar of the engine and the rush of wind.

Chapter 23

The blinding flash of light faded, leaving only the low rumble of the Buick's engine echoing in the confined space. With a deafening crash, the brown Buick Century materialized in the center of Croft Manor's Tech Room, sending Zip stumbling backward, nearly toppling off his chair, while Alister's carefully stacked manuscripts scattered across the floor. Lara, who had been in the middle of adjusting the teleportation device, whirled around, eyes wide with shock.

The Buick’s engine roared one last time before dying out, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Connor McCormick—now once again Alexander Finch, formerly known as Ivan Tůma—sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly. He took a steadying breath, feeling the cold sweat on his brow, and then pushed open the heavy car door. Stepping out, he looked every bit the time-lost enigma: a brown suit, smudged and worn, a white lab coat with McDonnell Douglas logo on chest pocket draped over his shoulders, and a battered fedora tilted slightly on his head.

“Alex!” Lara’s voice broke the silence, and before he could react, she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He staggered slightly but caught her, the familiar warmth of her embrace bringing a rush of relief. She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her face a mix of anger, relief, and confusion. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for years! Why didn’t you come sooner?”

Alexander’s face softened, and he tried to find the right words. “I... got caught up. There were things I needed to settle, things I didn’t expect,” he said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “But I’m here now. I promise, I’m not going back, It was horrifying last year.”

Before the moment could deepen, a familiar voice interrupted them. “Alex?” It was Amelia Croft, standing in the doorway with Winston. She rushed forward with a smile that was both surprised and welcoming. “You’re back! After all this time... we thought...”

But Amelia’s words were cut short as the teleportation device in the corner of the room buzzed to life, filling the space with a brilliant blue glow. There was a crackle of energy, a loud pop, and suddenly, Sharon Tate and her young son appeared out of thin air. Sharon looked around, wide-eyed and bewildered, clutching her son’s hand tightly.

The silence that followed was thick with shock and confusion. Lara’s face paled, and she took a step back, glancing quickly between Sharon, the boy, and Alexander. “Sharon?” she asked, her voice incredulous. “What are you doing here? Where’s Roman?”

Sharon’s eyes locked onto Lara’s, her face stricken with a mixture of recognition and pain. “Lara... I... Roman’s dead. He’s not... he’s not coming,” she said, her voice breaking, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Lara’s expression shifted from confusion to shock. “Dead?” she repeated, disbelief etching across her features. “What happened?”

Alexander felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He had known this question would come, and now that it had, he couldn’t avoid the truth. “He’s gone, Lara,” he said softly. “He... I killed him.”

The room went dead quiet. Zip’s eyes went wide as saucers, and Alister’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. Amelia’s hand went to her mouth in shock, and Winston’s normally impassive face was ashen.

“What?” Lara’s voice was barely a whisper, her eyes locked onto his, a storm of emotions brewing just beneath the surface.

Alexander didn’t flinch, his voice steady. “Roman betrayed me, betrayed us all. I did what had to be done, for Sharon’s sake, and for her son.” He gestured towards Sharon, who stood frozen, her face a mixture of shock and resignation. “He was becoming dangerous, Lara. He knew things he shouldn’t have, and I had no choice. Sharon and her son are safe now because of what I did.”

Lara’s eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, she seemed on the verge of shouting, of lashing out, but instead, she let out a shaky breath and turned to Sharon. “Is this true?” she asked quietly, the weight of the question hanging heavily in the air.

Sharon nodded, tears streaming down her face. “He... Roman wasn’t the man I thought he was, Lara. He changed. I tried to stop him, tried to help him, but he... he crossed too many lines. Connor..ehh-Alex saved us.”

Lara’s gaze softened, her expression a mix of heartbreak and relief. She moved closer to Sharon and wrapped her in a gentle embrace. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Sharon broke down, clinging to Lara as sobs shook her frame, her young son standing by her side, confused and frightened. Alexander stood to the side, feeling the enormity of the moment and the choices he had made. He had left one life behind, had traveled through time and space, and now he was here, caught between his past and his present.

As Lara comforted Sharon, Alexander’s mind raced. He had done what he thought was necessary, but the consequences were heavy, and he knew that nothing would ever be the same. When Sharon’s sobs subsided, Lara gently pulled away and turned back to him.

“Why did you bring her here, Alex?” she asked, her voice calm but with a hard edge to it. “Why not leave her in the past?”

“I don't know. But she had nowhere else to go,” he replied, his tone earnest. “And neither did I. Whatever happened back there, it’s over now. This is our chance to start fresh, for all of us.”

Lara studied him for a long moment, and finally, she nodded, accepting the truth of his words. “Alright,” she said softly. “But you owe me the whole story, and I mean all of it. No more secrets.”

“I promise,” Alexander said, his voice firm. “No more secrets.”

Just as he was about to step forward, the teleportation device flared to life again with a sudden burst of energy, casting the room in a harsh blue light. Everyone froze, expecting another arrival, but nothing happened—the glow quickly faded, and the machine went silent.

“Is it... stable?” Alister asked, his voice trembling.

“It seems so,” Lara replied, wiping her eyes. She turned back to Alexander. “We need to figure out what’s happening with the portal. But first... you need to rest. You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Alexander nodded, exhaustion finally catching up with him. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I think I could use a break.”

Lara led Sharon and her son out of the tech room, with Amelia following closely behind to offer her support. Winston stayed back, watching Alexander with a mixture of caution and curiosity.

“You’ve been gone a long time, sir,” Winston said quietly.

“Too long,” Alexander agreed, his voice heavy with the weight of everything he had left behind.

And as Zip and Alister began to clean up the chaos left by the Buick’s sudden appearance, Alexander looked around the familiar room, feeling a strange mix of relief and dread. The past had followed him here, had pulled him back into a world he thought he had left behind. Now, he had to decide how to live with the choices he had made.

But for now, he was home—whatever that meant.

Chapter 24

The soft light of the library cast long shadows as Alexander Finch—once Connor, once Ivan—sat across from Lara Croft. The tension between them was palpable, the silence filled with unspoken words and years of separation. The grand, old room seemed too small to contain the weight of their conversation, and Alexander looked down at his hands, searching for the right way to begin.

“I tried to get here sooner, you know,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the exhaustion of years. “I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But...” He paused, rubbing his forehead with a weary hand. “I had commitments, Lara. Commitments I couldn’t just walk away from.”

“What commitments?” Lara asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. “What could possibly have kept you away for so long?”

Alexander took a deep breath, meeting her gaze. “Roman and Sharon,” he said simply. “I promised them I’d be there. Roman... he was my responsibility. He needed someone to keep him in check, someone to manage him when he lost control, and Sharon... she needed my help. So I stayed. I was... I was their servant, their bodyguard, their crutch.”

Lara’s expression softened slightly, and she leaned forward. “You could have come back sooner,” she said, a note of hurt in her voice. “You could have told me what was going on.”

“I know,” Alexander admitted, shaking his head. “I should have. But I was... ashamed. Trapped. I felt like I had no way out. Roman... he wasn’t the man he used to be. He drank too much, he beaten Sharon, and her son, Lara”

Lara frowned, clearly taken aback. “Roman? The Roman you worked for?”

“Yeah,” Alexander said, his voice bitter. “He fell apart. Became a drunk, a mess. He... blamed me for everything that went wrong. He treated me like garbage, humiliated me every chance he got. He... he mocked my leg.” Alexander looked down at his prosthetic leg, the polished wood catching the firelight. “Like it was a sign of my weakness.”

Lara’s eyes flicked to the wooden leg, and she felt a pang of sympathy, seeing it now in a different light—a testament to the hardship Alexander had endured, not a weakness. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, a soft voice cut through the room.

“Alex isn’t telling you everything,” came Sharon’s voice from the doorway. She had been exploring the manor with her son, marveling at its grandeur, but now she stood just outside the library, her face pale and haunted. “He was more than just a servant to us, Lara. He was the only one holding everything together.”

Lara turned, surprised to see Sharon standing there, her young son clinging to her side. “What do you mean?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

Sharon stepped into the room, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Roman... he changed,” she said, her voice shaky. “He became cruel. He started drinking heavily, and he became... violent. He’d lash out at Alex, at me, even in front of our son. He blamed Alex for everything, humiliated him constantly, made fun of his leg, called him... horrible things.”

Alexander’s face tightened, but he said nothing, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“Alex raised my son,” Sharon continued, her voice breaking. “He was more of a father to him than Roman ever was. He... he was the only one who cared, who tried to make things right. I... I lost a second child because of Roman,” she admitted, her face twisting with pain. “He was drunk, he pushed me, and I fell. I lost the baby, and Roman didn’t even care.”

Lara’s eyes widened in shock. “I... I had no idea,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know things were that bad.”

“They were,” Sharon said, her tone hollow. “And through it all, Alex stayed. He stayed because he promised me he would, because he knew I had no one else. He’s the only reason my son and I are still alive.”

Lara looked back at Alexander, her expression softening. “You... you went through all of that, and you never said a word?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

“It wasn’t your burden to carry,” Alexander said quietly. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. Weak. Broken.”

“You’re not weak,” Lara said fiercely, her eyes blazing. “You’re... God, Alex, you’ve always been so strong. I don’t care what happened back then, I don’t care what you think you’ve done. I’m just glad you’re here.”

Alexander felt a lump rise in his throat, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He had expected anger, disappointment, but not this—not understanding, not acceptance. He swallowed hard and looked at Sharon, who was watching him with a sad smile.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. “For telling her.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Sharon replied. “You deserve to be here, Alex. You deserve to be happy.”

For a moment, the three of them stood there, the silence heavy with the weight of shared history and unspoken words. Lara took a deep breath and moved to stand beside Alexander, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“You’re home now,” she said, her voice steady. “Whatever happened, whatever you went through—it’s over. We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.”

Alexander looked at her, seeing the fierce determination in her eyes, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to hope.

Chapter 25

The stillness of the Croft Manor was almost unbearable. Lara wandered through the empty halls, feeling a strange sense of disconnection from the place she had always called home. The past few days had been unusually quiet—Alexander, or Alex as she had taken to calling him again, had been uncharacteristically withdrawn.

When she woke that morning, his side of the bed was empty. She brushed it off as an early start, but as the hours passed, she grew uneasy. The silence felt deliberate, calculated. Something wasn’t right.

She entered the study, her heart sinking as her eyes fell on the desk. Alex’s belongings, always in some state of organized chaos, were gone. Every notebook, every pen, every trace of him had vanished. Except for a single envelope, propped neatly against her favorite globe.

Lara’s hands trembled as she picked it up. Her name was scrawled across the front in his sharp handwriting. She opened it carefully, her breath catching as she unfolded the letter.

Lara,

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I know this isn’t the way you would have wanted me to say goodbye, but it’s the only way I could manage. I’ve failed too many people in my life to keep pretending I can be the man you need me to be.

I saw the truth the other night. You don’t owe me anything—your heart has already chosen someone else. Alister has been by your side far longer than I have, and he’s earned his place in your life. He understands you in ways I never could. I saw it in the library, and I confirmed it when I found... his presence in your room.

I can’t stay here knowing I’m in the way of your happiness. So, I’ve decided to leave. Sharon and her son need me, and for once, I know where I can make a difference. I’ll help them adjust to this world, raise her son the way Roman never could, and give them the stability they deserve. It’s not the life I envisioned for myself, but it’s a life where I can finally be useful.

I sold the cars in the garage to fund our start, but I left the Mustang. I know how much it meant to you—and to him. Consider it my last gift, a symbol of what you’ve meant to me. Take care of it, and of yourself.

Don’t come looking for me. I’ve already made my choice, and I need to see it through. You have your life, your adventures, and someone who will stand beside you through it all.

I’ll always love you, but this is goodbye.

Alexander Finch.

Lara’s grip on the letter tightened as she read his words, her emotions swirling in a chaotic storm. Shock. Anger. Guilt. She sat down heavily, staring at the empty desk.

She didn’t notice the tears slipping down her cheeks until they landed on the paper, smudging the ink. Her mind raced with questions, but none of them had answers. She wanted to scream, to shout, to run after him and demand an explanation—but deep down, she knew he wouldn’t be found.

A few days later, a neighbor contacted her to share a peculiar sighting: Alex, loading a polished brown Buick from the Croft garage with Sharon and her son. They had driven off quietly, no farewells, no fanfare.

He was gone.

Far from the manor, Alex stood on the porch of a modest but sturdy villa he had built from the ground up. Sharon sat inside, laughing softly as her son played with a toy truck. For the first time in years, Alex felt... peace.

He had left behind a world of chaos, secrets, and heartbreak. In its place, he had found something simpler. He wasn’t the hero anymore, but maybe, just maybe, he could be the man someone else needed.

As he looked out over the horizon, he thought of Lara. She would find happiness—he was certain of it. And though his heart still ached for what could have been, he knew he had made the right choice.

For once, Alexander Finch—Connor, Ivan—wasn’t running from his past. He was running toward a future.

Chapter 26

Lara Corft eraser

The Croft Manor had never felt so empty, so cavernous, so cold. Lara had spent the days since Alex's departure like a ghost in her own home, wandering aimlessly through the halls. The silence was deafening, the absence of his voice unbearable. She had reread his letter until the words blurred into meaningless scribbles, each pass through the lines carving fresh wounds into her soul.

Her mind was a storm. How could he? How dare he? To leave without a proper goodbye, to discard their years together like a discarded relic? Worse, to insinuate that she had chosen someone else—someone she had already lost.

The neighbors' report had sealed it. The image of Alex driving off in her car, Sharon Tate and her son in tow, was too much to bear. He wasn’t just leaving her—he was erasing her from his life.

That night, she decided. She would find him. She would make him face her, hear her anger, feel her pain. And if he thought he could hide behind his newfound family, she would shatter that illusion, too.

The polished barrel of her USP Match glinted in the dim light as she crept through the villa’s shadowed garden. It was almost quaint, this place—so unlike him. The man she knew had a taste for precision, sharpness, control. This was too... idyllic. It made her stomach turn.

Through the window, she saw them. Sharon was brushing her son’s hair, her laughter soft and gentle. Alex—no, Ivan, she reminded herself—stood nearby, arms crossed, watching them with a faint smile. His posture was relaxed, his eyes unguarded.

It enraged her. That he could stand there, looking content, as if he hadn’t left behind a shattered woman. As if her pain didn’t matter.

Lara moved silently, entering through an unlocked window. Her boots made no sound on the hardwood floors. Her heart thundered in her chest as she approached the living room.

Alex noticed her before she could announce herself. His gaze met hers, and for a moment, neither moved. His smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet resignation.

“Lara,” he said, his voice low. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t you dare,” she spat, stepping closer. The pistols in her hands rose, steady and unwavering. “Don’t you dare act like you get to decide where I belong.”

“Sharon,” Alex said, his tone sharp but calm, “take him upstairs. Now.”

Sharon hesitated, her eyes darting between them. “Alex—”

“Go,” he barked, the authority in his voice undeniable.

Clutching her son to her chest, Sharon hurried from the room, casting one last worried glance over her shoulder.

The moment they were alone, Lara let her anger explode. “You think you can just leave?” she hissed. “That you can walk away from everything we built together? From me?”

Alex’s expression remained impassive, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes. “We weren’t building anything, Lara. We were tearing each other apart.”

“Don’t you dare make this my fault!” she screamed, her voice cracking.

“Who else’s fault is it?” he shot back, his voice rising. “You shut me out. You buried yourself in the past, in your grief, in your obsession with fixing things that couldn’t be fixed. And when I tried to help, you pushed me away.”

Lara’s grip on the pistols tightened. “I pushed you away? You abandoned me!”

“I left because I couldn’t save you, Lara!” he roared. “I left because I couldn’t watch you destroy yourself anymore. And because you didn’t need me—you already had someone else in your heart.”

Her finger twitched on the trigger, but she hesitated. “You’re wrong,” she whispered. “You’re so wrong.”

Alex took a slow step toward her. “You’re not here to talk, are you? You’re here to punish me.”

“Maybe I am,” she said, her voice icy. “Maybe I should.”

He didn’t flinch as she pressed the barrel of one pistol to his forehead. “Go ahead,” he said softly. “Do it.”

She pulled the trigger. Click.

Lara blinked in confusion, then pulled again. Click.

A small, bitter smile tugged at Alex’s lips as he reached into his pocket and pulled out two magazines. He held them up. “Looking for these?”

Rage boiled over. With a feral cry, Lara swung one pistol, the butt striking his cheek. He stumbled back, catching himself against the wall.

“Is that what you want, Lara?” he growled, his tone dangerous. “To see me bleed? Fine.”

She swung again, but this time he caught her wrist. His other hand lashed out, striking her across the face. She staggered, stunned.

“I’m not the man I used to be,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “But don’t think for a second that I won’t defend myself.”

Lara laughed bitterly, wiping blood from her lip. “You wouldn’t dare hit a woman.”

His eyes narrowed. “When I was in Czechoslovakia, I was trained to eliminate anyone who was a threat. Man or woman, it didn’t matter.”

She lunged at him, fists flying. He met her blow for blow, their fight brutal and unrelenting. Furniture shattered around them as they exchanged strikes, neither holding back.

Finally, Alex broke away, pulling a Colt Single Action Army from his jacket. He cocked the hammer, the sound deafening in the quiet room.

Lara froze, her hands trembling. “You wouldn’t...”

“Don’t push me, Lara,” he warned. His voice was calm, but his hand was steady.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Sharon’s phone, a faint voice coming through the speaker. He walked over, picking it up.

“Zip,” he said, his voice cold. “I know you’re listening. Tell her to stand down.”

Lara’s eyes widened as she realized he wasn’t bluffing. “Alex, please—”

But his mind was made up. He set the phone down and turned back to her.

“I warned you,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. He pulled the trigger.

The .45 Long Colt round tore through Lara’s skull, splattering blood and bone across the room. Her body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

For a moment, Alex stood frozen, staring at what he had done. Then, slowly, he knelt beside her, closing her eyes with a trembling hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He wrapped her body in a sheet and carried her to his car—a polished brown Buick Century. Driving through the night, he arrived at the gates of Croft Manor. With a heavy heart, he hung her body as a grim warning to those who might come after him.

But his work wasn’t done. Returning home, he descended into the basement. From a hidden compartment, he retrieved a detonator and a cache of TNT. He drove back to Croft Manor under cover of darkness.

As the sun rose, an explosion rocked the countryside, leveling the estate and ensuring that no one inside survived.

Back at his villa, Alex sat on the porch, watching the horizon. Sharon joined him, her son in tow.

“It’s over,” he said quietly.

Sharon placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are we safe now?”

He nodded, though his gaze remained distant. “Yes,” he said. “We’re safe.”

For the first time in years, Alex allowed himself to believe it.

Chapter 27

The villa stood in quiet isolation, surrounded by trees that whispered softly in the evening breeze. Inside, Sharon Tate sat cross-legged on the floor, her son giggling as he pushed a toy truck back and forth. It was a picture of domestic serenity, a stark contrast to the storm raging in Alexander Finch’s mind.

Alexander leaned against the porch railing, his gaze distant, his fingers absently tracing the wood grain beneath his palm. The peace he had tried so desperately to build for himself and his new family felt hollow, fragile. He had destroyed Croft Manor, believing it would sever the last ties to his past, but it wasn’t enough. As long as Winston, Amelia, Alister, and Zip lived, they were a threat. A threat to his family.

Sharon stepped outside, her voice gentle but concerned. "Alex? You’ve been out here all evening. Come inside."

He turned to her, his expression softening for a moment before hardening again. "I can’t. Not yet."

She approached him, laying a hand on his arm. "Please, Alex. You don’t have to keep running. You don’t have to keep fighting. We’re safe here."

Alexander shook his head, his jaw tightening. "We’re not. They’ll come for us. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but they will. I have to finish this."

Her voice broke, a plea in her tone. "You’ve done enough! No more bloodshed, Alex, please. Let it go. For us."

He looked at her, the torment in his eyes undeniable. "This isn’t just for me, Sharon. It’s for you. For your son. I’ve made too many mistakes, but this... this I can do right. When it’s over, we’ll finally be free."

She stared at him for a long moment, her tears silently falling, before retreating into the house. She knew she couldn’t stop him.

Alexander’s hunt began with Winston, the loyal butler who had served the Crofts for decades. He found him in a small Irish village, a modest stone house tucked away from prying eyes. Winston had aged noticeably, his steps slower, his back more hunched.

When Alexander knocked, Winston opened the door with a tired but polite smile. "Alexander," he said softly, his voice tinged with surprise.

Before he could say more, the Sterling submachine gun roared to life in Alexander’s hands. The bullets tore through Winston’s frail body, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the wooden threshold. Alexander stepped over the body without a second glance, his face a mask of grim determination.

Alister was next. The bookish scholar had retreated to London, spending his days buried in the dusty tomes of the British Library. He was standing outside the building, a stack of books in his arms, when Alexander approached.

Clad in a beige trench coat and a tilted fedora, Alexander looked every bit the mysterious figure from a noir film. Without a word, he drew a Smith & Wesson Model 10 from his coat and fired.

The first bullet struck Alister in the chest, the second in his neck, and the third pierced his skull. The books fell to the ground, their pages fluttering in the wind as Alister’s lifeless body crumpled to the pavement. Bystanders screamed, some running, others frozen in shock. Alexander holstered his weapon and disappeared into the crowd, leaving chaos in his wake.

Amelia was closer to home, lingering near the ruins of Croft Manor. Her Rolls-Royce Phantom gleamed in the sunlight, a symbol of her wealth and status.

Alexander worked methodically, crawling beneath the car to sever the brake lines with a blade. He retreated to a nearby hill and watched as she started the engine, blissfully unaware.

The car roared down the road, gaining speed as Amelia pressed the pedal. When she realized she had no brakes, it was too late. The Rolls careened off the road, slamming into a tree at high speed. The impact crumpled the car like paper, and flames erupted, consuming the wreckage.

Alexander stood silently, the fire reflected in his cold eyes. He didn’t move until the flames began to die down, satisfied that Amelia Croft was no more.

Zip was the last. He had retreated to Cornwall, hiding in a secluded cottage by the sea. But Alexander found him, as he always did.

Zip wasn’t defenseless. As soon as Alexander stepped through the door, Zip raised a Heckler & Koch USP Match and fired. The bullet struck Alexander’s prosthetic leg, splintering the wood and throwing him off balance.

Alexander gritted his teeth, drawing his M1911. His movements were slower, his aim less steady, but he didn’t miss. The first shot hit Zip in the chest, the next in the shoulder, and the remaining five found their mark in his head.

The cottage fell silent, the only sound the distant crash of waves. Alexander sat down heavily, reloading his pistol with trembling hands before limping back to his car.

The graveyard was quiet, shrouded in a heavy mist. Alexander stood before Lara’s grave, the headstone cold and unyielding beneath his touch. Her name was carved elegantly, a reminder of the life she had led and the love they had shared.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "For everything. For not being the man you needed. For leaving you."

He knelt, his hand brushing the damp grass. Tears streaked his face, but they were not enough to wash away his guilt.

Then the sorrow turned to rage. He stood abruptly, spitting on the grave before kicking the headstone with all his strength. The stone cracked, pieces tumbling to the ground.

"I was a fool to believe in us," he growled. "You made me weak."

When Alexander returned home, Sharon was waiting for him. She ran to him, her arms wrapping around his broad frame, her tears wetting his shirt.

"It’s done," he murmured, holding her tightly. "We’re safe now."

Sharon nodded, though her heart was heavy. She didn’t know what he had done, but she could see the blood on his soul, staining him in ways that no amount of love could cleanse.