UnBooks:Lara's Different Kind of Adventure

This story is a spin-off, a departure from the high-octane escapades and adrenaline-fueled battles that once defined Lara Croft’s life. Here, the focus shifts to something quieter, yet no less profound—the exploration of love, loss, and the weight of time.

After decades of raiding tombs and facing dangers no mortal should endure, Lara now finds herself grappling with a new kind of journey. One that isn’t marked by treasure maps or ancient traps, but by the shifting sands of memory and the fragile thread of human connection.

Her partner, Ivan, once a pillar of strength and an unlikely ally in countless adventures, is no longer the man he used to be. Time has taken its toll, but their bond remains steadfast. As Ivan’s light begins to dim, Lara reflects on the moments that made them who they are—from their fateful first meeting to the battles they fought together, and the secrets they unearthed, both in the world and within themselves.

This tale, while quieter, holds its own gravity. It is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of love, even in the face of inevitable loss. Lara’s story is no longer about the treasures she can hold in her hands, but the memories and lessons she carries in her heart.

Welcome to A Different Kind of Adventure.

Chapter 1

The days at Croft Manor had taken on an unfamiliar rhythm. For the first time in years, there was no looming crisis, no ancient mystery begging to be solved, no deadly adversary lurking in the shadows. The quiet should have been a blessing, but for Lara, it felt unnatural, like wearing clothes that didn’t quite fit. She was used to chaos, to the thrill of the unknown. Now, her days were punctuated by mundane tasks—some she took on willingly, others she fumbled through with the same tenacity she applied to her tomb raids.

Ivan, ever the practical soul, had adjusted more readily. The doctor had told him to slow down, and while Ivan had nodded obediently during the appointment, he was anything but compliant. Lara would often find him tinkering in the library, rearranging old maps, or out in the garden, leaning heavily on his cane as he tended to the roses. She had long given up trying to stop him. His stubbornness was one of the many things she admired about him, even if it drove her mad at times.

It wasn’t as if Lara had truly embraced domestic life herself. Her first attempt at baking had ended in disaster, the smell of charred bread lingering in the kitchen for hours. Ivan had limped in, his face breaking into a grin when he saw the smoking oven. “You know,” he said, leaning against the counter for support, “some people just buy bread.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Lara retorted, though even she had to laugh. “How do people do this every day? It’s maddening.”

“You raided an ancient tomb guarded by supernatural warriors, but bread is your undoing. Quite the legacy.”

Lara rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. It was moments like these that reminded her why she loved him. Ivan had a way of grounding her, of making even her most absurd failures feel like triumphs.

Despite his health, Ivan insisted on helping around the manor. His hands, slower now but still capable, fixed leaky faucets and creaky doors. He’d mutter under his breath about how the place had fallen apart since the days of Lord Croft, even as he meticulously repaired each issue. Lara couldn’t bring herself to stop him. If these small tasks gave him purpose, who was she to interfere?

When Lara prepared for her next expedition, Ivan would be there, double-checking her equipment. His hands fumbled with the straps, his once-steady grip faltering, but his determination was unwavering. “You don’t have to do this,” she said softly one morning as he struggled with her satchel.

“I know,” he replied gruffly. “But someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

His teasing tone didn’t hide the weight of his words. Lara placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “You always worry too much.”

“And you never worry enough,” he shot back with a smirk.

Their evenings were a stark contrast to the bustling days of the manor. When the world outside grew quiet, they would retreat to the study. Ivan would sit in his favorite chair, a book in his lap and a glass of whiskey within reach. Lara would join him, sometimes in silence, other times engaging in conversations that wandered from the profound to the absurd.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she admitted one night.

“Do what?”

“Stay still. Be... ordinary.”

Ivan looked at her, his expression softening. “I’m not ordinary, Lara. Neither are you. But even extraordinary people need to slow down sometimes.”

Lara nodded, though she wasn’t entirely convinced. She had always been driven by a need to move, to explore, to conquer. Standing still felt like surrender. Yet, as she watched Ivan, she realized he had found a peace she still couldn’t grasp.

Her love for him was as much a part of her as her love for adventure. Ivan had been there through it all—her triumphs and failures, her darkest moments and her brightest victories. He had seen her at her best and her worst, and he had stayed.

But Lara couldn’t ignore the changes. Ivan, once so strong and steady, now relied on his cane more than ever. His eyesight was failing, and he had reluctantly started wearing glasses. Some days, he struggled to keep up with even the simplest tasks. And yet, he persisted. He still helped her pack for her journeys, still fixed the broken things in the manor, still greeted her with a smile when she returned home.

She saw the toll it took on him, but she also saw his pride. Ivan wasn’t a man who accepted defeat easily. Even as his body betrayed him, his spirit remained unbroken.

Lara found herself torn between her two worlds. She loved the thrill of the chase, the rush of discovering something long lost to time. But she also loved the quiet moments with Ivan, the way he looked at her as if she were the most remarkable thing he’d ever seen.

One day, she returned from an expedition to find Ivan in the kitchen, struggling to open a jar of jam. His cane leaned against the counter, and he was muttering curses under his breath.

“Need some help?” she asked, hiding a smile.

“I’ve got it,” he grumbled, though his hands trembled with the effort.

She stepped forward, gently taking the jar from him. With a quick twist, it opened. “You’re supposed to ask for help, you know.”

“I don’t need help,” he replied, though his tone lacked its usual conviction.

Lara set the jar down and placed a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do everything on your own, Ivan. That’s why I’m here.”

He looked at her, his eyes softer now. “You’ve always been here, haven’t you?”

“Always,” she said quietly.

For all the challenges they faced, for all the ways their lives had changed, one thing remained constant: their love for each other. It was a love forged in fire, tempered by time, and stronger than anything either of them had ever known.

Chapter 2

Ivan got sentimental

Life at Croft Manor had settled into an odd sort of rhythm, though not one Lara particularly enjoyed. She had always thrived on chaos, danger, and the thrill of uncovering secrets lost to time. Now, her days consisted of mundane tasks that mocked her adventurous spirit. Cooking? Disaster. Gardening? Worse. Ivan, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content, whistling happily as he tinkered with his latest project—a Volga 24 he was transforming into a retro 1990s Czech Police car, complete with the white body and green stripe.

Lara sat in the dusty library, half-heartedly flipping through old journals. She couldn’t deny it—she was bored. Stiflingly bored. She glanced out the window at Ivan, leaning over the Volga’s hood, humming a tune she recognized instantly.

“Škoda lásky…” he muttered between verses, his voice trailing off into a contented burp.

Lara smirked, though the sound also stung. Ivan was happy, and she hated that her own peace was nowhere to be found. Her fingers brushed over a faded map on the table, and something caught her eye—a name: Temple of the Crimson Blossom. Her heart skipped a beat.

It was an ancient site buried deep in the Indian jungle, whispered about in old texts for its mythical treasures and deadly traps. Perfect. Exactly what she needed.

“Sorry, Ivan,” she muttered under her breath, rising from her chair. “But if I don’t do this, I’ll go mad.”

Packing was quick and efficient. Her boots, holsters, and satchel were ready before Ivan even noticed she wasn’t pacing around the manor muttering complaints about the hedges. Before leaving, she scrawled a quick note and left it on the kitchen table:

Dear Ivan,

I know you’ll tell me this is a bad idea, but I have to go. The thrill of the unknown, the chaos of it all—it’s calling to me. Sitting here while you play mechanic is killing me, love.

I’m heading to the Temple of the Crimson Blossom. Don’t worry; I know what I’m doing. I’ll be back before you know it.

Take care of yourself, and for heaven’s sake, don’t let the local police arrest you in that car. I’ll even let you teach me how to drive it when I’m back.

With love, Lara

Lara placed the note conspicuously where Ivan would see it. Slipping out the front door, she felt a rush of excitement she hadn’t felt in months. It was as though the air itself was alive, buzzing with anticipation.

Hours later, Ivan stepped into the kitchen, a smudge of engine grease on his cheek. Whistling "Škoda lásky," he froze mid-tune when he saw the note.

Grabbing it, he squinted and muttered, “Temple of the Crimson Blossom? Couldn’t she pick something safer, like... I don’t know... Temple of Fluffy Pillows?” He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping.

Turning, his gaze wandered to the window, where his Volga gleamed in the sunlight, freshly polished and outfitted with retro decals. He gave a small, satisfied smile.

“At least she didn’t take the Volga. That’d be worse than her little temples,” he said aloud, belching softly as he pulled out a rag to wipe his hands.

By the time Ivan was testing his retro siren in the garage, Lara was already airborne, headed to India. Her mind buzzed with plans and possibilities, her heart racing with the familiar thrill of the unknown.

She knew Ivan would be fine. He had his Volga, his quiet contentment, and his peculiar habit of burping old Czech folk songs. But for her, life was out there—waiting to be seized, conquered, and, perhaps, unraveled one mystery at a time.

Chapter 3

The Indian jungle buzzed with life as Lara pushed her way through dense undergrowth, sweat dripping from her brow. The map she held, supposedly leading to the Temple of the Crimson Blossom, was smudged and barely legible after days of trekking. She paused for a moment, taking a swig from her canteen, eyes scanning the terrain. The air was thick with humidity, making every step feel like a chore.

Ahead of her lay a decrepit rope bridge spanning a jagged ravine. Testing it with a tentative step, the ancient wood groaned in protest. She took another step, then another, until halfway across, one of the planks splintered beneath her. She grabbed the rope handrails, dangling precariously over the abyss. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, swinging herself forward and clambering back onto solid ground.

As she continued, the temple revealed itself in the distance—a majestic structure carved into the face of a cliff, its entrance framed by statues of mythical beasts. Reaching the doorway, she stepped cautiously inside, where dim light filtered through cracks in the stone. It didn’t take long before her instincts screamed danger. A pressure plate clicked beneath her boot. Without thinking, she dove forward just as arrows shot out from the walls, narrowly missing her.

“Really? Traps. Classic,” she muttered, brushing herself off and glaring at the mechanism as though it had insulted her.

The deeper she ventured, the more treacherous the path became. At one point, the ground shifted beneath her feet, and she heard the rumble of collapsing stone above. She sprinted down the corridor as chunks of the ceiling fell, narrowly avoiding a crushing death. When she finally stumbled outside, her heart was racing, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She leaned against a tree, her mind flickering to Ivan back at Croft Manor.

Pressing her comm device, she spoke softly. “Ivan, I hope you’re behaving yourself. If you’re overdoing it with that Volga instead of resting…” She sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Never mind. Knowing you, you’re probably grilling sausages in the garage.”

Despite the humor, she couldn’t completely shake the worry gnawing at the back of her mind. Ivan wasn’t invincible, and she knew it. But if anyone could keep himself out of too much trouble, it was him. Or so she hoped.

At Croft Manor, Ivan was far from trouble-free. He had spent the morning arguing with Winston, the ever-patient butler, over Lara’s explicit instructions that Ivan wasn’t to exert himself. “Instructions,” Ivan scoffed, adjusting his glasses as he tinkered with his prized Volga 24. The car was halfway through a transformation into a Czech police patrol vehicle from the 1990s, complete with a green stripe and retro decals.

Winston observed him from the doorway, arms folded. “Sir, Lady Croft would be most displeased to see you lifting engine parts in your condition.”

Ivan wiped grease from his hands, grinning. “Bah, she’d be proud. I’m keeping busy. Besides, I promised her I’d keep this thing roadworthy.”

Winston sighed but said nothing, stepping aside as Priscilla and Evelyn arrived. Priscilla, Ivan’s granddaughter, had just returned from her latest work trip with Vogue. Evelyn, a past fling of Ivan’s, tagged along, eager to catch up.

“You look like you’re building a time machine,” Priscilla teased, gesturing to the Volga.

Ivan laughed, patting the car’s hood. “If only. I’d go back to 1989 and tell my younger self to get some rest while he can.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow, smirking. “And what would you tell younger me, hmm?”

“Not to waste your time on old fools like me,” Ivan replied with a wink.

They laughed, and the conversation drifted to Lara. “How does she manage to just… disappear without notice?” Priscilla asked.

“She’s a Croft,” Ivan replied simply. “That woman’s been running off to risk her life since before I knew her. She’ll come back with a story, same as always.”

Still, there was a flicker of unease in his voice, one that didn’t go unnoticed. Later that afternoon, Ivan and Winston took a break by the lake on the estate grounds. Winston had packed a simple lunch, and Ivan cast a fishing line into the water.

“Do you think she’s alright?” Winston asked after a long silence.

Ivan shrugged, reeling in his line. “If she’s not, she’ll figure it out. Lara’s tougher than any of us give her credit for. Me, I’m just happy to have a bit of peace and quiet.” He leaned back, softly humming the tune to “Škoda lásky” under his breath.

But as the sun set over Croft Manor, Ivan couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was coming. Maybe it was his old instincts, or maybe it was just the weight of years catching up to him. Either way, he decided not to dwell on it. For now, there was fish to catch, stories to share, and the hope that Lara would return soon, safe and sound.

Chapter 4

The heat of the jungle clung to Lara as she pressed deeper into the temple ruins, her every step echoing in the silent corridors. Her hand brushed against the worn carvings on the walls, their intricate designs telling stories of forgotten gods and long-lost rituals. But even the thrill of discovery couldn’t fully distract her. Her mind kept wandering back to Ivan. She had left him behind with a note, trusting him to understand, but a part of her worried about his well-being. Ivan wasn’t the man he once was—his limp, his reliance on a cane, and his failing eyesight were constant reminders of the toll life had taken on him.

Lara brushed the thoughts aside, focusing instead on navigating the labyrinthine structure. She had narrowly escaped death twice already—once when a sudden collapse nearly trapped her underwater, and another when a pack of wild dogs surprised her. She had barely managed to fend them off with a makeshift torch, the growls and snapping jaws still fresh in her memory.

But danger was part of the job. It always had been.

Meanwhile...

It was a quiet evening at Croft Manor. Winston was methodically arranging a tray with tea and biscuits, his precision honed over decades of service. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, there was an unspoken tension in his movements. He had noticed Priscilla and Evelyn's unease since their discovery in the attic, though they hadn’t spoken a word to him about it.

As Winston entered the study to deliver the tea, he found Ivan sitting by the fireplace. The older man had his cane propped against the armrest of his chair, his head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling. A faint hum of “Za císaře pána” escaped his lips, the melody a bittersweet echo of simpler times.

Winston placed the tray on the table and hesitated before speaking. “Mr. Ivan, if I may… I sense that something has been troubling the ladies. And, dare I say, yourself as well.”

Ivan chuckled dryly, his voice tinged with weariness. “You have a sharp eye, Winston. Too sharp for your own good sometimes.”

“I merely observe,” Winston replied with a small bow. “But I also care for this household, and everyone within it. If there is a burden you carry, perhaps sharing it might lighten the load.”

Ivan sighed, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea. He stirred it slowly, watching the ripples in the liquid as if searching for answers there. “They found some old tapes. From Bosnia. From Orlík. Things that should have stayed buried.”

Winston nodded, his expression unreadable. “The Bosnian conflict… a tragedy that left scars on many. You were there, weren’t you?”

Ivan’s hand paused, the spoon clinking against the cup. “Yes. 1995. I was with the UN peacekeeping forces. They called us ‘peacekeepers,’ but there was no peace to keep.” His voice grew heavier, as if each word carried the weight of those memories. “We saw things no human should ever see. Srebrenica was the worst.”

Winston carefully took a seat opposite Ivan, his usual reserved posture softening. “I’ve read about it. The massacre, the mass graves…”

“Reading about it doesn’t prepare you for the smell,” Ivan interrupted, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Or the sight of mothers digging through the dirt with their bare hands, looking for their sons. And we stood there, Winston. Armed to the teeth, wearing blue helmets, and we couldn’t do a damn thing.”

Winston’s hands folded in his lap, his usually steady gaze wavering. “That must have been… unbearable.”

Ivan nodded, his face a mask of pain and anger. “We found the graves after the fact. Hundreds of bodies piled together. Muslim men and boys. We cataloged them, took photos, reported it to our commanders. And then we drank ourselves stupid at night, trying to forget.” He laughed bitterly. “One night, someone put on a cassette of ‘Oj Alija Aljo.’ A morbid joke. The irony wasn’t lost on us—starving Muslims, while we sat there with our MREs and cigarettes, doing nothing.”

The silence in the room was deafening. Winston, ever the professional, took a moment before replying. “It sounds as though the weight of those experiences never left you.”

“They don’t,” Ivan admitted. “You carry them, like a rucksack full of stones. You get used to the weight, but it’s always there.”

Priscilla and Evelyn entered the room, their earlier pallor replaced with a cautious determination. Priscilla hesitated before speaking. “Grandpa, we… we saw the tapes.”

Ivan turned his weary eyes to her. “I know.”

“And the Orlík cases,” Evelyn added, her voice trembling slightly. “Why do you still have those? The bodies in the barrels, the family at Christmas… Why didn’t you get rid of them?”

Ivan set his tea down, his hands resting on his cane. “Because forgetting isn’t an option. Those cases, those people—they deserve to be remembered. Even if it’s painful.” He looked at Priscilla, his expression softening. “You think it’s gruesome, and it is. But if we forget, it’s like saying their suffering didn’t matter. And I can’t let that happen.”

Priscilla sat down beside him, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t know how you did it. How you kept going.”

Ivan placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. “Because I had to. And because I believed that maybe, just maybe, my work would make things better for someone else.”

Winston cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. “If I may, sir, you’ve carried these burdens for long enough. Perhaps it’s time to let others help share the weight.”

Ivan smiled faintly, the first genuine smile he had managed in days. “Maybe you’re right, Winston. Maybe it’s time.”

As the evening wore on, the four of them sat together, the warmth of the fire contrasting sharply with the cold memories Ivan had shared. Somewhere in the jungle, Lara was narrowly escaping another brush with death, unaware of the ghosts haunting her husband’s past. But for the first time in a long time, Ivan felt like he wasn’t facing them alone.

Chapter 5

Lara pushed her way through the dense jungle, where every step felt like a battle against nature itself. The vines tangled her legs, the humidity clung to her like a wet blanket, and the buzzing of mosquitos provided a maddening soundtrack to her journey. Twice, a wild cat had crept into her tent at night, nearly tearing open her bag of supplies. Bruised and battered, she trudged on, driven by that insatiable Croft desire for discovery.

As she neared an ancient temple hidden in the depths of the jungle, her instincts sharpened. In the clearing ahead, she spotted two military jeeps parked haphazardly among the trees. Lara ducked behind a large boulder and carefully assessed the scene. Three armed guards were patrolling the area while another two rummaged through the rubble near the temple entrance. Mercenaries, of course. It’s always mercenaries. She sighed quietly and checked her gear.

Her pistols slid silently from their holsters as she flanked the first guard. Two quick shots—silent and clean. The man crumpled to the ground, unnoticed by the others. Lara’s heart raced, adrenaline flooding her veins as she crept closer to the temple. She felt alive, untouchable.

Inside, the situation turned chaotic. A larger group of mercenaries waited, their voices echoing through the ancient stone walls. The moment they spotted her, bullets rained down, ricocheting off the stone and sending debris flying. Lara dove behind a massive column, barely avoiding a shot that grazed her side. She muttered to herself, “Why does this always end in a firefight?” before launching into a counterattack.

Meanwhile, Ivan was dealing with his own problems.

The drive back to London was uneventful at first, save for the occasional bickering between Priscilla and Evelyn over some trivial fashion debate. Ivan tuned them out, letting the hum of the radio fill his mind. But even the familiar melodies brought unwelcome memories. In Srebrenica, silence was the loudest sound. Silence meant the massacre had begun. Ivan gripped the steering wheel tighter and focused on the road ahead.

When they finally reached the Vogue building, Ivan parked the car and leaned back with a sigh. “Alright, off you go. Don’t spend all day talking about nonsense.”

Evelyn smirked as she stepped out. “You sure you don’t want to come up? I’m sure we could find you something chic to wear.”

Ivan grunted, tapping his leather jacket. “This is as chic as it gets. Go on, I’ll wait.”

As the women disappeared inside, Ivan lit a cigarette and leaned against his BMW. It was then that trouble found him.

A teenage boy, no older than seventeen, ambled up to the car with an air of bored defiance. Without a word, the boy pressed his hand against the car’s side mirror and yanked. The mirror snapped off, crashing to the pavement with a hollow thud.

Ivan’s eyes narrowed to slits. He tossed his cigarette aside and stepped forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “You little brat. Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

The boy sneered. “Yeah. I broke your junk car. So what?”

That was all it took. Ivan swung his cane with precision, striking the boy in the ribs. “Junk car? Junk car?! I’ll show you junk!” he roared, delivering a swift kick to the boy’s shins. The teenager stumbled, but Ivan wasn’t done. He punched him, then slammed the cane against his back. The boy eventually scrambled to his feet and fled, clutching his side and wailing in pain.

Ivan watched him run, panting heavily. But before he could return to his car, a sharp pain shot through his chest and his vision blurred. His legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground beside the broken mirror.

When Evelyn and Priscilla came rushing out minutes later, they found him slumped against the car, pale and muttering incoherently. “Dammit” he mumbled, his eyes unfocused. “This is where I’ll end.”

Evelyn called an ambulance, her voice shaking as she barked instructions to the operator. Priscilla knelt beside him, tears streaming down her face. “Grandpa, stay with us. They’re coming. You’re going to be fine,” she whispered, gripping his hand tightly.

The hospital confirmed what Evelyn had feared: Ivan had suffered a stroke. While he survived, his left leg from the knee down was paralyzed. The doctors tried to soften the blow, but Ivan took it in his usual blunt manner.

“Well,” he grumbled, “one boy walks away with a lesson, and I walk away with a useless leg. Fair trade.”

Lara, of course, had no idea. She was too busy dodging another trap in the temple and narrowly escaping a falling boulder. Still, as she caught her breath and wiped the sweat from her brow, a strange unease settled over her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong back home.

Chapter 6

Lara's journey was becoming increasingly treacherous. She dodged falling rocks, navigated dangerous underwater caverns, and had a close encounter with a venomous snake. Each moment tested her mettle, but there was also a growing unease in the back of her mind. Ivan hadn’t contacted her, and guilt gnawed at her between adrenaline-filled escapes. Yet, the thrill of the hunt consumed her. "He’ll be fine," she reassured herself as she pressed on, hoping the next discovery would distract her lingering doubts.

Meanwhile, Ivan was discharged from the hospital. Despite the doctor’s warnings to take it easy, he was already working on a plan to bring some excitement back into his life. The cane by his side was a reminder of his limitations, but Ivan refused to let it define him.

A few days later, Winston was watering the garden when he saw Ivan driving up the driveway in an old, bright red Škoda Super Estelle Two 130 LSE. The car gleamed in the sunlight, complete with retro Hella lights mounted on the front and a five-speed gearbox that Ivan had been raving about since morning. Winston watched in stunned silence as Ivan parked the car and stepped out with a triumphant grin.

“Mr. Tůma,” Winston said, putting down his watering can, “is there a reason you’ve purchased... well, this?” He gestured at the car, his expression a mixture of confusion and amusement.

Ivan smirked, leaning on his cane as he admired the Škoda. “Ah, Winston, this is no ordinary car. This is a piece of history. I had one just like it back in the '80s.”

Winston raised an eyebrow. “I see. A piece of history that rattles like a tin can in the wind and could be outrun by a bicycle, I assume? You know, I’ve heard some jokes about Škodas.”

Ivan chuckled, knowing exactly what was coming. “Go on, let’s hear them.”

“Well,” Winston began, “why do Škodas have heated rear windows?”

“To keep your hands warm while you push them, I assume,” Ivan interrupted with a grin.

Winston smiled. “Exactly. Or, how about this one: What do you call a Škoda with a sunroof?”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “A skip? Come on, Winston, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Touché. But really, why not something more... reliable?” Winston gestured vaguely toward the driveway, where Ivan’s BMW was parked.

Ivan’s expression softened slightly as he patted the Škoda’s roof. “You know, back in the day, this was all I could afford. It was a good car. Reliable, decent enough to get me around, and better than the alternatives.”

“Such as?” Winston inquired.

Ivan chuckled. “Such as a Trabant. Do you know what that is, Winston?”

Winston shook his head. “No, can’t say I do.”

Ivan leaned against the car, as if preparing to deliver a lecture. “Imagine this: a car made of plastic reinforced with cotton fibers. Two-stroke engine, about as powerful as a lawnmower. And the smell... oh, the smell. It was like riding around inside a poorly ventilated petrol station.”

Winston blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” Ivan said with a wistful smile. “But Trabants were the reality for a lot of people. You’d order one, wait a decade for delivery, and then pray it didn’t fall apart on the way home. Compared to that, the Škoda was luxury. This one’s even better—it’s the British version, more refined and with a five-speed gearbox. A real beauty, don’t you think?”

Winston looked at the car again, clearly unconvinced. “Beauty is... subjective.”

Ivan laughed and patted Winston on the back. “You have no taste for nostalgia, my friend. Now, how about you stop watering my driveway and help me adjust the seats?”

As Winston muttered something about eccentric Eastern Europeans, Ivan set to work on modifying the Škoda’s controls. With one leg no longer functioning, he needed to adapt the car so he could drive it using only his right foot. By the end of the day, the car was road-ready, and Ivan was beaming like a proud father.

“That’ll do,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “Winston, you might not understand, but this... this makes me feel alive.”

Winston handed him a glass of lemonade and gave him a knowing smile. “As long as it doesn’t kill you first, Mr. Tůma.”

Ivan raised the glass in a mock toast. “To survival, Winston. And to doing it in style.”

Chapter 7

Lara had finally triumphed—she found exactly what she had been searching for. But on her journey back, things took a turn. Hours passed without any word from her, and Winston paced nervously through the manor while Ivan poured himself a third glass of Becherovka.

“This isn’t normal,” Ivan muttered, wiping his glasses.

Winston nodded in agreement. “Lady Croft has never been one to forget to send word. I fear the worst, Mr. Tůma.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow, threw on his coat, and grabbed the keys to his Volga. “Come on, Winston. We’re going.”

Winston eyed him skeptically. “Is that necessary? And... in the Volga?”

Ivan opened the door and waved him over. “This isn’t just some junk heap, Winston. This is a Volga 24. If you’d grown up under socialism, you’d understand. This car was for the chosen few—politicians, generals, factory directors. Regular folks didn’t get a chance to drive one. It had style, and it had comfort.”

Reluctantly, Winston got into the passenger seat. As he settled in, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “I must admit, it’s more comfortable than I expected.”

Ivan lit a cigarette and smirked. “Told you. Now, shut up and let me drive. We need to find Lara.”

Hours passed without any sign of Lara. Winston was growing increasingly anxious. “What if something’s happened? This is not like her.”

Ivan nodded grimly. “I’ll have to pull some strings. Let me make a call.”

And so, Ivan reached out to his former colleagues at Scotland Yard. He explained the situation, and to his surprise, they allowed him to actively participate in the search. Even more surprising, they permitted him to use the siren mounted on his Volga—a vintage Tesla AZD 501 he had installed during his days in the Czech Federal Police.

When Ivan turned on the siren, Winston paused, startled. The sound it emitted was completely unlike the harsh, grating tones of modern police vehicles. The siren was calm, melodic, and almost hypnotic. Passing officers nodded in approval.

“This is... different,” Winston remarked.

Ivan grinned and pressed the gas pedal slightly harder. “Told you, Winston. Tesla AZD 501. There’s nothing better. These sirens didn’t annoy people; they were heard but didn’t shred your ears. Modern sirens are horrible things.”

“You’re right. This is almost... pleasant,” Winston admitted.

Despite their best efforts, Lara remained missing. The search gained media attention, which only fueled Ivan’s frustration. Winston, beginning to grasp the seriousness of the situation, tried to calm him down.

“You can’t blame yourself, Mr. Tůma. Lady Croft is entirely self-reliant. She’ll surface soon, I’m sure of it.”

Ivan grumbled and lit another cigarette. “Let’s hope so, Winston. But if something’s happened to her, I’ll never forgive myself.”

The search continued as Ivan and Winston crisscrossed England’s roads in the Volga, the melodic siren signaling their urgency. Yet, deep down, both men felt a growing dread. This time, it seemed, Lara might have truly encountered something beyond even her formidable abilities.

Chapter 8

Ivan and Winston pressed on, the Volga cutting through the cold English night like a phantom. The road ahead was uneven and slick with rain, but Ivan didn’t seem to notice—or care. He handled the car with a confidence that left Winston gripping the dashboard more than once.

“I still can’t believe you’re driving this like it’s a Land Rover,” Winston said, his voice tinged with both astonishment and mild terror as the Volga jolted over a particularly rough patch of dirt road.

Ivan smirked, his hands steady on the wheel. “Why not? Volga wasn’t built for your smooth British motorways, Winston. This car was designed for Siberia, for potholes that could swallow lesser vehicles. High ground clearance, tough suspension—it’s a tank disguised as a sedan.”

Winston adjusted his scarf and cast a wary glance at the rain-soaked terrain outside. “You could’ve fooled me. It certainly doesn’t look the part.”

Ivan chuckled, lighting a cigarette with a practiced flick of his lighter. “That’s because you’ve been spoiled by your fancy British cars. This—this is engineering for survival. You’d understand if you’d grown up in the Eastern Bloc. A Volga wasn’t just a car; it was a status symbol. You didn’t see these in every driveway. This was for the generals, the factory directors, the party officials. It’s got style and grit.”

Winston braced himself as the car climbed a steep, muddy incline, the engine growling but never faltering. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but be impressed. “I’ll admit, I’m starting to see the appeal. It’s... surprisingly capable.”

“Capable?” Ivan raised an eyebrow, taking a drag from his cigarette. “You’ve got no idea. I once saw a Volga plow through snow up to its headlights and come out the other side without a scratch. You could run this thing on vodka if you had to.”

Winston frowned. “That doesn’t sound particularly efficient.”

Ivan laughed, the sound echoing in the confined space of the car. “Efficient? No. But practical? Absolutely. Now keep your eyes peeled. We’re not stopping until we find her.”

The mood in the car shifted as the weight of their task settled over them again. Winston silently resumed scanning the darkened landscape, and Ivan pressed harder on the accelerator, the Volga’s tires splashing through puddles with ease.

Far away, in a place Lara couldn’t name, her world was a blur of pain and disorientation. She stirred slightly, her senses dulled but not completely gone. The first thing she noticed was the cold—the kind that seeped into her bones, made worse by the dampness of the air.

Her eyelids fluttered open, but it was like trying to lift heavy stones. The dim light filtering through her blurry vision didn’t help; it only added to her confusion. She blinked a few times, trying to focus, but her head throbbed with every movement.

She was sitting—no, bound—to a chair. The realization sent a jolt of panic through her, and she instinctively tried to move. Her wrists were tied tightly behind her back, and her ankles were secured to the chair legs. The ropes bit into her skin with every attempt to struggle.

"Where am I? What happened?"

Fragments of memory began to surface. The thrill of discovery, the artifact finally in her grasp. Then, the sharp pain—someone had struck her from behind. Darkness had followed, and now here she was, wherever here was.

The room was dark and oppressive, the walls seemingly pressing in on her. The faint sound of water dripping somewhere in the distance only heightened her sense of isolation. She tried to calm her breathing, but the knot of fear in her chest refused to loosen.

Her instincts told her to assess her surroundings, to look for anything that might give her a clue about her captors or a way to escape. But her body betrayed her. Every movement sent waves of exhaustion crashing over her, her limbs refusing to obey her commands.

“Focus, Lara. Focus,” she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse and barely audible.

She strained her ears for any sound beyond the rhythmic dripping of water. Nothing. Just an oppressive silence that seemed to mock her.

Her head drooped, and for a moment, she gave in to the heaviness pulling at her consciousness. But just as she was slipping back into the void, a faint noise startled her awake. Footsteps.

They were distant at first, barely perceptible over the pounding in her ears. But they grew louder, closer, until they stopped just outside the door.

Lara’s heart raced. She held her breath, every nerve in her body screaming for answers. The metallic clink of keys jingling echoed through the silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of a lock turning.

The door creaked open, and a thin beam of light pierced the darkness, illuminating the filthy floor and casting long shadows on the walls. Lara squinted, trying to make out the figure standing in the doorway.

“Who’s there?” she rasped, her voice trembling with both fear and defiance.

The figure stepped inside, their silhouette tall and imposing. They didn’t answer. Instead, they stood motionless, their silence more unnerving than any words could have been.

Lara felt her chest tighten as the figure moved closer, the dim light revealing little of their features. A single thought echoed in her mind as the shadows closed in around her: "I have to get out of here."

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she fought to stay conscious, but the exhaustion was too much. Her vision blurred, her head lolled forward, and the darkness claimed her once again.

Back in the Volga, Ivan clenched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. The melodic wail of the old Tesla AZD 501 siren echoed through the night as they sped toward yet another lead. Beside him, Winston cast a concerned glance at his companion.

“Mr. Tůma, you can’t keep blaming yourself. We’ll find her.”

Ivan didn’t respond immediately, his jaw set and his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Finally, he muttered, “She’s out there, Winston. And if she’s in danger, I’ll tear this country apart to bring her back.”

The Volga roared down the empty road, its high ground clearance conquering every obstacle in its path. Somewhere in the distance, Lara’s captors were making their next move—and time was running out.

Chapter 9

The Volga roared down another quiet Oxfordshire lane, its engine a steady growl against the stillness of the countryside. Ivan gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles pale as his mind wrestled with frustration and worry. Beside him, Winston sat in contemplative silence, occasionally glancing at Ivan, who looked far younger than his apparent age would suggest.

Despite his silver hair and a face marked by experience, Ivan carried himself with the energy and determination of a man in his early sixties. The years had been kind to him in many ways, though his furrowed brow and the deep lines around his mouth betrayed the weight of his thoughts.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the landscape in hues of amber and crimson, Ivan sighed and reached for the radio mounted on the dashboard. Static crackled as he adjusted the dials, connecting to the local dispatch.

“This is Ivan Tůma,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation. “We’ve searched the entire Oxfordshire area. No sign of Lady Croft.”

The operator on the other end acknowledged his report, offering a few words of encouragement that Ivan barely registered. He set the receiver down and leaned back in his seat, exhaling deeply.

“It’s not over,” Winston offered softly, sensing Ivan’s despair.

“I know,” Ivan replied, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. After a moment, he turned to Winston. “Let me ask you something, Winston. What year were you born?”

Caught off guard, Winston blinked. “I was born in 1947. Why?”

Ivan smiled faintly. “That makes you only three years older than me. I was born in 1950.”

Winston raised an eyebrow. “You could have fooled me. I’d have guessed you were closer to your mid-sixties. You certainly don’t look like someone in their seventies.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Ivan replied with a dry chuckle. “But the point is, you really don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ I’ve lived a life no different from any other working man—grew up in a factory town, survived socialism, and cheated death more times than I can count. Titles don’t mean much to me, especially from someone who’s practically my age.”

Winston hesitated, clearly unaccustomed to such informality. “If that’s what you prefer... Ivan, then I’ll oblige. But old habits die hard.”

“Take your time,” Ivan said, his tone softening. “Just don’t treat me like I’m some untouchable nobleman. I’m a simple man, and right now, I’m just a husband looking for his wife.”

As night fell, Ivan pulled the Volga into a secluded clearing. He stepped out of the car, stretching his back with a groan before retrieving a bundle of firewood from the trunk.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” he announced.

Winston, though initially hesitant, helped him set up a small fire. Ivan prepared a simple meal of sausages and bread, accompanied by a bottle of slivovice he had stashed away.

“You’ve been carrying this around the whole time?” Winston asked, eyeing the bottle with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

“Never leave home without it,” Ivan said with a smirk, pouring them each a cup. “It’s good for the nerves.”

Winston took a cautious sip, his eyes widening as the potent liquor burned its way down. “Good heavens, that’s... stronger than I expected.”

Ivan laughed. “It’s an acquired taste. But it’ll warm you up, and we’ll need all the warmth we can get tonight.”

Meanwhile, far to the north, Lara stirred from an uneasy sleep. Her body ached, and her mind was clouded, but she forced herself to sit up and take in her surroundings. She was in a desolate stone room, its damp walls slick with condensation. The faint sound of waves echoed in the distance, and a cold draft bit at her skin.

She glanced down at herself, relieved to find that her captors had left her belongings untouched. Her tools and the artifact she had risked so much to obtain were still securely strapped to her belt.

“Where am I?” she muttered, her voice hoarse.

Forcing herself to her feet, Lara moved cautiously toward the doorway, her instincts on high alert. The realization hit her like a wave—she was on the Hebrides, a rugged and remote cluster of islands she had only ever read about.

Her heart ached as thoughts of Ivan filled her mind. She longed to see him, to hear his voice, to know that he was all right. The memory of his reassuring presence and his unyielding determination gave her the strength to press on.

With no other option, Lara set off on foot, navigating the treacherous cliffs and steep hillsides. Her aristocratic upbringing, which she had often tried to distance herself from, seemed to resurface as she climbed with practiced precision, her movements graceful despite her exhaustion.

“I’ll make it back,” she whispered to herself, her resolve hardening. “I have to.”

The journey was grueling, but Lara’s determination never wavered. As she trudged through the rugged terrain, her thoughts remained fixed on Ivan and the life they had built together.

Back at the camp, Ivan stared into the dying embers of the fire, his mind racing with worry. Winston, sensing his distress, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“She’ll come back,” Winston said confidently. “Lady Croft has faced worse odds before.”

“I know,” Ivan replied quietly. “But that doesn’t make the waiting any easier.”

As dawn broke, they packed up their camp and continued their search, their determination as unyielding as the Volga that carried them. Unknown to them, Lara was already making her way back, her every step bringing her closer to the home—and the man—she longed to see.

Chapter 10

The hum of the engine filled the cabin of the Volga as Ivan’s eyes darted between the road ahead and the radio set mounted on the dashboard. Winston sat beside him, scanning a map with a furrowed brow. The tension was palpable.

Suddenly, a faint noise crackled through the radio—a weak, almost inaudible groan. Ivan’s heart stopped.

“Lara...” he whispered, his hands tightening around the steering wheel.

Winston turned to him, alarmed. “What is it?”

“That was her,” Ivan said, his voice filled with urgency. He reached for a small tracking device mounted on the dashboard, and his eyes lit up. “Her emergency beacon. It’s active.”

The screen displayed coordinates. Ivan’s face darkened as he read them aloud. “Hebrides.”

Without a second thought, he flipped a switch on the dashboard. The Volga’s siren blared to life, its blue beacon casting flashing light onto the dark road. Winston barely had time to brace himself as Ivan pressed the accelerator to the floor, the car surging forward with a determination to match its driver.

The landscape blurred past them as the Volga sped through the countryside, its robust Soviet engineering holding firm against the uneven roads. Ivan’s focus was absolute, but Winston couldn’t help noticing the weariness in his companion’s face.

“Ivan,” Winston said cautiously, “you’ve been driving for hours. You need to rest.”

Ivan exhaled deeply, his grip on the wheel slackening. “You’re right. I’m no use to her if I drive us into a ditch.” He eased the car to a stop on the roadside and turned to Winston. “Your turn.”

Winston blinked, taken aback. “Me? Are you sure? I haven’t driven anything like this in decades.”

“You’ll manage,” Ivan said, sliding out of the driver’s seat. As he moved, he rubbed his left leg, which Winston now noticed was stiff. “This car has an automatic clutch. I had it installed because my leg doesn’t work properly anymore.”

Winston hesitated before climbing into the driver’s seat. He adjusted the mirrors and gripped the wheel, which felt unnervingly rigid. With a deep breath, he set off.

It didn’t take long for the struggle to begin. The steering wheel resisted his every move, requiring all his strength to maneuver the car. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he muttered a string of curses under his breath.

“This steering is like turning a ship!” he exclaimed, his voice strained. “It’s as if someone poured concrete into the mechanism.”

Ivan chuckled from the passenger seat. “Welcome to Soviet engineering. This isn’t a Rolls-Royce, Winston. You’ll find no power steering here.”

Winston shot him a look of mild exasperation but said nothing, focusing instead on keeping the car steady on the winding road.

Far to the north, Lara trudged through the rugged Scottish terrain, her every step a battle against exhaustion. The wind whipped around her, carrying the scent of salt from the nearby sea. Her breath came in shallow gasps, but she pressed on, her determination unwavering.

As she climbed a steep hill, she paused to take in the breathtaking view. The Hebridean landscape stretched out before her, a patchwork of green hills and jagged cliffs. Despite her weariness, she couldn’t help but admire the raw beauty of the place.

Her gaze fell on a cluster of stones partially buried in the earth. Intrigued, she knelt and began brushing away the dirt, revealing an intricately carved Celtic brooch. Her heart quickened as she realized the significance of her find—a glimpse into the ancient history of these lands.

But the weight of her ordeal was catching up to her. Her legs trembled as she stood, and she swayed unsteadily. She leaned against a rock, closing her eyes for a moment to gather her strength.

“I can’t stop,” she murmured to herself. “Ivan’s waiting for me. I need to see him.”

Little did she know, her emergency beacon had alerted not only Ivan but also the local authorities. Somewhere in the distance, police units were mobilizing, their search expanding as the signal was triangulated.

Back in the Volga, Winston was beginning to find his rhythm with the car, though the strain was evident. Ivan, meanwhile, monitored the tracking device intently, his mind racing with thoughts of Lara.

“She’s out there,” he muttered, almost to himself. “She’s strong, but she’s been through too much already.”

“She’s a remarkable woman,” Winston said, his tone respectful. “But she’ll need you now more than ever. We’ll get to her, Ivan.”

Ivan nodded, his jaw set with determination. “We will. No matter what it takes.”

With renewed resolve, they pressed on, the Volga carving a path through the night toward the rugged Hebrides, where Lara’s own journey was drawing her ever closer to home—and to the man who would never stop searching for her.

Chapter 11

Lara stumbled through the rugged Scottish landscape, her body ached with exhaustion, and her mind raced with a mixture of fear and determination. The cold wind howled around her, biting at her skin and driving the relentless drizzle into her face. Her clothes were soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin, and her boots squelched with every step. She could feel the weight of the mud caked on them, dragging her down with every movement. Yet, she pressed on, her resolve unshaken despite her growing fatigue.

The landscape was both beautiful and treacherous—jagged cliffs rising sharply against the stormy sky, moss-covered rocks glistening with rain, and streams swollen with icy water cutting through the valleys. It was the kind of wilderness that once inspired her adventurous spirit, but now it served as an unforgiving gauntlet. Each step felt heavier than the last, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as the weight of her ordeal pressed down on her.

Behind her, faint in the distance, she could hear the growing hum of engines. Lights flickered against the dim horizon, a reminder that her pursuers were drawing closer. Why were the police after her? She couldn’t fathom it. Were they trying to help, or were they part of something more sinister? The thought filled her with dread, and she quickened her pace, ignoring the protests of her weary body.

Meanwhile, Ivan and Winston were racing through the countryside in the Volga, their faces etched with determination. Ivan gripped the tracking device in one hand, the tiny blinking light leading them toward their quarry. He glanced at Winston, who was now confidently steering the car through the narrow, winding roads.

“You’ve gotten better at this,” Ivan said with a smirk, his voice carrying a note of approval.

Winston wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his hands firmly on the wheel. “Well, it’s not exactly the most forgiving vehicle, but I’ve had worse experiences. I suppose necessity breeds skill.”

Ivan chuckled. “You’re learning, my friend. But this car has quirks—it demands respect.”

Winston rolled his eyes but kept his focus. The car groaned as it took another sharp turn, the tires skidding slightly on the wet road. Ivan leaned forward, peering at the tracker again. The signal was stronger now, and he could feel his heart quicken with hope.

“She’s close,” Ivan murmured. “We’re going to find her.”

Lara, however, was unaware of her rescuers’ proximity. Her journey through the wilderness was far from straightforward. Crossing a moss-covered rocky slope, her foot slipped, sending her tumbling down a steep incline. She tried to brace herself, her hands scraping against the jagged stones, but the momentum carried her downward. At the last moment, she twisted her body, avoiding a protruding rock that could have broken her ribs. She landed hard, the impact knocking the wind out of her.

Groaning, she sat up, blood trickling from a cut on her temple. Her shoulder throbbed painfully, but she forced herself to stand. She couldn’t afford to rest—not with the police somewhere behind her.

Later, she encountered a river swollen with rainwater. The current looked deceptively calm, but as she stepped in, the icy water surged around her knees, threatening to sweep her away. Halfway across, she slipped on a submerged rock and fell. The current pinned her against a boulder, the force of the water pressing her down. Struggling to breathe, she clawed at the slippery surface, her lungs screaming for air. With a desperate push, she found a foothold and dragged herself to the opposite bank, collapsing in a shivering heap.

The challenges continued. As the sun dipped below the horizon, she came across an ancient wooden bridge spanning a deep ravine. The planks creaked ominously under her weight, and halfway across, one of them gave way. She dropped to her knees, her heart pounding as she clung to the ropes. Below her, the chasm yawned wide, the darkness seemingly infinite. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself forward, inch by agonizing inch, until she reached solid ground.

Her body was on the verge of collapse, but her mind refused to surrender. Images of Ivan filled her thoughts—his calm demeanor, his reassuring presence. She longed to see him, to feel safe again. The memory of his voice, steady and unwavering, kept her moving forward.

As dawn broke, Ivan and Winston pressed on, the Volga roaring through the desolate landscape. Winston had grown more adept at handling the car’s quirks, though he still grumbled about the heavy steering.

“It’s like turning a ship’s wheel in a storm,” Winston muttered, his arms straining against the unassisted mechanism.

“It’s not a Rolls-Royce, Winston,” Ivan quipped, though his tone was distracted. He was focused entirely on the blinking light of the tracker, willing it to guide them to Lara.

The police scanner crackled, and Ivan’s heart sank at the reports of a lone figure spotted in the area. Lara. She was running from the police, likely terrified and confused.

“She thinks they’re after her,” Ivan said grimly.

“And she’s not wrong to be wary,” Winston replied. “We don’t know who’s pulling the strings here.”

Ivan nodded, his jaw tightening. “We have to reach her first.”

Lara, oblivious to the efforts of her rescuers, continued her arduous journey. Each step felt like a monumental effort, her legs trembling with exhaustion. She stumbled through a dense thicket, branches clawing at her clothes and skin. In a rare moment of reprieve, she came across a cluster of ancient stones marked with intricate carvings. Despite her fatigue, her curiosity sparked. She knelt beside one of the stones, brushing away the moss to reveal a Celtic design.

It was a small discovery, but it gave her a fleeting sense of purpose. She slipped the stone into her bag, the weight oddly comforting.

As the first rays of sunlight illuminated the rugged terrain, Lara spotted a faint trail winding down the hillside. She gritted her teeth and pressed on, unaware that Ivan and Winston were closing in.

The end of her ordeal was in sight, but her journey was far from over. For Lara, the wilderness was a test of her resilience, a crucible that would forge her spirit anew. And somewhere in the distance, Ivan was racing to bring her home.

Chapter 12

The cold, unforgiving wind whipped against the Volga's windshield as Ivan gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes locked on the narrow, winding road ahead. His jaw was set, and his entire body was tense, pushing the car to its limits. Winston sat silently beside him, glancing between Ivan’s stoic face and the erratic movements of the police radio on the dashboard, from which static hissed ominously.

Moments ago, Lara’s faint, breathless voice had crackled through the speakers.

“Ivan... they’re after me. Police... I don’t know why...”

Ivan’s grip on the wheel had tightened. “Lara, listen to me. Get out of the water! Find land and stay there!”

“I can’t... not yet...”

Her words had faded, overtaken by a cacophony of bubbles and choked gasps. Ivan’s face had darkened as he fought to suppress the rising panic. Then came the sound that haunted him now: a weak, barely audible moan, and nothing more.

“Lara...” he whispered, his voice breaking the heavy silence in the car.

Winston broke in cautiously, “Ivan, we’re getting close to the coordinates, but—”

“I know,” Ivan cut him off sharply. “I know where she is.”

The road began to curve toward the coastline, revealing the harsh, jagged expanse of the rocky shore. Ivan squinted at the horizon, his gut twisting with an instinctive certainty that something was wrong.

As they rounded the final bend, Winston let out a sharp gasp. “Ivan, look!”

On the shore ahead, the relentless tide was dragging a motionless figure closer to the jagged rocks. Ivan slammed on the brakes, bringing the Volga to a screeching halt on the gravel shoulder.

“She’s there!” he shouted, throwing open the door and bolting toward the shoreline without waiting for Winston.

The wind tore at his coat as he stumbled down the uneven slope of rocks. Each step felt like an eternity as he closed the distance. The cold spray from the waves struck his face, but he didn’t stop. When he finally reached her, his knees hit the sharp stones, and he cradled her lifeless body.

“Lara...” His voice cracked as he tilted her head back and checked for a pulse. For a heart-stopping moment, there was nothing. Then, faint but steady, he felt it—a weak rhythm beneath his fingers.

“She’s alive!” he shouted up to Winston, who was carefully navigating the treacherous path down. “Help me get her up!”

Together, they lifted her gently, her soaked clothing clinging to her limp body. Ivan carefully draped his coat over her as they made their way back up to the car. Winston, carrying Lara’s bag, threw it into the trunk before opening the rear door.

“She’ll be warmer inside,” Ivan said, placing her carefully on the back seat. He tucked the coat more securely around her and brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. “Hang on, Lara. You’re not done yet.”

Winston climbed into the passenger seat, and Ivan took the wheel, his face set with grim determination.

“Nearest hospital?” Ivan barked as he started the engine.

“Forty minutes if we’re lucky,” Winston replied.

“Then we’ll get there in twenty,” Ivan growled, flooring the accelerator.

The Volga tore through the narrow roads, its retrofitted siren screaming above the roar of the engine. Inside, the cabin was filled with a tense silence, broken only by the occasional murmur from Winston as he relayed directions.

In the back seat, Lara’s eyes fluttered open, though her vision was hazy and her head throbbed. She felt the vibration of the engine beneath her and heard the unfamiliar wail of a siren. Confused, she turned her head slightly, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

The car was old—its leather seats cracked, its interior dimly lit. Two figures sat in the front: one gripping the steering wheel with an iron grip, the other holding a map and speaking into a radio. Their voices were muffled, but she caught snippets of their conversation.

“She’s hypothermic,” Winston was saying. “We need to move faster.”

“I know that,” Ivan replied tersely.

Lara tried to speak, but her throat was dry and raw. All she managed was a faint croak, which neither of the men heard. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she sank back into unconsciousness, the world slipping away once more.

As the hospital finally came into view, Ivan didn’t slow down. He drove straight to the emergency entrance, ignoring the disapproving looks from staff as he screeched to a halt.

“Get a gurney!” he shouted, jumping out of the car and opening the back door.

A team of medics rushed out, and Ivan carefully lifted Lara into his arms. She felt so light, so fragile, that it made his chest tighten.

“She’s been in the water. Hypothermic, barely breathing,” he said quickly as the medics took her from him.

They wheeled her inside, and Ivan stood frozen for a moment, staring after her until Winston’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“She’ll make it, Ivan,” Winston said softly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Ivan nodded, though his jaw remained clenched. “She has to.”

Hours later, Ivan and Winston sat in the waiting room, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling the air. Ivan’s usually composed demeanor was gone; his head was in his hands, and his foot tapped restlessly on the floor.

“She’s been through worse,” Winston said after a long silence.

“I know,” Ivan muttered. “But this time, I was right there, Winston. Right there, and I almost lost her.”

“You didn’t, though. You found her. That’s what matters.”

Ivan didn’t respond. He simply leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, and let out a long, shaky breath.

Chapter 13

Lara’s eyes fluttered open, her vision adjusting to the soft, sterile light of the hospital room. For a moment, she was disoriented, her head throbbing and her body aching with exhaustion. She turned her head slightly, the crisp whiteness of the sheets contrasting sharply with the warm, familiar figures sitting beside her.

Ivan was closest, his hand resting gently on hers, his weathered face lined with worry. Beside him sat Winston, his typically calm demeanor replaced with a rare expression of visible concern. Both men immediately straightened as they saw her stir.

“Lara,” Ivan said softly, his voice a mixture of relief and tenderness.

Her lips parted as recognition dawned on her face. Without hesitation, she reached out and pulled both men into a tight embrace, her strength surprising them given her condition.

“You found me,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “You always find me.”

Winston, though unused to such displays, patted her shoulder gently, his usual formality momentarily forgotten. “Of course, my lady. We would not have rested until we did.”

Ivan leaned back slightly, studying her pale face. “What happened, Lara? Why were you out there?”

At his question, her expression faltered. She bit her lip, her eyes glistening as fragmented memories of her ordeal surfaced—cold water, the relentless pull of the tide, the weight of exhaustion dragging her down. The flood of emotion was too much, and before she could stop herself, tears began streaming down her face.

Winston’s eyes widened in astonishment. In all his years with Lara, he had never seen her cry. She was the embodiment of strength, unshakable even in the most dire of circumstances. But now, her vulnerability was laid bare.

Ivan, however, wasn’t as surprised. He tightened his grip on her hand, his expression softening. This wasn’t the first time he had seen her break down, and he knew better than to offer platitudes. Instead, he pulled her gently into his arms, letting her cry against his shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “We’ve got you.”

The ride back to Croft Manor was quiet, the low hum of the Volga’s engine flling the space as Ivan navigated the winding roads with practiced ease. Lara lay in the back seat, bundled in a blanket, her head resting against the doorframe. She was drained, both physically and emotionally, but the familiar rumble of the car beneath her was oddly comforting.

As they pulled into the long driveway, Lara’s eyes flicked open, taking in the sight of the manor’s grand silhouette against the evening sky. A faint smile touched her lips, but it was when her gaze shifted to the car’s interior that her expression brightened further.

“This car…” she murmured, her voice still hoarse. “I remember it.”

Ivan glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his brow arching. “You do?”

Lara nodded weakly, running her fingers along the worn leather of the seat. “It’s the old Volga. You’ve had this since when I gone to India, haven’t you?”

“Nearly,” Ivan replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Not exactly standard issue for someone like me, but it gets the job done.”

Winston chimed in, turning slightly in his seat. “It’s certainly proven its worth today. Though, I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to end my day in the back of a Soviet patrol car.”

Lara chuckled softly, the sound a small but welcome sign of her recovery.

As they pulled up to the manor’s grand entrance, Ivan parked the car and turned to look back at her. “We’re home, Lara. Let’s get you inside.”

For the first time in days, Lara felt a sense of peace wash over her. She reached for Ivan’s hand as he helped her out of the car, the faint warmth of his touch grounding her. Winston followed close behind, carrying her belongings as they made their way up the stone steps and into the manor’s welcoming glow.

Though the weight of her experiences still lingered, Lara knew she wasn’t alone. She had her home, her family, and—most importantly—her strength.

Chapter 14

The steady rhythm of the rain against the windows lent an almost melancholic serenity to the room as Lara stepped into Ivan’s study. The air was thick with the faint tang of cigarette smoke, swirling lazily under the glow of a desk lamp. Ivan was hunched over the old wooden desk, flipping through the brittle pages of a Czech manual, a lit cigarette balanced precariously between his fingers.

Lara paused in the doorway, her gaze softening at the familiar sight. Ivan, lost in thought, muttering quietly to himself as he traced his finger along a technical diagram, looked every bit the stubborn, practical man she knew.

“Do you always solve life’s problems with nicotine and ancient books?” Lara teased, her British accent lilting through the quiet room.

Ivan glanced up, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Works better than therapy,” he replied, his voice rough yet fluent, tinged with his Czech lilt. “And this isn’t just any ancient book—it’s the Volga manual. Thought I’d brush up before winter.”

Lara crossed her arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. “The Volga? You treat that car better than some people treat their children.”

“Because it’s worth it,” Ivan countered, stubbing out his cigarette in a well-worn ashtray. “This car’s been through more than most people could handle. Doesn’t quit, no matter what.”

Lara’s lips quirked into a faint smile as she approached the desk, peering over his shoulder at the open manual. “I didn’t realize you needed a refresher after all these years. Haven’t you rebuilt that car more times than I can count?”

Ivan chuckled, a dry, low sound. “Rebuilt, sure. But she’s still full of surprises. Besides, it’s good to remind myself how things are supposed to work before I try fixing them again.”

Before Lara could reply, the door creaked open, and Priscilla strode in, her casual Californian drawl cutting through the tension. “Okay, first of all, what is with this room? It smells like an ashtray.”

Ivan sighed heavily, lighting another cigarette out of sheer defiance. “It’s my room. My rules.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes dramatically, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Yeah, well, I hope your lungs agree with that logic. Anyway, I came to check on you, Grandpa. And Lara.” She glanced at Lara, her tone softening. “We need to talk.”

Lara raised an eyebrow, motioning for her to continue.

Priscilla hesitated, her usual confidence faltering. “I stopped by Croft Manor a couple of weeks ago. Nobody was there. No Winston, no you. Just an empty house. I... I got worried.”

Winston, appearing in the doorway with impeccable timing, cleared his throat. “Miss Priscilla, we were otherwise occupied.” His polished British accent was as steady as ever.

Priscilla turned toward him, her tone laced with curiosity. “Occupied doing what? You mean chasing after Lara?”

Winston nodded solemnly, stepping into the room with a tea tray in hand. “Precisely. We scoured nearly all of Britain looking for her. From Cornwall to Cumbria, there wasn’t a lead we didn’t follow.” He set the tray down on a side table, his expression faintly reproachful as he looked at Lara. “It was quite the ordeal.”

Priscilla sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Well, that explains a lot. But, Lara...” She trailed off, her gaze turning serious as she stepped closer. “Did he tell you about Bosnia?”

Lara blinked, her brow furrowing. “Bosnia? What about it?”

Priscilla crossed her arms, glancing at Ivan. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Ivan’s expression darkened as he stubbed out his cigarette. “It’s not important.”

“Like hell it’s not!” Priscilla snapped, her frustration boiling over. “Lara, he fought there. In the ’90s. It wasn’t just car repairs or supply runs. It was dangerous, and he never talks about it, but you should know.”

Lara turned to Ivan, her voice quiet but firm. “Is that true?”

Ivan shrugged, his tone dismissive. “It was a long time ago. Doesn’t matter now.”

Priscilla shook her head. “That’s not all. Did he tell you about the stroke?”

Lara froze, her eyes narrowing. “Stroke? What stroke?”

Ivan muttered something under his breath in Czech, but Priscilla pressed on. “A couple of months ago. In London. Some idiot keyed his BMW—his daily car, and he collapsed in the parking lot. If the paramedics hadn’t been quick...” She trailed off, her voice cracking. “It wasn’t just because of stress from you, Lara, but it didn’t help, okay?”

Lara’s hands clenched into fists as she turned back to Ivan. “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

Ivan sighed, his tone defensive. “You had enough on your plate. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“You always do this,” Lara snapped, her voice trembling. “You shut me out, as if I wouldn’t care.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” Ivan replied softly, his voice heavy with regret.

The tension in the room was palpable, the silence broken only by the faint clink of Winston pouring tea. Finally, Lara pulled up a chair beside Ivan, her anger giving way to concern.

She reached for the manual, her voice quieter now. “Show me.”

Ivan blinked, surprised. “You want to learn about the Volga?”

“Why not?” she said softly. “If you’re going to keep looking after me, I should at least know how to return the favor.”

Ivan studied her for a moment, then nodded, sliding the manual toward her. “All right. This here’s the engine section. ZMZ-402. Four-cylinder, reliable as hell. Simple, but it gets the job done.”

Lara leaned closer, her fingers brushing the edges of the page. “And what’s this part?”

Ivan’s voice softened as he explained, his cigarette forgotten as they pored over the diagrams together. Winston watched from a distance, a faint smile playing on his lips as he sipped his tea.

For the first time in weeks, the heaviness between them began to lift. Though shadows of the past lingered, the warmth of the present was undeniable.

Chapter 15

Ivan gone wild..

A cool autumn breeze rustled through the trees surrounding Croft Manor, sending a flurry of golden leaves skittering across the gravel driveway. The sky, a mottled expanse of slate gray, hinted at rain as Lara and Ivan sat side by side in his black Mazda RX-8. Ivan gripped the wheel with a relaxed confidence, his eyes fixed on the winding country road ahead, while Lara adjusted the seatbelt, a small smile playing on her lips.

They had been taking these drives more often lately—quick escapes from the daily rhythm of the manor. It had become their shared ritual, a time to unwind and let the hum of the engine drown out the complexities of their tangled pasts. But these outings hadn’t gone unnoticed. More than once, paparazzi had managed to snap photos of Lara Croft, the famous heiress and adventurer, casually cruising in a sporty car alongside an older man. The tabloids had a field day with it—who was this gray-haired gentleman, and what was he doing with the legendary Lara?

Ivan found the whole situation amusing. “Let them wonder,” he would say, lighting a cigarette with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Lara had long since learned not to care about what the media thought, but the strange pairing of a glamorous young woman and a grizzled retiree in an RX-8 certainly made for an interesting story.

The road ahead dipped and curved, tracing the edges of the countryside that Ivan knew like the back of his hand. He had taken Lara fishing the other day, and she still remembered how deftly he had cast his line, the easy way he had reeled in a thrashing trout with a smile of pure satisfaction. Ivan was, as it turned out, an experienced fisherman, a skill that seemed almost out of place with his current lifestyle—yet it made perfect sense when she thought back to his stories of youth, of long nights spent camping with friends or alone by a river, learning to fend for himself.

“You always did know how to survive,” Lara had teased him when they had returned home with a bucket of fresh fish, both of them soaked from a sudden downpour. She’d watched, impressed, as he filleted the trout with the ease of a professional, his movements smooth and unhurried.

“I had to,” Ivan had replied with a wry smile. “When you grow up with no servant to cook your meals or wash your clothes, you learn quickly.”

Now, as they sped down the narrow lanes lined with bare trees, Lara felt a rare sense of peace. It was as if the years of danger, betrayal, and loss had finally settled into something softer, more manageable. She glanced at Ivan, his profile framed by the car’s window, and saw that same contentment reflected in his face.

“Where to today?” she asked lightly.

Ivan shrugged. “Wherever the road takes us.”

The journey ended in a small, secluded bay, where Ivan expertly navigated the Mazda down a rutted dirt path that Lara would have thought impassable. The sea spread out before them, gray and choppy under the dull sky, and the wind carried the briny scent of saltwater. Ivan pulled a fishing rod from the trunk, and they walked down to the water’s edge, where he cast his line with the practiced precision of a man who had done this a thousand times before.

“Here,” he said, handing her another rod. “You try.”

Lara hesitated, eyeing the equipment doubtfully. “I’ve got a feeling I’ll embarrass myself.”

Ivan chuckled. “You’ve survived ancient tombs and perilous traps. Surely, you can handle a fishing rod.”

She gave him a playful glare but took the rod, copying his stance as he patiently guided her through the motions. They spent the next hour in comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional shout of triumph when one of them caught a fish. By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the water, they had a decent haul—enough for a hearty dinner back at the manor.

The kitchen was warm and inviting, the smell of wood smoke drifting from the hearth as Ivan laid out the catch of the day. He moved around the space with practiced ease, chopping vegetables, seasoning the fish, and preparing a simple, rustic meal that reminded Lara of home-cooked dinners she’d never had. Winston hovered in the background, watching with a barely concealed smile, content to let Ivan take over for once.

“I didn’t realize you were such a good cook,” Lara said as she watched him sauté onions in a cast-iron skillet.

Ivan shrugged, stirring the vegetables with a wooden spoon. “I’ve been doing this a long time. When you’re alone, you learn to make food that’s edible—and maybe even a little enjoyable.”

Lara leaned against the counter, a glass of wine in hand, and watched him work. It was a different side of Ivan, one that spoke to years of independence, resilience, and a surprising tenderness she hadn’t expected. This was the man who had lived through wars, rebuilt cars from the ground up, and now, at seventy-five, still found joy in the simple things—a good meal, a successful catch, a drive down an open road.

The meal, when it was ready, was delicious—warm, hearty, and comforting. They ate by the fire, the rain now pattering softly against the windows, the world outside feeling a million miles away. Conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from mundane repairs around the manor to tales of Lara’s latest expeditions.

As the evening drew on, the familiar rumble of the Mazda’s engine called them back to the present. The paparazzi had picked up on their outings by now, and as they cruised back into the village, the flash of cameras lit up the dusk. Lara laughed, her head tilted back as she teased Ivan about becoming a minor celebrity in his old age.

“If they want to waste film on an old man and his car, that’s their business,” Ivan said, amused, as he took a sharp turn with surprising agility. “Besides, they’ll never catch me doing anything more scandalous than fishing.”

Back at the manor, Winston had already prepared tea and set up a quiet corner by the fire, where Ivan and Lara would settle with a chessboard later. But for now, the day’s adventure hung in the air like a pleasant aftertaste, a reminder that even amidst the chaos and absurdity of their lives, there were still moments of genuine joy and unexpected harmony.

The world would keep guessing about them—the heiress and the old man in the sleek Mazda, an odd pair if ever there was one. But as far as Lara was concerned, it didn’t matter what the tabloids said. They had found something like peace, and for the time being, that was more than enough.